The Hunt began anew.
It was alerted to the Pursuer the same sensation every time, and yet it still managed to catch the once-Mad Warrior of Alken off guard whenever it occurred. Each time he would kill his target, the sign would prickle at his senses as it chose a new bearer, he would track them down, and then he would kill them. Every single time, the sign reappeared, and it would taunt him with the inevitable eternity of his mission.
As Valravn approached from the great forest, the Pursuer knelt beside the mangled remains of the last Curse-bearer and reverently removed their double-bladed battle-axe from their rapidly stiffening grip, prying away the fingers and inspecting the bradden steel construction before stowing it away in the quiver on his back. Once, it may have been standard procedure for him to take the weapons of those he defeated - both as proof of the kill and to arm those sorely in need.
Now it not only reminded him of how little progress he'd made on an ever-lengthening road, but that he was laying down the stones that extended it.
Behind him, Valravn touched down on the stony hill and clicked repeatedly, hopping from foot to foot in agitation as if the ground were coated with rotting refuse.
"Sorry for the wait... this one took longer than the others..." Sometimes it surprised the Pursuer how gravelly his voice had become, but it was difficult to maintain a silken tongue when your usual conversation partners were a Giant Crow and bearers of the Curse.
It shook its head, briefly groomed its wing, and made a rapid series of caws.
The Pursuer glanced up from the previous bearer at last, surprise working its way into his demeanour. "Already? And so close..." He glanced at the corpse in front of him, made a gesture of respect, and finally raised himself to his full height. "Very well then, let's move."
Cooing in affirmation, Valravn quickly gained altitude and speed before slowly pitching back again, circling around in a beeline directly overhead. At the very zenith, the Pursuer propelled himself upwards and allowed the Great Crow to grasp his shoulders and ferry him to the next hunting ground.
The Forest of Fallen Giants - as it was called before the true fall of Drangleic - was often described as quite haunting by those who meandered through the ruins of the fort. If you were to look at the growths scattered throughout the fort and surrounding countryside, it may become apparent that the trees appeared to have limbs and what could be generously described as faces, and that was often when those who weren't already troubled would flee from the unearthly faces leering down over them.
The Pursuer, even if he had still been susceptible to such curiosities as fear, was far too elevated from the ground to notice such features with his peripheral vision, instead focusing completely on the newest Bearer's location.
Valravn's rapid quick identification of the darksign's spoor was commendable, but its duty was not yet finished - now it needed to pinpoint the hapless soul's location and end their miserable existence. Much to his vexation, however, the flora graveyard was restricting his line of sight, allowing him only glimpses of shambling figures and crumbling parapets; it would make little difference eventually, but it would significantly impede the rate at which they could progress the Hunt in the short term.
A sonorous call from his avian ferry alerted him to a development almost directly below him, and it was truly a sight to behold. The Bearer of the Darksign - for that was the only person they could be - was surrounded on all sides by at least a dozen Hollowed soldiers, and yet they spun, blocked, slashed and parried with the confidence founded by those who had just ascertained the nature of modern Drangleic. Given the number of wounds they received and how frequently they reached for the precious flask at their hip, they seemed absolutely assured in their victory.
If they survived, perhaps they could succeed where he - among so many others - had failed in the past.
Channeling the profane energies of the Abyssal Dark, a third of the mob harrying the Undead were slain before a projection of the Warrior of Alken's essence manifested on the platform where the battle took place. Senses having been relocated to the clone, the Pursuer had to admire the new Bearer's situational awareness - simply the muted sounds of the clone's arrival had been enough to warn them of its presence in the field. From there, the Pursuer stepped back far enough to rest without losing true awareness; it was essential to collect intelligence on each Bearer as they appeared, but utilizing such a tactic without completely losing himself to the Abyss was a draining experience, and he would need time to rest before engaging his prey.
His clone fell without the true expertise of its greater whole, and the Undead made quick pickings of the remaining Hollow in the area. Determining that it was risky to recuperate within distance of the Undead, the Pursuer searched for another vantage point with which to consolidate his advantages. "Friend, to the keep near the ocean walls - drop me there, then monitor the Curse-Bearer's whereabouts."
Valravn clicked and cooed in nagging concern - increasingly aware over the decades as to how depriving the Pursuer's methods were - and promptly deposited the Warrior of Alken upon the topmost battlements of the keep before diligently spying on the target's location. Briefly reviewing the Undead's general mannerism in combat, the Pursuer stripped away his arms and settled against what once served as a barrier for archers before returning to his fitful half-sleep.
A gentle string of coos snapped the Pursuer back into awareness, the sun rising beyond the coast and clouds cleared away.
How long had he rested? Clearly not enough to lose the Bearer's trail, or Valravn would be prodding him into preparing himself for another journey; instead, the Great Crow stared in contemplation as the Warrior of Alken went through his "morning" routine - a series of basic exercises to fully jostle his mind into readiness and ensure his muscles would respond to his command. The moment he exhaled and lowered his sword, Valravn cawed as quietly as they could.
