A/N: something I've been working through for a long time, decided it was time to post what I've done. Want to be more productive so thought I'd get into the reeds with a game i really enjoy. Update schedule is nonexistent. enjoy my imagining of what it is to be in Lordran
Thou who art Undead art Chosen, and should make Pilgrimage from the Undead asylum to the land of ancient Lords. Many would call it providence, some small number whisper that it is birthright. All agree that undeath is a mark upon you, an obvious one that leaves the body undying and the soul eternally marked. The Undead forfeit their lands, their family, and their homes. Cast out without moors to the winds, most hollow turning to little more than beasts. Beasts with sword, axe, and all the skill of a lifetime with sword in hand. A lack of empathy is not a lack of skill. The hollow aim to steal humanity, to undo the horror that has befallen them. Such is the fate of nations of men in the absence of gods. Balder, Carim, Astora, all now fight their infestation with faith and vigor guided by the wisdom of the Way of White and the Allfather's guidance. In the ancient days there was war, but war has faded as the flames faded to ember.
Markus, once Vandur, now nothing. The loss of the history and support of the family is a crippling blow. He could feel it acutely, sitting in a cell, the padding of his armor insulating against the cold of the stone. It had another effect, hiding his arms and legs from himself. He had walked by many nearly nude hollows, determined not to see in himself similarity with their vacant expressions and the burning fury in his eyes. He shivered in a way that had nothing to do with cold, he could barely feel anything through the leather that was his flesh anyway. a dull sensation of throbbing where his heartbeat should be. He let out an audible sigh and looked at the steel cage of the iron door that sealed his cell, one of many in the sprawling complex, the distant footfalls of a great demon, time passed so slowly, nothing to mark the changing of time, no clocks, nothing. The sun above, Gwyn's inspiration, the distant warmth was the only heat he had, looking up to the hole in the ceiling the only contact to the outside, the sky overcast, the heavy grey clouds mirroring the haze within.
Time passed slowly so slowly, it was easy to give up. He held onto prophecy, the only thing he had. Above a great clashing, smashing steps, the clank of armor, Marcus put his hands to his head. Another hollow must have tried to leave, the Jailor would let none escape, it was its sole purpose, compelled by unknown geas holding it here. It would quiet soon, and indeed it did. He settled again slumping into the wall. Unable to sleep, his mind wandered.
a moment later, or perhaps a thousand years, The sound was immense, a corpse fell into Marcus' cell and his head automatically traced its path back up and looked face to visored face with someone, the tabard of blue, the shape of his helm, the hilt of the sword. He was someone, Astoran, Marcus looked up and felt hope. As swiftly as he appeared the person looked over his shoulder and vanished. For the first time in perhaps years stood, his body protesting like old leather but Marcus made himself stand and move to the body, prying the broken sword from its fingers, though only a few inches of rusty steel past the hilt better than nothing. The real prize however was a heavy key, gripping the stub of a sword in a death grip he raised the key up and just before he tried it he paused, a prayer coming to his cracked lips, his collapsed lungs drew only the shallowest of breaths but it was enough for Prayer. He fell back to one knee pulling away from the lock, bringing the hilt up to his head and holding it a few moments until the words were whispered by a tongue that felt dead and lips near frozen. Then he stood and slid the key home and tuned it forcefully. The click of the lock was like a shot of fire into his veins and he reached up, leaving the key in the lock to grip the bars and yank at them with fervor of a drowning man. The door moved by inches fighting every inch but he found his strength nigh limitless, his muscles burned but he never felt more tired, the haze receded inch by inch.
Marcus stepped into the torchlight darkness of the depths of the Asylum, putting one foot in front of the other, as he moved others, Hollow and possessed of eyes burning with rage and jealousy reached for him groaning and screaming as he ignored them, heading out. Freedom, even the most distant chance was great enough to motivate his withered limbs. He moved slowly, the weight of his unornamented platemail imparting a clamor with every step. a hollow stepped up into his way more than once, but even the most useless of weapons is a weapon still and he easily dispatched the withered wretches that attacked him with a sharp blow of the pommel to the wretch's head and then thrust the sharp broken end into his chest. The blow was accompanied by a drizzle of thin, ruddy, clumpy liquid that Marcus took a moment to recognize as blood. He was frozen a moment as the cool fluid ran over his fingers. Struck by a quiet terror that the same effluence ran through his dessicated veins. Then the moment was passed, the creature huffed out a final raspy breath as the light was driven from its eyes and its last exhalation carried a thin white mist that shot across the intervening space as he sharply inhaled in surprise. He felt some tiny vestige of warmth follow the poor creature's soul into him. after a moment's panic he moved on, feeling somehow more whole for the theft of another's soul. The creeping feeling of urgency ran through him as a distant roar and a clash of stone, a battle. The desire to follow in the wake of the Knight was Immense, the first person he'd seen with a volition of his own since he'd been locked away so long ago. He fought his way slowly gathering a few more small warm breaths of the fallen as he went, though, not by his choice.
