DISCLAIMER: I do not own Dark Souls or any of its related works. I do, however, own the fanart used as the cover; as I drew that myself.
WARNING: This fic assumes you've played through Dark Souls 3 and achieved the Usurpation of Fire ending! If you haven't done so, then you WILL be confused!
Chapter 3: Rest and Relaxation.
In an attempt to recreate what they believed a Lord required, the Sable Church had erected many luxuries that went unused. What good was a Giant's bed to a man used to sleeping on hard rocks? What use was a kitchen to a man that could only consume medicinal moss clumps and bug pellets? What purpose could a bathhouse provide when—
"A bathhouse!?" Anri exclaims, grabbing the hands of her husband and dragging him from his throne. "We have to use it!"
"Calm down, dear." The Lord of Londor chuckles. "I can… only go so fast these days."
"I haven't had a bath since—!" Memories of her childhood, her travels, her friendships, all rush through her mind; tears prickling at her eyes. "S-since Horace… w-when he…"
Arms wrap around her, lips pressing against her forehead as she's cradled in a standing hug. Freely the tears fall in ugly sobs; her own arms wrapping tight around her husband, his burning warm body's heat bleeding through his armor.
"I-I m-miss them, Sunshine." She cries. "Horace, Andre, G-Greirat, Orbeck, the Handmaiden; e-even that rude Patches, wherever he is now."
"I know—"
"How do you do it?!" Anri interrupts, her eyes desperate and hysterical. "How do you keep going when everyone you get close to dies?! O-or leaves, or when they—"
"Irina! IRINA!" The Ashen One had shouted, before his voice became strained, the words echoing as he flew up the stairs of the land he called home.
Such frantic volume would naturally draw the attention of everyone that still resided in Firelink Shrine, forcing an audience as their Champion rushed to the blind Fire Keeper, a bleeding body in his arms. Slowly they left the main hub for a time, taking the short travel to the tower of dead Fire Keepers from ages past; where Irina of Carim had simply gravitated towards.
iAll save for one would find it impossible to forget the red lines across Sirris's neck and wrists, how she merely gurgled and bled—yet not once reached for her talisman, to pray; to heal.
"Yuria." The Ashen One had said. "This is my first order as Lord; watch over Sirris, make sure this does not happen again."
"…why?" Sirris had asked. "The princes lie dead, the path to the Flame is clear… so why won't you let me die?"
"…or when they take their own lives?" Anri finishes, the sudden outburst of emotion draining her.
"Because I'm a Champion." Her husband says, wiping her tears away. "Because I carry everyone's hopes—their aspirations—on my shoulders. I keep moving forward, because I can't afford to do anything less."
"Must be nice." The Lady-Knight of Londor mumbles. "Having such responsibilities."
A light kiss is the Undead Lord's answer; his charred lips sliding over her chapped ones, both of their bodies Human. Purging stones were coveted items, but they can only reverse the physical Hollowing an Undead suffers; not undo the wear and tear of travel and battle, nor undo the magical burns of the First Flame.
"I would not wish such a burden on even my worst enemies. It is… a Hell of its own." The Champion of Ash says, eliciting a chuckle from his tired wife.
"Well, I can think of a responsibility we will both enjoy." Anri whispers, her voice sultry and her breath hot against his ear. "I still desire a bath; and a true Lord needs an heir, no?"
The Sable Church, having been around for time unknown, already had an army; waiting the day they had a Lord to lead them.
Londor Soldiers—trained and armed by the Sable Church—serve the Undead Lord with religious zeal. Donning hard leather armor and iron helms, they are the backbone and majority of Londor's military. Footmen wield classic longswords en masse; phalanxes lift humble shortspears at ready; shieldbreakers heft weighty maces in anticipation; and bowmen string slim crossbows with ease.
And; as with all Hollows native to Londor and its Sable Church; the Dark Hand engulfs their left hands in bloodied Dark fire.
"N-no, Knight-Hunter; I haven't seen him." One of the Londor Soldiers says, intimidated by the Darkmoon and her violently twitching eye.
Such a simple sentence (the fourth one she's heard in the past hour, actually) made the Sunless Knight gracelessly accept the pillow one of the Fire Keepers handed her; muffling her volume as she screamed long and hard into the fabric, further scaring the poor shieldbreaker.
"It would seem Cornyx is missing." Sister Yuria wonders aloud. "And being so preoccupied with teaching His Lady the pyromancies of Carthus, there is yet a Londor Scholar trained."
"Tell the rest of your battalion—I want him found!" Sirris snaps, terrifying the unfortunate mace warrior.
"Y-yes, Knight-Hunter! Right away, Knight-Hunter!"
Under the dark white light of the eclipsing Darksign, deep in the witchtree forests and straddling the borders between cold and warm, sits a ruggedly small home. A white shack of witchtree wood, with homely and comfy furnishings. A warm fire roars in the iron fireplace, whilst small spheres of golden light float harmlessly through the cabin's air.
"Ah, Victory Brew; how I missed it." Old Sage Cornyx says, far from his station and draining his jolly barrel mug. "The taste is a little off."
"Yes well, I had to beg and plead before Duke Siegward taught me. Even then, I'm sure I messed up somewhere."
Cornyx, Sage-Scholar of Londor and respected pyromancer of the Great Swamp, was; admittedly; on edge. The smiling woman across from him had been nothing but accommodating, showing kindness and hospitality without any expectations. So the Old Sage, in an act of kindness himself, let her scan over his Great Swamp tome; rewarding goodwill with goodwill.
