Artorias of the Abyss
A world unformed
In the beginning, when the world was unformed and shrouded in fog, there was nothing but the above and below. Above, great, immortal dragons ruled, creatures that existed before time, granted the power of immortality from their stone scales. This was their land, their time, their age. But that was soon to change. For below, something was born in the darkness. A spark that would light the way for a new era. Fire. And with fire came light and dark, heat and cold, life and death. It stirred the soulless monsters that dwelled in the depths. Like moths to a flame, they came from the dark. The creatures of the below, who lay dormant since it all began. Within the beauty of the First flame, these creatures discovered great souls. The lord souls were discovered. These imbued the creatures that lived below with the great power of a soul. Power enough to challenge the immortal dragons. The first souls were claimed by Nito, the Gravelord and first of the dead, the witch of Izaleth and her daughters of chaos and finally Gwyn, lord of sunlight, alongside his faithful silver knights. With the power now possessed by them they challenged the dragons. Gwyn's mighty bolts of light peeled apart their stone scales. The daughters of chaos weaved great fire storms to burn their homes, the Arch trees. Nito unleashed a miasma of death and disease upon their exposed flesh. Seath the scale-less, an albino dragon born without the immortal scales, betrayed his own kind, thus the dragons were no more. Seath was granted a shard of a lord soul, and the great age of Lords began. But there was a fourth soul, found after the others and hidden from the great lords. The Dark soul. A thing of immense power, greater than the rest, was kept in secret then shattered into countless shards, each shard forming the essence of humanity. The age of Lords was known as the age of Fire as it flourished across the land. The place no longer ruled by the ancient dragons. They named this land, Lordran.
The legends of Lordan
You have all heard the legends of Lordran by now. A land so rife with power, mystery and heroes centuries old. Time in Lordran is convoluted, great warriors phasing in and out of history itself. The four mighty lords, the fall of New Londo, the war with the giants, the passage to Drangleic, The dark wraiths, the mighty abyss and of course, the Chosen undead. Yes indeed, the undead who would challenge the power of lords and overthrow them, taking their power as his own. Only, in the ancient legends it is written, that an undead would be chosen to leave the asylum in the north, and make pilgrimage to the land of ancient lords. The exploits of this warrior who strides across time as though it were naught are legendary, but many of his trials have been lost to the passage of history, many a victory unsung. Despite this, the warrior has become legend to those in Lordran, a symbol of hope to many, and disparity to many more. But Lordran is brimming with tales of heroes long forgotten, battles unwritten, and it is of them I wish to speak of. Many a hero has passed through this land, but one remains the pinnacle of his age. His story has never been truly recounted, yet his legend spoken to all, a hero known for acts he did not achieve.
Artorias. Champion of Darkness. Once, long ago, there was a great city, built by a great king to house immeasurable power. Of all its denizens only four were chosen to act as its elite protectors. Dragon slayer Ornstein, captain of the guard. King's blade Ciarin, the greatest assassin the world had ever known. Hawk-eye Gough, champion archer, unmatched with a great bow. And knight Artorias, with his unbendable will of steel and incredible skill with a great sword. Together, these four knights were dispatched across the land, dealing with threats to the age of fire at the command of Lord Gwyn, the lord of sunlight and keeper of one of the mighty Lord Souls. The dragons fell, the occult rebellion fell, even the accursed abyss of New Londo was vanquished. No one could hope to challenge the knights and survive. No one even dared. They were a force that the mountains would crumble before, their skills unmatched and their resolve unquestionable.
But time was running out for all things in Lordran. The age of fire was fading, the lord souls diminishing. Soon the dark of humanity would be upon the world. Humanity was a terrible threat to the great lords. They were creatures born form the almighty Dark soul. This soul, found after the others and hidden in secret, its power eclipsed that of all the other lord souls combined. Creatures born from the infinite fragments of the Dark soul could be no more than a threat to the age of fire and all it encompassed.