Coming out of the depths of the Asylum was like seeing the fire for the first time. even the cold light of the overcast sun was blinding here. he raised a hand warding the light but at the same time drawn like a moth. He pressed a few steps forward into the court, his feet landing in a thin layer of snow, no surprise this far north. He smelled something though, cloying, heavy. The scent of burned flesh and charred bone. a broken fire stake laying amongst a dead flame. He looked at his eventual fate, to be burned to nothing, freed from this mortality and cleansed of his tainted past. The darkness of men was well known. He still had a distance to everything, the lack of the feeling of chill, the soft labored thud of his heart beating without warmth. His lungs nearly collapsed taking only the most shallow of breaths more from reflex than from necessity.
He passed by the outer court and stepped up to the mighty doors to the main hall, his hands pressing as he leaned his entire body into budging the heavy, rusted portal. Pressing into the main corridor he noticed the buckled land and the veil of snow settled into the cracks between the paving stones, the massive pots that once transported grain and clean water once upon a time stood waiting in the eerily empty space looking toward the outer door of the Asylum, escape only strides away. He started toward the great door as something above him crashed and came flying toward him, shouting.
"Make Way!" He only had a moment to realize the knight was soaring at him, his young voice echoing in the open space. Marcus nimbly hopped backward as the Knight came down to land on his legs and transition into a forward roll to bleed his momentum.
"It's right behind me!" He shouted as a massive shape dropped from the roof above. the impact shook the very ground as it stared, chinless, bulbous and with a veritable crown of hoary antlers upon its head. Most possessing though, beyond the fragile looking batlike wings, the cancerously massive thighs and read was the hammer it bore. Suddenly the broken hilt in Marcus' hand felt as though it were as good as nothing truly. The knight's hand clapped to his shoulder breaking him from his stupor.
"There! The light! Run, Friend, Run!" Gesturing with his straight sword, Marcus needed no further encouragement as the creature recovered from its fall and raised the hammer wrought of arch tree and wielded by a Demon's unholy strength was motivation enough. the Knight lagged only a step behind as they cleared the torch-marked door, a mere moment before the torches were snuffed by a ringing impact upon the wall as they made the tiny corridor. Gasping the Knight looked up, his sword and shield marked truly of Astora. Marcus's stamina returned swiftly, the Knight similarly swift to recover. The knight sheathed his blade, a finely wrought blessed weapon. Seldom had marcus seen its like, and only in the hands of the powerful. He found himself bowing and took a slow breath filling fluid-rattled lungs instinctively as he opened his leathery mouth to speak.
"my lord, thank you." he said, his voice a dry, painful whisper. The Knight heard however and laughed quietly. raising his visor to show a young man flesh pale and ruddy from the cold, his dirty blond hair cut short beneath his helm and plastered to his forehead. he smiled easily.
"I am a lord no longer! I am Undead, as are you, judging by your armor you know what it is to be branded in my homeland." Marcus felt the fool and managed a soft huff, raised his own hand to his visor to find it already raised, he turned his face away in shame, knowing what he must look like. A moment of silence passed between them before the kNight spoke.
"I am called Oscar, what should I call you?" trying to make conversation as they walked into what seemed to be a small bathing chamber, likely intended for the once-attendants of this place long abandoned to the predation of the Demon passed. They pressed forward into the Asylum again as Marcus spoke in his rasp.
"Marcus." He said falling in behind Oscar who drew his weapon again hefting his shield.
"Well, Marcus, stay close, we have a Prophecy to fulfill, do we not!?" he said excitably. Marcus could merely nod a small smile upon his face as he raised a hand and dropped his visor into place gripping the hilt with both hands, determined to be useful even if he was barely armed. They came to a rising corridor and Marcus's head nearly received a new hole as an arrow whistled by to strike the ground, he looked up the incline to spy a small group of hollows, grim of face and bearing weapons one of them holding a dilapidated bow. Oscar, true to himself advanced into the bowfire, shield raised.
