The city, from within it's threshold, had lost it's dreariness. Now, it only looked the part of a desolate graveyard, smoke and ash philandering about in the air, the smell of burning flesh dancing alongside the remnants of life, and the large towering buildings that stood all around them played the part of giant tombstones. If this had been a majestic city at some point in time, it no longer held this luster, for now it had become something of a mere distant memory. He walked about it's streets, blade out, while the Herald stood quietly at his side. He looked around, looking for any possible threat that may unveil itself from the shadows. He could feel the warrior that had been raised in Drangleic inside of him begin to grow restless, as well as anxious. Half an hour had passed since they first entered, and not a single soul was to be seen. The situation was so oddly familiar, that he couldn't help but feel restless. Why was it so empty? Could have something to do with those damned beasts?
"...the air reeks of blood and death." the Herald spoke up, her tone somber and quiet, eyes looking into the distance as if reliving an old memory. He turned slightly to her, violet eyes lowering in confusion. "It reminds me of Drangleic... back when all of it first began." Ah... so that was what she had meant. He could scarcely recall it, to be honest. All of his life, or rather, this life without memories, he had known nothing but battle. To cut down and rob anything alive of it's soul. The crestfallen warrior at Majulah had warned him not to be so wild and erratic, that he must be cautious. He barely heeded such warnings, and slowly, he began to understood. This was how most Hollows had become, wandering without a sense of purpose except to reclaim some semblance of humanity, something to make them feel... human, again. The Darksign had cursed them and damned them to an eternal hell.
Lelouch recalled Venderick's words to him when he saw him back before he had been reduced to a Hollow, left sane with his wits about him, left to dream a dreamless dream inside a mere memory of ash.
"One day, fire will fade," the old king told the man standing beside him. He recognized the armor well, the silver gleaming helmet with the single visor slit, the white matted fur upon his shoulders, and the iron plates that adorned his body. It suited him well, as had the blade he held in his hand. "And Dark will become a curse. Men will be free from death, left to wander eternally."
He stared up at the ceiling, a somber and despairing look about on his old, worn and grey face. "Dark will once again be ours... and in our true shape, we can bury the false legends of yore."
The boy seemed to understand this, though beneath the helmet, Venderick could see beautiful gems as eyes, left in confusion and distrust of such words. He couldn't help but smile wryly. Something about this undead... reminded him of himself, someone who was bound to the cycle of Light and Dark, someone who struggled against it's confines. His brother, Aldia, had once told him that peace grants men the illusion of life, however small and fleeting it was. Both ideals would not end the curse, only temporarily move it from them. It was as if the world had damned them... left with only two choices: ignite the flames of life, or allow it to fade and let the darkness of death consume all.
"And yet..." he continued, causing the undead to stare at him in wonder. "Is this... our only choice?"
The old man was right. This couldn't have been their only choice. How could it? To light the fire once again, only to do so once more in the distant future? Was that going to be their fate? To endlessly be caught in the cycle, to allow it to play out again, just so souls could flourish anew and die in peace? It was a farce, all of it! Accepting the dark was no better than allowing a world of Social Darwinism: survival of the fittest. Those with strength would rule above all, with the supposed Dark Lord standing atop his throne of corpses, and the weak will be left to be trampled underfoot. That sort of world sickened him. There would be no way he would ever accept the Dark. Never! To hell with the Dark Lords and those who sought to reignite the Flame! He'd have sooner allow himself to Hollow than suffer such a fate! Venderick was right, there had to be another way.
And Aldia was inclined to believe this as well. He had even tried to stray from the cycle, to go above and beyond and seek a new path, but he too found himself lost in the throes of agony. His body had become warped and decayed, left to be no more than a mere misshapen lump, encroached by the flames. If there truly was no path, however... then he would make it. He was the only one who could.
He had the power to make that path a reality.
Soon, after traversing across a small bridge, they found themselves in what appeared to be the central accommodations. The city became more closer, enclosed, and the streets becoming more complexed. He could smell the scent of burning flesh growing closer now, the sky tainted orange with the sun slowly sinking down to the world below. From where they stood, more of Yharnam stood out to them, even down below, showing that they were located in the upper levels of the city. Lining the streets were coffins... all of them forged in black and gold tailored steel, tightly bound with thick chains. "...something isn't right," he muttered under his breath, something inside of him growing restless and confused. "Where is everyone?"
His question was answered with the sound of metal, a sharp blade, scraping against the cobblestone floor below them. He narrowed his eyes as a figure emerged from behind a carriage. It was masculine, standing easily a head taller than himself, dressed in tight pants and leather boots reaching up to his calves, a coat hanging off his thin form, a wide-brim hat atop his head, his hair shaggy and dirty as if it had not been washed in days. His mouth was left ajar slightly, revealing yellow molars and fangs, a thick carpet of fur hanging from his lower jaw. In one hand was a torch, and in the other, a bloodstained axe.
The Emerald Herald's eyes widened. "...what in the name of Gwynn?" she breathed. "This man... He is... He's not..."
Lelouch finished her sentence.. "...not human anymore."
The man held no presence, only madness and bloodlust, as if having fallen pray to his own inner urges, his carnal desire for death and destruction. His eyes revealed only the eyes of a predator. When he noticed them, his eyes flickered with fury and rage and disgust, his fanged mouth morphing into one of utter distaste and obvious wrath. He ran toward them, torch held up high, and his axe dragging behind him. When he was close enough, he brought up his axe.
"Die, you filthy beast-!"
His arm, which held the axe, became slack, falling to the ground. The man's eyes widened, fear and confusion rooting deep inside of him while he glared back, eyes smoldering with annoyance, and blade outstretched in his hand, his cloak fluttering about. "...your the beast," he told him. "Not me."
And with that, he swung his sword. It cut cleanly into the man-turned-beast easily, slicing through flesh, muscle, and bone as if it were all paper. Blood splattered across his body, leaving him with red stains across his cloak and on his face, a guiser of red fluid gushing out as the large man fell to the ground, flat on his back, his face left in his expression of total fear. He curled his mouth into disgust from the feeling of the blood touching his skin, utterly revolted by the slimy and bumpy texture to it.
He had noticed one thing, however. Like the werewolf he encountered, it held no soul... and again, the blood began to whisper.
"Curse the fiends, their children too... And their children, forever true..."
He growled in frustration as he took a bit of his cloak, and wiped off the blood from his face. "...are you alright?" the Herald asked out of concern. He looked back, and nodded. He was simply irritated by the blood that apparently uttered incoherent whispers. It was strange... and it also provided some information for him. The lycanthrope and the man he had just killed were connected, meaning that Yharnam and the beasts he encountered were linked in some way. The blood healing must have been a factor in this. "Look," she gestured to the small building close by. It was placed in what looked to be a graveyard, barred by a gate. "There appears to be a clinic here. I recognize the design, if only slightly."
A place of healing, then. Perhaps he would find some answers, or at least, someone who was same. He pulled the gate open, which creaked loudly and moaned as a result, and stepped inside. He stopped only a second later, eyes widening in shock. The walls around the gate and the building itself obscured the entrance, thus leaving any trace of it ambiguous. However, when he saw it, he couldn't help but gape.
At the very steps of the clinic, an old, rusted blade was stuck into the ground, and surrounding it was a small, faint ember of flames that danced around the base. He recognized it immediately, and could not believe his eyes. It was simply impossible, as such sights could have only been found in either Lordran, as he was told by that mysterious old cat, and in Drangleic... and yet, there it was, plain as day.
In front of the steps to Iosefka's Clinic... was a bonfire.