As time passed and humanity's growth remained unhindered, it became apparent this age of dark was inevitable. But then from nowhere, the curse appeared. A plague, so vile and horrific in its creation, swept the land, branding countless humans with the dark sign as it went. Those afflicted with the undead curse were granted immortality, but at a most terrible price. Every time a branded human died, it's flesh and soul are reborn from flame, but lesser than it was before. Death after death after death in the dangerous land of Lordran send the immortal undead insane. They lose their minds, their humanity, everything they had, burning in anguish time after time. They become hollow, a withered, decayed version of their former selves. Death. Rebirth. Death. Rebirth. The process never ends for many of the undead. The only way to retain their sanity is for an undead to offer a fragment of the dark soul to the flame, a shard of their own humanity. This can prolong their madness for a time, allowing the more carful undead to overcome the curse. But it lasted not, for this led to war amongst the undead, killing each other to claim the ever so precious shards of humanity they craved. And so, madness birthed madness and the plague continued. More and more fragments were offered, but it ultimately did little to save the ailing minds of the undead. Soon, the hollows were great in number, shambling aimlessly across the land, shells of the humans they had once been. But a problem, a flaw in the curse's destructive system soon became apparent. Every fragment of the dark soul offered to the flame strengthened Lord Gwyn and with it, the age of fire. But humanity itself was part of the cycle of the souls, and their very existence was what was killing the lords and ushering in the age of darkness.
And so, the world became trapped, an endless cycle that locked Lordran in eternal twilight. The curse that had once seemed poised to end it all became the thing that trapped countless millions in endless agony. To end the turmoil and correct the mistakes of the past, the legends sang of an undead who would be chosen to challenge the lords. His fate was yet undecided, whether he would extend the age of fire, or usher the age of dark, remained unknown even to the prophets who spoke of such a warrior. But his coming was as inevitable as the passing of the lords, only time would reveal this hero of the dark.
I am sure you are all very familiar with this tale and I wish not to repeat it to you. I have for you, another story. A legend yet to be told in its true form. The legend of Artorias, the Abysswalker. He was slayer of the dark wraiths, the life stealing monsters and enemies of all living things. He saved New Londo, defeating the abyss for the first time and earning his title. No mortal could walk the abyss and yet Artorias had surmounted its endless darkness. Forever more he would be known as the Abysswalker. But it was Oolacile that would test Artorias' mettle. The courageous knight and his faithful companion, the great wolf Sif, were dispatched to the town to halt the abyss once more. Driven by honour, they departed to put an end to the raging darkness and stop the abyss once and for all. Upon arrival the knight found its citizens hideously deformed, their humanity had been driven into wild mutation by the void itself. He tore through the town, his blade cleaving all before him, until he came face to face with the horrors of the abyss. Manus, the dread father. Darkness Incarnate, the primeval man moved to silence Artorias for good. But the knight was too fast, his blade piercing Manus' skull, allowing him to move in for a final, killing blow. The beast fell at his feet, the abyss vanquished for good and light returned to the realm. Thus, the legend of Artorias was born that day.
Or so many think. There is only so much a Legend can tell us. Artorias is from an age long passed, and the details of his exploits are long forgotten. But the fact is the Legend of the Abysswalker is only a fabrication at it's most serviceable. Yet even the true story of Artorias is still a tale of great honour and pride. The true story of the holy warrior deserves to be recalled one last time. Listen well, for I shall impart unto you the true events of Oolacile. What truly became of the almighty warrior. The tale of the Artorias of the Abyss.
Cold reality
Anor Londo. The Capital of Lordran. A great city for an age that had earned its fabled place in history. Gwyn, the lord of sunlight, a name that would echo across time, was the man responsible for this beautiful city of giants. Vast arches, titanic cathedrals, meticulously crafted architecture, all dominated the glittering skyline of Anor Londo. It was a beauty so pure, so divine, that many saw themselves unfit to gaze upon it. A golden city, for a golden age. Shafts of sunlight shone through the great stone arches, illuminating the city in the early light of day. In the streets below the denizens of the city of gods went about their business, conversing, trading, shouting and laughing, like any other part of the world. But Anor Londo was not like any other rugged city, for even the streets shone gold and its people wreathed in the finest garb in Lordran. Silk, diamonds, gold and titanite flowed through the trade routes, it's produce nothing more than the finest available. Men and women embraced each other, love flowing freely amongst the people. They talked excitedly, laughing and cheering amongst themselves in the crowded streets. The atmosphere was electric, the whole city was so rife with energy and feeling it could almost be felt in the very air. Towering above the crowd, giant steel-clad golems stood resolutely, halberds in hand. They protected the city, dispatching threats of all nature, from petty theft to dragon attacks. They bore little purpose here however as there was no crime to speak of in Anor Londo. Truly, there was beauty here the likes of which the world had never known, and likely would never know again. From his towering cathedral, the Lord Gwyn proudly surveyed his impressive work of art. His city was more than admirable, and all who gazed upon it never wished to be anywhere else.
