DON'T MIND US WE'RE JUST HAVING A COOK OFF. WE'RE JUST HAVING A COOK OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFF!
Everything ached. Limbs contorting, things ripping, and the sickening crackle of what could have been her bones- or the bonfire. Either way, it didn't make her feel like she was being gutted from the inside out. One would be quite surprised to hear faint whimpers come from the deep void of the Dancer's Crown opposed to the usual huff or deep breath. The giantess weakly tried to rise but only ended up flattening out on her stomach- her armor scraping against stone and the water seeping into the exposed areas of her armor where she could feel it envelop her.. Her flesh?
The realization brought the pain to a dull grumble as she stared at her hand- her breath hitching as she noticed that its size was quite smaller than before. In fact, when he managed the strength to rise on her knees, she noticed that they too, had shrunk. Even more surprising, was that she could actually think. Oh, blissful thoughts they were. Even as minuscule as they were, one would cherish the fact that they could comprehend one's self. Instead of a deep desire for battle and bloodshed- so much that it'd devour your soul whole and you'd forget where and who you were. Or something like that. What did she care. She was free at last!
The pain was still present, although it was quite bearable now. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley slowly stood up to her tallest height- rising as she once did from the grave that contained her not hours ago. The sky was faintly clouded and incredibly dark- night having set over the world for but a few fleeting moments in time. The bonfire cast a soft orange glow from where it sat- its radius only going so far. The light from the flames danced off of the Irithyllian's armor- creating a gleaming contrast to the black of night. She glanced down at herself. Where she once stood taller than ten men put together, she was now petty in comparison. To a normal man, either would have put him off ease- the new being now standing around eight feet tall- nearly exact. Every piece of her armor still fit and was in wonderful shape- strange, how the world works. Or perhaps, how it falls- if the knell was anything to go by.
The Dancer also noticed that there was little pain in her back aside from her spine being stiff. She could stand straight once more and feel quite fine, instead of her weight dragging her down into a hunch. Her neck had also returned to a more.. Normal state. Although it was still a bit longer than one would think- such is the way she was born. And her form, still lithe and quick as ever- not a pound out of shape, either. She felt strong. Stronger than..
It hit her like a black firebomb straight in the helm. She had no memory. No idea of who she was or what she has done. Or of what she's supposed to be doing, for that matter. Everything was void, no matter how much she tried to push past this fog wall in her head. Fate had truly forsaken her, hadn't it? Finally free of whatever curse she was under- only to be graced with the form of a clueless husk. At least she could derive that in her past life- fate must've not been so kind then, either.
There was no sense in mulling over it now, however. In this odd stretch of grey stone and nameless tombs, she'd find an answer. One just needed to know where to push. She had thought that in a metaphorical sense, but when she began to push the old, heavy, metallic doors at the end of Gundyr's resting place- it became literal. A rush of wind escaped through the sudden passage- fresh, but tainted with the acrid smell of rot and blood as it drifted off of distant cadavers. She had a rather grand view of the snow capped mountain range, their slopes jagged and sharp as they lead down to a misted ground. If it even was a ground. With the elevation she seemed to be at, the Dancer was certain that any contact with the lower ground would turn her width to that of a slip of parchment. Oddly, with that thought, came the abstract and vague memory of the color 'gold'. It went as quickly as it came.
Stalking forward on slow feet, she noticed two, broken, hollows draped in black hues. They paid her no mind until she dared walk past- immediately standing and brandishing their weapons. Having no true way to defend herself, save for her fists (which were rather large if you thought about it)- she chose the more logical option. On lithe legs, she moved with grace- dancing over the field as an arrow soared through the air, searching malevolently for a willing target. It sailed uselessly as the Dancer spun low, graceful in her step. With a few bounding leaps, she was already entering the circular, decrepit, stone building.
Needless to say, the blonde woman dressed in dark, bloodied, hues was only mildly surprised to sense the rather tall and agile figure stalk through the stone arch above- silver armor reflecting the gentle warmth of gracious, orange, flame. The man on the staircase, paid not a glance towards this figure- caring not. For whom dares themselves yet another dogged, Undead, lament? Certainly not him.
The Dancer glared around at her surroundings- turning back faintly to ensure that no Hollowed cadaver had dared following her. Candles littered the stone ledges around the Kiln- the floor littered with dust. Or was it ash? Either or, each mote signified the ancient age of this once grand shrine. Five thrones, each bearing their own personalities sat high above the center of this once Holy place. They are powdered in a thin layer of ash- red sashes that adorned their seats torn and withered.
Similar to the hunched, crippled, and incredibly aged man resting by his lonesome- sunken eyes staring shakily at the unusual Irithillian.
As the Dancer of the Boreal Valley approached this empty bone pile of unfulfilled vestiges, the woman in black spoke gently, although held some form of guidance to it. A distant whisper in the back of the Dancer's mind spoke of some vague memory- though, she could not place it. She daresay that the speech in which this woman spoke had an underlying excitement to it.
"Welcome to the bonfire, Unkindled One. I am a Fire Keeper. I tend to the flame- and tend to thee," She paused for but a single moment in thought,"The Lords have left their thrones, and must be delivered to them.. To this end.. I am at thy side." The Firekeeper murmured softly to the Dancer.
The lithe being stalked around the Firekeeper- a long history of whom they are drowning out any sense of distrust within her. The Firekeeper spoke once more after a moment- staring forward at the pile of bones and ash in the centre of the Kiln.
"Produce the coiled sword at the bonfire. The mark of ash will guide thee to the land of the Lords.. To Lothric. Where the homes of the Lords converge."
Coiled sword.. The twisted blade she left-
Damn.