3. Retinue of the Gods
That damned bell. Why must they ring that damned bell every time? Is it truly necessary to announce our arrival in such a cacophonous manner? They always upset Sif, the poor beast.
Lord Gwyn sat atop a white throne at the head of the retinue, his divine litter open for all to see, carried by a legion of his silver knights. It was impossible to see the Lord of Sunlight's expression from here, for Artorias and his fellow knights of Gwyn strode on foot, marching alongside the palanquin in stoic silence. Was Gwyn happy to see his golden city again? Or was he indifferent? Artorias did not know. He didn't know much of anything that went on in Gwyn's head anymore. Ever since his falling out with his son, Gwyn had changed. The once kind and thoughtful God had turned sour and cold. No longer did he roam Anor Londo by day, blessing his people with his presence. No longer were the doors to Anor Londo's Grand Cathedral open to the public. And if anyone dared mention his forsaken son's name, they'd bathe in the wrath of the Lord of Sunlight. This was Lord Gwyn now, and no matter what, Artorias would be there at his side with the other three. It did not matter to Artorias what Gwyn's personality was anymore, only that Gwyn had saved him once, and that was enough for Artorias to be indebted for a lifetime. The other three legendary knights of Gwyn must feel the same, though it was hard to tell.
Marching behind Artorias was Lord's Blade Ciaran and her strange, one-eyed porcelain mask. Something about that mask always made him feel like she was watching him. On the other side of Gwyn was Ornstein the Dragonslayer in his lion's armor, his sun spear hanging off his back. Behind him was Hawkeye Gough, whose footsteps left holes in the earth the size of basins. The four of them were Gwyn's loyal knights entrusted with protecting his palanquin at any cost, though not that they'd need to. Oolacile was in Lordran, the land of the Gods, not far from their great capital. What harm could possibly reach them here?
While Gwyn and his knights led the retinue, behind them marched the palanquins of Gwyn's family. Atop the shoulders of slaves, sitting in a lavish throne of white was Gwyn's firstborn daughter, Gwynevere. Her palanquin was massive compared to the rest, for of all the Gods, Gwynevere was the largest and required a throne the size of a stable to bear her weight. She sits with a humble smile on her face, enjoying the ride and whispering words of encouragement to the slaves that carried her. How such a massive beauty spawned from Gwyn is a mystery. Gough liked to joke sometimes about it when they were far from Gwyn's ears, saying Gwyn must've laid with a giant at some point.
Behind her throne was Gwyn's son, one who still had his name, Gwyndolin, the Lord of Moonlight. A frail and pale young man with hardly any meat on his bones, Gwyndolin sat with his legs crossed, one hand resting on his lap while the other propped up his head, which teetered as if he might fall asleep. He looked bored and tired, as if he'd like nothing more than to be gone from here and back in Anor Londo where he could play with his two little sisters, Priscilla and Yorshka, both children too young to understand why they were riding in palanquins or where the purpose of this venture would take them. Each of them sat in the palanquin behind Gwyndolin atop of the lap of Old Man McLoyf, the God of Medicine and Drink, and one of Gwyn's uncles.
Gwyn's other uncle, Allfather Lloyd, rode behind him. The two uncles were polar opposites as far as Artorias could tell. Lloyd was a stern and pious man whereas McLoyf always wore a toothy smile behind his wizened, white beard. Sitting beside the Allfather was a much smaller, paler woman in robes of gray and black. She cradled a baby in her arms and had a look of absolute depravity etched across her solemn expression, staring not ahead of them but down at her baby. The youngling was Gwyn's lastborn daughter, Fillianore. Why Gwyn insisted on bringing her here too, Artorias could only surmise.
The rest of the Gods present were not of Gwyn's family, but were Gods in their own rite for their roles in the Age of Ancients. There was Flann, the God of Flame, who preferred to ride on the back of a great, flaming stallion instead of on a litter. There was Galib, the God of Disease. Kremmel, God of Struggle. Andre, God of Craftsmanship. Fina, Goddess of Beauty. And even the two-headed God of Greed and Desire, Zinder and Zandroe. And bringing up the rear of the retinue was another one of the three who possessed a Lord Soul, the Great and Terrifying Witch of Izalith.
She towered high above her daughters, all of whom were present and sat in a circle around her. Artorias did not trust them. Without the Witch's help in the war against the dragons, they would've had a lot tougher of a time overcoming them, but that war has long been over and there's murmurings of something stirring in Izalith, whispers of betrayal, and rumors of a plot to overthrow the Lord of Sunlight. Whether or not these were true, Artorias did not know, yet he was surprised all the same when Gwyn announced that the Witch and her daughters would be accompanying them to Oolacile.
Still, even with them all here like this, there was a gaping presence missing. Gwyn's firstborn son, who shall forever remain nameless. Artorias remembers the day well, the day everything changed in Anor Londo, the day the sun went cold and cast the capital in darkness, for that was the reach of Gwyn's despair at losing his legendary warrior of sunlight and firstborn...
I shouldn't think about that. I need to concentrate on the road ahead. We're almost there.
At his side the grey wolf Sif, Artorias' most trusted companion, wags his tail with excitement now that the ringing of the bells has resided. He reaches down and pets the wolf on his head, smiling behind his helm as the wolf nuzzles his snout into his gloved palm. There, there, Sif. I know the road's been hot and arduous. Just a little longer and I can find you a bone to chew on and perhaps some shade under a good tree to relax in.
Upon crossing the threshold of Oolacile's township, under the archways of gold, the retinue of the Gods comes to a final halt before each palanquin is lowered to the earth with a heavy THUD!
Come out to meet them is the Royal Family of Oolacile; Lord Dawndra and his son, Prince Dawn, both of whom are adorned in golden, embroidered gowns and crowns. Lord Dawndra's wife, Queen Twilawn, has a welcoming smile and holds her arms up high to praise the God's arrival. And finally, standing behind her mother's dress with a look of apprehensive fear in her eyes was the fabled child, Princess Dusk, who is said to have adept control over sorceries despite her young age.
"Hail, Lord Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight!" Cries Queen Twilawn for all of Oolacile to hear before bowing her head low. Her family follow suit, showing the backs of their necks to their God, all but Princess Dusk, who seemed too afraid and timid to even move. When the Queen notices her daughter's hesitance, she slaps her over the back of her head, knocking the jeweled crown off her scalp and onto the golden earth. "Bow your head, daughter of mine, or I'll have yours!"
"Y-Yes, M-Mother." whimpers the girl, bowing so low that her head threatened to crash into the ground.
It takes him a moment before Lord Gwyn slowly rises from his pearled throne. He towers over all in the township, his height something akin to a giant, almost. As he stands, Artorias, Ornstein, Ciaran, and Gough all bend the knee and lower their heads, as do the silver knights that flanked them. Even Sif recognizes what is happening and squats down on all fours, chin in the grass. There's looks of awe and wonder in the crowd, as well as expressions of fear and... is that loathing Artorias spotted in the eyes of a few onlookers? How dare they look upon the Lord of Sunlight with such disdain!
Everyone waits with batted breath for Lord Gwyn to speak and address the Royal Family. That is what is expected, but it does not come to pass. Instead, Gwyn simply lifts his arm, raising a crooked finger up at the grand colosseum perched on the cliff in the distance. The gesture is simple and straight to the point. There was to be no pleasantries. There was to be no time for supping and delight. Gwyn was there for one purpose, and now was the time for that purpose to come to fruition.