"They're leaving? Perfect timing..." He adjusted his shield's position on his arm and once more tested the weight of his sword before approaching his companion, cupping its beak and giving an affectionate stroke of his thumb. "You will honor our agreement if the inevitable comes to pass?"
Valravn flinched at the sudden, albeit predictable turn of conversation, but nodded nonetheless. If the Pursuer should fall, his custodian would aid whichever Bearer ended his penitent mission in becoming the supposed "True Monarch" spoken of in legend; it was the only way they could atone for the past. Relieved that their duties would go fulfilled, the Pursuer patted Valravn's neck in appreciation.
"Let's move."
The command issued, the Pursuer was brought far above the ground in Valravn's way of communicating the Curse-bearer's whereabouts. In the pale dawn light such an effort was difficult, but soon enough he identified the silhouette which had bested his shadow the previous day, cautiously proceeding along the great, embellished battlements of the Eastern Sea as they struck down the royal soldiers who had yet to abandon their service. An excellent position with which to engage his prey; little maneuvering room would pose a great risk for the Undead.
Resolved, the Pursuer dropped his sword, tapped the talon gripping his right shoulder twice - a command and goodbye in one - and fell.
The Pursuer heard his sword connect with the stone brickwork - and oddly enough, the Undead's yelp of surprise - an instant before crashing down upon the battlement, wrenching his sword from the ground and mustering his twisted energies into action. He watched them glance around, eyes flicking between feature to feature to discern their next course of action. He watched them adopt a tentative, defensive stance, and slowly shuffle forward.
Then, he lowered his shield and rushed towards his prey.
Slashing upwards, the Pursuer reversed the path of his sword, bashed the Undead's guard, and rotated upwards before unleashing a vicious aerial spin - which the Undead barely evaded. Untroubled by the Undead's dexterity, he whipped around to face them and stabbed repeatedly from behind his shield, before bringing his sword skyward and planting it in the ground. Unfortunately, he had missed his mark and was left vulnerable whilst struggling to withdraw his sword.
In those precious moments, the sound of wooden cranking broke the tense atmosphere, and the Warrior of Alken was flung into the broken head of a sculpture by a barrage of ballista bolts.
The Pursuer slowly crawled out of his stupor in time to duck away from a thrust to his helmet, batting the Undead away and recovering his arms before charging again, this time wrecking the nearby artillery whilst hounding the Curse-bearer. As they became aware of their dwindling opportunities to counter the Pursuer's assault, they became more conservative with their strikes, and started scoring multiple hits when the Warrior of Alken utilized an attack which left them exposed for longer than usual. As a shoulder plate was cut free from its companion pieces, the Pursuer decided that this was no longer an effective strategy, and elected to unleash the greatest potential of the Abyss that he dared.
He repeated the opening barrage of the battle, including the very same sword-plant which had left him vulnerable before, and made a show of straining himself to bait the Undead. Predictably, they consumed it like a starving animal, rushing forward and winding up for a coup de grâce.
The Pursuer hurried the Dark within into his sword, and released it in a violent eruption of foul energy.
The Curse-bearer was tossed backwards, tumbling head-over-heels before coming to a rest near the broken remains of a ballista, and scrambled for ground when the Pursuer rushed and slashed at their prone form. The prey was cornered; now to incapacitate them. The Pursuer retreated behind his shield, waiting patiently as the Undead took longer than previously to accept the nondescript opening, and when in striking distance poised his sword for an impale, whispering under his breath and calling forth a chilling glow in the sword.
He thrust forward, and missed.
The Pursuer lowered his guard for a moment - leaving the sword in such a state was even further perilous than calling upon the abyss - and in doing so gave the Undead the opening needed to sever the Warrior of Alken's arms with shocking expertise. Gasping and stumbling backwards, the Pursuer fell backwards and desperately reached for the Dark within him, intent on annihilating the Undead if he could not continue on. As he prepared his final attack and the wretched essence of the Abyss tearing through and jostling his already damaged form, however, the Undead scrambled forward and ran their weapon into the Pursuer's back - cutting off the incantation and eliciting a hiss of pain from the fog-shrouded helm.
He was finished; part of him was terrified, fighting against fate to continue its mission even as the Pursuer's soul was absorbed by the accursed Darksign. The other, however, was filled with gratitude - for the Undead having ended his long journey and, in a sense, served as his final target to earn his retribution. And so, as his exclamation of surprise and agony tapered into silence, the Warrior of Alken died with a rare smile on his lips.
Thought I'd speed through the next chapter to... ya know, give ya something nice and tear-jerky :P
Anywho, thanks for stopping by again, and let me know if there's anyone/-thing you want to see show up and break your hearts next time!