That was the way Artorias remembered the great city, standing on the precipice of one of its great clock towers, wearily looking down upon the land, cloak flowing in the wind as he gripped to the masonry. His journey had been long, and he welcomed the sight of his homeland. But the view before him was far from such a perfect memory. Its buildings were still beautiful, its monuments still retaining their incredible stature. But its streets were empty, its people gone. So many had been lost to the undead curse, a mysterious phenomenon that appeared to be the harbinger of a dark age that was soon to come. The age of fire was fading, the power of lords waning. It was a fact the deities of the great city were all too aware of. And it terrified them. The age they had built for themselves, the centuries of work and war, was it all to come to an end? But the proof was evident to all. The ancient bonfires across the land had begun to fade, and now the immortal curse of the undead sweeps through Lordran, consuming all it touches under its almighty folds.
Artorias indulged himself for a moment, gorging his eyes on the view, the city, the mountains sweeping off into the distance, the rising sun, blood red on the horizon. The duke's archives, the index of global knowledge, sat atop the hill to the west of the city. It stood as a symbol of intelligence and wisdom, just as the city was a symbol of glory and power. To the east was Sen's fortress, a bastille of strength and honour, where the remaining silver knights of Lord Gwyn trained tirelessly, in preparation for the coming age of darkness. And even Anor Londo retained its beauty, though it was a beauty devoid of life.
It was this that brought Artorias to Anor Londo. The age of dark. It was no secret that darkness was coming. Surly it was but a fool's errand to even try and stop it. At best the inevitable could be postponed, but stopping it. Lord Gwynn was undoubtedly a great and wise man, but Artorias had his doubts about the king's sanity. He was on the brink of madness, the thought of losing his age of sunlight was tearing him apart. It was common knowledge amongst the knights that many of his dukes and bishops had deserted him, a move that had shattered their already fragile faith in the lord of sunlight.
But now was not the time to question Gwyn's resolve. Artorias was not here to meet the king, and doubted he was even present in the city anymore. No, he was here at the request of an old friend. He had been in Drangleic, a wild frontier discovered across the sea to the east. Many fleeing Lordran saw the land as a new start, a place where hope still remained. There was no curse to speak of in Drangleic, and its vast open spaces were ripe for a new order. A new world. Many had already left, fleeing the black and withering land that Lordran had become. Artorias had been escorting the fleet of sunlight, Lord Gwyn's personal fleet. Princess Gwynevere, Gwyn's daughter had been aboard the fleet, and Artorias had been selected as her personal escort. It had not been an easy voyage, leviathans plagued the waters between the two lands. Artorias and the Royal guardsmen fought valiantly, repelling all that would pose a threat to their fleet. Days of sailing had landed the fleet at Drangleic with losses kept to a minimum. The land was just as they had imagined. Rolling hills, great mountains, luscious forests, a land fresh and clean, the new start so many of them desired. Already small villages and settlements had sprung up across the coast line. Large thatched-roof houses, improvised wooden structures, even a few stone buildings were visible along the coastline as the remains of the fleet approached. Majula, a village comprised of the old residents of Anor Londo, was by far the largest settlement there. The fleet ran aground on the shores of Drangleic, ascending the Cliffside to reach Majula. The citizens of the small town welcomed the Royal fleet and were eager to negotiate with the people of Lordran. Within days, deals were struck, the boats were stripped and repurposed, and the supplies the fleet delivered were distributed fairly. Within days, they had been integrated into society. Already they were hard at work, rapidly expanding the borders of Majula, their advanced tools and magic allowing them to increase the work rate exponentially. Lordran seemed a distant memory by now. Artorias was looking forward to a new life here, far from the trials and tribulations of Lordran. He had lived a life of adventure, slaying countless foes in defence of his home land. But those were days long passed. But he was ready for this, a quieter, more civilized existence. This is what he wanted. So for many years he remained, protecting the city from threat, leading expeditions into the vast and untamed wilderness of Drangleic in search of resources. He quickly rose up amongst the citizens of Majula, a symbol of their success and a hero amongst their ranks. But the peace was not to last for him. On a day like any other, the past came calling for him once more.