"We'll take the together, two knights against these wretched Hollows!? Child's play!" He advanced holding his shield to protect his head and chest, letting the arrows harmlessly strike the hardened crest of his enchanted shield. The advance took them over bodies, fallen ones pierced with arrow or cut to ribbons by rusted blades. Something caught Marcus' eye though, a heater shield, not unlike the one he had trained with for years before ascending to knighthood. he grabbed the wet shield and lifted it, a tower upon the front was heraldry he didn't recognize but it let him step up and stand shoulder with Oscar who glanced over. They shared a look, faces hidden behind visors and together they charged in a stampede of armored feet. The Hollows stood firm, but showed no coordination in their response attacking in a mass with hungry howls. Amongst the broken, rusted and worthlessly shoddy blades and cudgels formed of a mere length of wood the two Astorans showed why theirs was a nation known for its warcraft. They stood shoulder to shoulder, Marcus forced to keep to his defense by the broken weapon in his hand, the shield was sturdy, but the length and fury of his enemies forced him to defend and allow Oscar to fight with his far finer weapon.
Together however the crowd thinned, a half dozen hollows felled in a handful of seconds that felt like minutes, the first real fight he'd encountered since finding his drive again. Marcus looked into the bodies as their warmth gathered splitting between the puffing youth and his dessicated ally, and spied something laying in amongst them. A broadsword, in good repair, he remembered it in the hands of one of the Hollows, the first that Oscar had felled. Marcus tossed aside his handle, and grasped a real weapon again raising it and inspecting it, with only a shadow of rust the edge still gleamed in more places than not. Its weight was like an anchor to his soul. Oscar nodded in his peripheral vision and Marcus turned to face him.
"Good, two blades make light work." a sentiment that Marcus could only nod to. Marcus cast about for a sheath, but finding none looked forward again and trudged higher, Oscar quick stepped to keep up.
They fought into the Asylum, level by level until above them was only broken ceiling and sky. They moved like a machine exploring the asylum, There seemed only one balcony left, one facing outward, to freedom. Neither spoke of it, but both knew why they went this way. To see freedom even if they did not yet possess it. as they started up a set of doubled stairs, one up and the other down above them a grinding sounded and two sets of eyes looked up as a massive iron ball rolled into view and then came down the stairs, shattering a few as it rolled, inexorably toward them. Marcus did the only thing he could think of, cocked his shoulder and shoved as hard as he could throwing oscar off the side as the massive sphere struck him in the body as he tried to dance back rolling over him, denting his helm and breastplate, the impact sending screaming pain through his entire body. He fought to his feet as he heard the ball crush a wall behind him, a hollow coming to the top of the stairs face stitched with rage and coming at him. For all its cleverness it was no more disciplined than its comrades and there was a certain vindictive pleasure that came with the warmth of its soul coming into him. He turned and started back down the stairs as Oscar found his feet looking rattled. coming up the stairs in a rush. They met with oscar looking up at him panting
"That... was mighty brave of you, Marcus." Oscar said looking mildly ashamed.
"You are injured." it was not a question, He reached to the back of his belt and opened a small pouch pulling out a green crystalline flask, within golden fire burned, sloshing about liquidly. "Estus Flask, an undead favorite. Here, there should be enough for one drought left. Take it." Marcus took the flask and lifted his visor bringing the pleasantly hot flask to his mouth and tilting it up as the fluid entered his mouth it flared, and he felt power flush through his body, all the ache and dullness of pain vanished in an instant, leaving only blessed relief and a few minor aches that seemed comedically trivial. He offered the now empty flask back to Oscar who held up a hand.
"It's not more good to me than to you now, keep it. Should to find a strong flame, you might coax some of it into the neck and refill it. Tis not difficult. I will find another, they are not Uncommon these days. Firekeeper's Flames are the best, if you find a firekeeper, you'll know their flame by the kindness of their fire." Oscar said distantly, Marcus nodded but didn't interrupt as Oscar seemed to have more to say.
"I have only once rested at such a place, you know how we do not wither from lack of food or drink as a mortal?" Marcus nodded as Oscar continued.
"The warmth of that flame was like the most bounteous feast, I have never in my life felt so filled as staring into those flames, suddenly I see what those Boggymen see in their base castings of the false-flame." He said dreamily as Marcus shuffled uncomfortably at the mention of perversion of the soul arts of Vinheim.
They came out of their relative reveries as they ascended as they heard stomping about merely through the wall, Marcus nudged oscar.
