A Monarch No Better
Humanity
There was once a being of grey.
Ancient, wise, unimaginably powerful. A beast of legend, one that many men had worshipped and revered. A beast of the clouds, great black wings blotting out the sun. A beast of fire.
It encompassed all that was lost and remembered.
Since the days of humanity's birth, it had been seen as a god, a magnificent shrine built for it in the highest peaks of the earth. The golden glow of the shrine illuminated the Aerie that it dominated, dozens of the descendants hovering over the shrine, their nests surrounding it. None ever dared make their home at the shrine, lest they be mauled by the guardians.
On this day of gold, the sun hovering over the horizon, the being of grey felt the presence of another of the lost. Another trying to reach the being. Armed. A second skin of black armor. A single sword, held with an unexperienced grip. Anger. Regret.
Radiating the dark.
This one was smarter than most. Strong, fast, quite reckless. Its presence never completely left the shrine, even in death. This one would be brought back at the entrance, an unbreaking vessel of rebirth.
Slowly, painfully, the lost one broke through the guardians, severed their tendons, rended their veins. Covered in their blood. The ascended fell to his blade, their corpses tumbling down the grand staircase. Until finally, the lost stood before the being of grey, tired, slow, and wary.
Memoryfailshim. Heislostinhisownsoulwhatshouldbecomeofhim? Maddeterminedcaringonceuponatime. Hollowedstillhashismindfightingtowardsagoaldoesn'tcarewhohecarvesthroughtogettheir. Bathedindarkthequeenneedshimwithouthimsheislostaswell. Crushed. Crushedundertheweightofwhatitmeanstobeamonarch.
A soul of black.
The being of grey, glaring down at the lost, felt his experiences. Blood. Agony. Relying on a promise, a reason to continue.
A white disposition.
Heisreadyhehascomefarhehasearnedthishemightnotssucceedthatisnotourplacetodecide.
Lost undead. You, like others before, stand before us. Time wavers, the mist beckoning.
Hollowed beyond repair, you will stand before a throne befitting a Great Sovereign. What is seen, falls to your eyes alone.
What is decided, you will never know.
The lost stood tall, unwavering against the message, the gift of the being. One might have mistaken his lack of a reaction as defiance. This one was far too tired to act defiant.
Go, cursed undead. Fight until the world, or you, crumbles.
There was once a man of steel.
Brown hair, blue eyes, white disposition. A will of steel. A soldier, a captain of the lost army of Drangleic. Proud, unrelenting, intelligent. A strategist, a fighter, a leader, a mentor.
Born of a line of unbreakable soldiers, carrying the legacy of the Drummond family on his back. Thousands of men had fallen to his blade, thousands who would threaten his homeland.
He now lay tired, slowed and bleeding, breath ragged and burning. Monsters, great beings of stone, unnatural things from far to the north crashed around him, rarely dead. Greater than any man, 10 feet tall, with impenetrable skin and hearts of rage.
None shone rage with an absolute radiance like the one standing at the end of the ramparts. Greater than any other, a tower of a creature. A stone blade, as large as the lesser giants around it, gripped in its hand, a weapon of decimation. A crown perched atop its head, shining in the dying sunlight of the day.
The man of steel, straining with the effort, rose to his feet, his sword perched on his shoulder. Soldiers died around him, torn in half, crushed underneath the beings' crude weapons, burned by the fire of their own archers. Blood ran in pools along the battlements, soaking the man of steel. The metallic smell was undeniable, all-encompassing. Bile rose in his throat.
The great lord of stone saw him rise, raised its sword. Every step it took towards the man of steel shook the earth, its massive frame blotting out the sun. The man of steel didn't expect to win. He expected to die standing on his feet.
Until there came a man of black.
The newcomer stood next to the man of steel, unscathed from the slaughter around him, a sword radiating warmth held in his hands. A man of peculiar color, white hair, white eyes. He couldn't have seemed more tired.
The man of black raised his blade and ran towards the lord of stone, unhampered by the lesser beings. The lord of stone saw him, raised its sword above its head, and brought it down onto the battlement. Dust flew into the sky as the weapon crashed down. The man of black disappeared among the dust.
The lord of stone crumbled to its knees suddenly, its bellow of agony resonating throughout the air around them. An otherworldy sound, one that filled the man of steel's chest with relief. It tried rising to its feet, before collapsing back onto one knee. The man of steel took a breath, before sprinting towards the downed lord. The cloud of dust fast approached him, until it surrounded him, stinging his eyes. He saw the massive outline of it's being, before lifting his blade above his head and bringing it down onto the lord's leg. The blade pierced the stone skin, digging into its thigh. He saw its hand out of the corner of his eye, coming down to crush him. Its hand stopped suddenly, as it let out another roar of pain. The man of steel looked up into the lord's face, silhouetted by the evening sun.
The man of black stood on the lord's shoulder, his blade dug into its skin, giving him a handhold. Gripping its crown, he wrenched his sword out of its shoulder before driving it into the head of the lord.
The lord of stone froze, the air around it calm and tranquil. Out of the head wound spouted a geyser of black liquid, soaking the men of black and steel. Its sword slipped from its grasp, before crashing to the ground.
The lord began to tip over, the black geyser still spraying. The man of steel ran out from under it, before being knocked off his feet as it crashed onto the rampart, sending a shockwave across the battlements.
When the dust around it cleared, the man of black stood at its head, his sword in his hand and dripping black blood. His other hand clutched something, something that shined in the light. A red jewel, taken from the crown of the lord.
The man of black walked towards the edge of the ramparts, his sword dragging along the ground, too tired to sheath it. The man of steel, crying tears of triumph, picked himself up, before seeing something else in the clutched hand of the man. A feather.
The man of black brought his closed hand close to his chest, before lifting it above his head. And as soon as he did that, rays of sunlight filtering through the feather, the world fell to pieces. The man of steel, the lord's corpse, the war around them, all faded away. Until nothing remained, nothing but the last memory of a raging, stone being.
There was once a man broken by his soul of nothingness.
On the peninsula, once a breathtaking settlement, he sat along the monument on the cliffs, looking away from the sun, hiding himself from it. Crestfallen, hollowed, broken, the warmth of the sun felt unearned, the luster of its light a lie. So he looked away. He always looked away.
The slight pressure in his ears made him look up, towards the bonfire. The man of black stood over it, the woman of tormented grey standing away from him, staring towards the fort, his blade dripping a black liquid, a red gem in his hand shining next to the fire. Looking at the gem, the man of nothingness caught a faint smell of the earth, dirt, grass, trees. Flowers.
The man of black walked towards the man of nothingness, sheathing his sword. Reaching the monument, he looked out at the sea, to the sun. And without moving, he spoke.
"Saulden…. What is our true curse?"
Neither spoke, both listening to the waves that crashed below them, the air of desolation that crept behind them, the hate of the ring on the man of black's finger. The man of nothingness stared at the bonfire, seeing dancing wishes in the flame. Old promises. Old reasons. Perhaps the man he had once been.
The man of nothingness sighed, before smiling ruefully.
"Our humanity."