But he still has his suspicions, even as her silk gloves turn the tome's pages with reverence; her eyes ravenously absorbing the knowledge written within. Her hood is missing, yet the formal gold stitching of her robes still gives her (possibly former) occupation away.
A Court Sorcerer of the Profaned Capital; a member of one of the two leading schools of sorceries, claiming heirship of the legendary sorcerer Logan.
The Old Sage's knowledge of the Profaned Capital's events, while extensive due to the investigative nature of his Ashen pupil, is spotty at best when it comes to the individuals. The Court Sorcerers were once oracles, yet they turned jailers and tormentors after wielding the Profaned Flame; soaking in the cries of their ill-gotten prisoners.
And yet, if the woman across from him is true, if her motives are not any worse than what he's already witnessed; then she will be invaluable in the coming days—
"Oh!" She suddenly starts, putting the tome down and reaching into her robes. A wolf crest medallion glints in the golden light, whilst she pulls out a set of bundled-together scrolls. "I'm being so rude! Here, I think you'll enjoy reading these!"
Cornyx, only a little surprised by the woman's excitement, takes the scrolls calmly. Three scrolls, made with different colored parchment, all tied together with a mere leather belt.
The first scroll, a blue roll of parchment, details new sorceries developed by the Crystal Sage; ones wielded and utilized by the Undead Legion. These new spells appear to improve on the simplistic Farron Dart, but the improvements are surprisingly complicated, and appear to require a great deal of power from the sorcerer seeking to unleash them.
The second scroll, a golden roll of parchment, holds records of the lost sorceries of Oolacile; a jealously guarded magic by the Xanthous Scholars. These old spells seem to list the many different ways to manipulate light, even how to use it to rewind an object to its previous place in time. Yet the strangest part of these spells seems to be how easy they are to use, for even a weak novice could cast most of what's stored in this scroll.
The last scroll, a brown roll of parchment, contains the iconic sorceries of the Court Sorcerers; something Cornyx was not expecting to be given so freely. Only two spells are written on this scroll, but both of them demand a great amount of skill and power from whatever sorcerer wished to cast them. Very few would have the aptitude for them; but those that did, and those that do, will find their enemies wanting.
"For her to give me these so readily." The Sage-Scholar muses. "She must care deeply about the pursuit of knowledge, possible more so than anything else. Yes, she'll be perfect!."
"Pyromancy has always fascinated me!" The woman says, gently closing the Great Swamp tome. "I, unfortunately, never had the aptitude for it. As a result, I was never chosen as a candidate to wield the Profaned Flame; and I was passed when King Yhorm chose the next Fire Witch to serve in Irithyll."
Her smile turns somber, her posture slouching.
"I wasn't there when King Yhorm linked the Fire. Instead I wandered; lost and forlorn, wishing I could've been a Fire Witch. King Yhorm had given me his blessing, as well as permitting me to take a scroll from the school. Sometime later I found my teacher, a beautiful woman of Farron's Keep named Heysel, who taught me the beauty of sorcery and the gentleness that can come from golden magic."
"Is that why you wear Farron's crest?" Cornyx asks, the medallion glinting still in the golden light. "You served as a Watchdog?"
"I did, yes. My teacher and I protected the graves of the exiled and unwanted. I was even content for a time."
"What happened?"
"Heysel… changed. It wasn't anything drastic or wrong, she just became different. Like she was ashamed of something; or rather, ashamed of telling me something."
"It's very likely her teacher is the same Heysel my pupil had fought." Cornyx thinks. "I need to be extra careful with my words from now on."
"Have you noticed the water?" Cornyx asks, changing the subject.
"Yes, I have." The woman says, frowning for the first time they've talked. "Small rivers and lakes where there used to be only snow, and they get bigger with each passing hour."
"The world is sinking, now that the First Flame has begun to fade. But my pupil has a plan, and is encouraging the men and women of Londor to act on it."
"I have heard horrific tales of Londor. They say it's a land of Hollows, where the Undead go to die."
"Once, maybe; but the Sable Church have risen someone they call the Lord of Londor. He's been working tirelessly to restore a sense of normalcy in the people, even to the point where a few of them have begun to forget they ever went Hollow."
"He is insane!" The woman laughs; her humorous chuckling not born out of mocking disdain or ridicule, but instead out of the sheer ridiculousness of Cornyx's words. "I hope his quest goes well. Mayhaps I'll even be there to see it, no?"
"Ah, you figured out why I came here."
"Not many are willing to go so far into a magic forest to drink merry with a total stranger. You clearly wanted me for some reason, and I'm giving my consent to it. I would love nothing more than to continue to learn, without a constant fear of Hollowing."
"Excellent! You'll come to like the people of Londor, for the legends no longer do us justice. Ah, but I never did get your name."
"Bellclaire… but I have traveled so much, you might have heard of me as Pilgrim Bellclaire."
AN: It seems a familiar face has joined, but not one from Lothric!
That's right buckaroos, I have created a detailed list that's successfully incorporated the friendly (and not friendly!) Phantoms of Dark Souls 2 into Dark Souls 3!
It's specifically the Phantoms that are not ingame NPCs, so no Creighton the Wanderer or Mild-Mannered Pate showing up, as Dark Souls 3 already did stuff with people like those.
I'm talking Masterless Glencour, Bradley of the Old Guard, Devotee Scarlett, and many, many more!
If you enjoy my work feel free to leave a favorite, follow, review; all that jazz.
Stay safe!