"The demon." he said softly and Oscar nodded,
"we're just beside the main hall." he added softly as they came up the stairs and onto the terrace, apparently they were not the only ones who wished for freedom, meeting a truly astounding horde of Hollows clustered at the broken ramparts looking out toward the road to escape. The battle was furious, blows rained upon armor and shield, ragged edges drawn through flesh leaving a murky, sanguinated slush about the ankles and soulless hollows laying in the quiet. The two knights stood side by side looking at the carnage they'd wrought with wordless acknowledgement and a prayer for these many lost and battered souls.
Oscar flinched slightly and looked at Marcus.
"Out of estus, there will be no succor for us unless we can find a Keeper's fire." Marcus's mind wandered a moment in response to that.
"I tire of killing them." Oscar said quietly, Marcus kept his disagreement to himself. He had always been taught that this was the curse Mankind brought, the darkness in their hearts made manifest. The Dark Sign that smoldered on the nape of his neck even now reminding him of the internal darkness they all fought. No, he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but fury looking at these souls that he had so nearly fallen among. Without the drive to go on, without purpose given to him by the Knight he stood beside he could be like them, purposeless, hollowed and dark. Looking at them brought him only anger, at their weakness, and his own. He felt he could grant them this small mercy at least, to be destroyed. The gift of Gwyn's mercy. The feeling of faith drew his hand to his pocket, and he pulled a small bundle wrapped in canvas cloth, the bone of a saint, one of the gods. Talismans were rare, perishingly so, blessed and filled with conduits to the divine power beyond. He called to mind the words, the First Flame burned in his mind's eye as he sunk to one knee, gripping the talisman firmly and Trusting in the words of power he remembered clearly as though he had tucked away the scroll only moments ago. The words echoed through his mind, the words rising to his lips in a soundless whisper, he felt the power gather and release, the healing sunlight coming from within as the words were spoken, they vanished, the Stanza vanishing from his mind with the uncoiling divine power that left him feeling as though he had taken another sip from the Sunlit flask that rested empty in his pouch.
Oscar stood by his body language betraying shock, he mastered it quickly as Marcus rose to his feet taking a deeper breath and looking to the hidden sun, tucking away the talisman protectively.
"...You… are a Cleric?" Oscar said, sounding like he had a sliver of trepidation in him. Marcus shook his head.
"No, I… merely feel my faith strongly." It was true, after all. His Faith in the gods had seen him through much, though his brand had shaken it. He was no cleric, merely an especially faithful agent of the gods.
"Right, I apologize for my shock." He said, strangely more respectful until Marcus remembered his blasphemous comments earlier.
"Do not worry, we all say things thoughtlessly." He said raising a hand to Oscar, who seemed to relax.
"Right. let us be on then…" he said stepping up to the balcony as Marcus caught sight of something, turning to the shattered balcony overlooking the main hall behind them and the Demon who seemed to be casting about for something.
"We'll have to defeat that demon to escape you know, the key hangs around its neck. I was so close to grabbing it! If only I'd been… Wait!" He said turning to look at Marcus who was a mere step from taking a flying leap, and leap he did. He soared out, sword raised high as the Asylum's guardian Demon turned and looked up at the raspy, hollow-like roar of fury coming from Marcus' throat as he slammed the sword deep into the Demon's shoulder the Demon staggering with the blow a roar of pain and fury rising as hot blood, cherry red mixed with swirling black that seemed to bar ghostly flames, poured from the wound, where Marcus' sword arm was thrust into the flesh halfway to the elbow, then ripped it free as Oscar stood up at the top looking down with shock as the Demon looked up and swung at Oscar with a two handed strike, swatting him with a ton of Archtree's worth of force, shattering the balcony and throwing Oscar to the ground in a slump. Marcus looked up at the injured demon their eyes met, sunken fury against naked flames of hate. Marcus shifted his shield to his back and took his broadsword in both hands, the shield would do nothing to a foe who could shatter stone with a single stroke. The demon reared back and brought its hammer about to swat the knight like a fly. Marcus threw himself into a forward roll that anyone less practiced wearing armor would have never even attempted. He slipped right past the stroke and rose bringing his blade up in a flurry of two handed slices, abandoning technique for ferocity, the dance was on.
Stroke and counterstroke, the rust dusted longsword dripped with swirly ichor, the hammer strokes leaving him burning with the sting of glancing blows, the demon was slowing, its body slumping slowly, bleeding from dozens of cuts that would be mortal on a creature more human sized but seemingly merely fleshwounds to the titanic monster, but the hole in its shoulder still gushed, the snow was stained with its life. Marcus felt his determination firm, the throbbing in his back and shoulder, his hip and the faint ringing in his ears couldn't be allowed to slow him, or he would surely know death again. No, this was the end, they both knew it. this final exchange would be the last. Neither had the strength to keep this up. Marcus tightened his grip and took a deep breath as the demon shifted the grip of its strangely disproportionately small hands. The funnel like shape of its body striking him as almost funny as the moment approached. a strange humor of fatalism. The Demon raised its hammer and feinted a slam shifting it to a sweep that Marcus' dive could never hope to fully avoid, he rolled up took a knee and brought his blade up with a roar not unlike the demon's his blade struck the hammer and twisted his body putting every ounce of his strength to the move the demon seemed shocked as the trajectory of its hammer was changed by only a few degrees leaving Marcus' arms screaming at him, his blade nicked, but there's two edges to this one as he lept forward shifting his grip and holding his blade overhand point down slammed it once, twice, thrice into the demon's stomach, as it huffed and started to raise its hammer only for the Ichor's flow to finally slow, the hammer falling from nerveless fingers as Marcus had to dance back. The heat washing off the Demon was immense as it dissolved with a cry. The angry flames within consuming it in an instant, ripping it to nothing as the chaotic flames reclaimed what was theirs all along. The wash of heat burning against him forcing a gasp from him as the monster's soul fled. The surge burned his veins like fire, several times the strength of every hollow he'd fought thus far, the bounty of strength seemed immense, but it did nothing to banish the pain in his body.
Pain that brought him to his knees, his sword dropped beside him. as he opened his pouch and withdrew his Talisman, he clutched it in both hands, closed his eyes and raised it to his helm, the words tumbling from his lips even as their tightly bound power unfolded in his mind, the first rush of heat, then the second burned away his aches and trauma. The second and third stanza of the five part prayer for succor forgotten as their power restored his battered body to wholeness. He slipped away his Talisman, Gwyn's name on his lips as he lifted his sword and wiped it with clean white snow, removing the Demon's Ichor as he walked slowly to where Oscar lay, barely moving in the rubble.
"You did it." he said softly, with a cough. Marcus dropped to one knee and started moving stones but Oscar raised a hand to forestall him.
"No my friend, Marcus. This is the end for me. I do not have your Faith, or your determination." he said sadly, laughing fatalistically.
"Seems there's only place for one Chosen Undead, eh?" He said and Marcus looked away.
"Do not look at me like that. Knowing you are on the path you are, fills me with relief, I cannot lie. Not now. I feared I would never escape this place, that the demon would hold me here forever. You… You killed it yourself! I…" he paused to cough, human red staining his visor, Marcus leaned forward, making quiet noise to silence him as he pulled off the Knight's helm. The young man smiled his lips red with his own blood.
"Thou who art Undead art Chosen. Maketh thee Pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords, and ring the Bell of Awakening. Then the Fate of the undead thou shalt know. Go, Chosen Undead. Please. For all of us." He said fighting to raise a hand. Marcus took his hand.
"I will." Marcus said as Oscar relaxed and looked into the distance, the fire fading from his eyes as he seemed to disintegrate, like a statue made of ash, he blew away.
Marcus rose to his feet, and walked back to the pile of grey ash that was the Demon as the stones collapsed into the space Oscar had occupied not long before. He rooted through the ash, pulling the massive key from the pile and walking to the main gates. The opened only with the greatest effort, taking many minutes of fighting to open the rusted hinges and force the way. He stepped out to the open air with a triumphant burning in his chest he couldn't deny and he moved with nearly indecent haste up the walk, trusting his undeath to keep him as indefatigable as he had been. The feeling of triumph burned away as he crested the hill and looked upon the broken cliffs that had once been the hillsides he had remembered, Isolated, truly trapped he looked down with a growing fury of destiny denied. Darkness eclipsed him as he closed his eyes. The distant call of a crow opened them and he looked to the distant mountains planning his decent even as a great mass rose up. Then, between one moment and the next he felt himself be taken hold of by a great crow, the greatest he had ever seen, with uncommon intelligence even greater than the uncanny wisdom of its smaller brethren. looking for a moment into that eye he allowed himself to be carried, a distant feeling of apprehension warring against the drop below him, weighing certain death against the intent of the Crow. He waited, watching the world whip by beneath him as the bird turned, toward Lordran.
Toward Destiny.
Chapter 1, short but naturally ending, that's the likely format on all of them, they'll just end where it's natural to, so chapter length may vary wildly. Send me your thoughts and the answer to this question, Who was your favorite character with no spoken lines in Dark Souls?