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!
AN(1): So I misremembered Vorgel's name as Vogel, and double-checking the wikis don't help because fextralife calls him both Vorgel AND Vogel. So I've gone to every previous chapter and fixed his name.
I'm not upset by this at all, what gave you that idea?
Chapter 12: And Let Slip the Dogs of War.
Londor Keep, dining room…
Initially, there was no dining room; but with Bellclaire's arrival came a hastily constructed kitchen, thus a hastily constructed food room quickly followed. It is, like the rest of Londor, a simple and practical abode; simply a big room with a big table and open windows. The table had actually been constructed before anyone in a position of power could ask for it, a wide round thing that could easily fit the entire Council, as well as a few added guests.
But the sons and daughters of Londor have straddled the line of Final Death for a long time. Their recollections of past pleasures are broken, devoured by the Undead Curse that keeps their hearts beating. They have suffered in Undeath and discomfort for countless years, almost forgetting what it meant to be Human…
Which meant very few of them remembered that a dining room needed chairs.
Currently the remaining six of the Council of Londor, as well as their Dragon-eyed guest and elder Rat ally, crowd around the large table. Remnant bowls of Bellclaire Stew and barrel mugs of Victory Brew lie strewn about, actual food and drink staving off the Undead Curse's desire to consume the sovereigned souls of their fellow Man. The former Watchdog of Farron was turning out to be a Godsend, and the Old Sage's decision to recruit her had quickly been declared his smartest decision yet.
The irony of her title, Pilgrim Bellclaire, was not lost on Yuria, for she knew that a real Pilgrim was a stepping stone towards Ascension; whether Light, or Dark. A Pilgrim was an advanced state of being, one born of hardship and self-inflicted suffering, with magic that could draw out Dark Sigils from the Undead Curse, empowering their fellow Man and accelerating their Hollowing.
Pilgrim Bellclaire, for all her travels and discoveries, was still just an Undead, and not a Pilgrim; and this knowledge would never fail to amuse the Middle Sister of the Sable Church.
Flat across the table, a crude map sits between them all. Outdated, as it was made long before the High Wall grew out of the ground, or when Carthus fell into the Abyss; but little sketches had been added, small notes written from Undead adventurers that walked the lands. Anri, Sirris, and Yuria were the only present members that had actually traversed Irithyll, and a quick conversation between the three warrior women resulted in an originally blank spot of the map being circled, marking the supposed location of the City of Gods.
"Irithyll sits in the Boreal Valley." Yuria says, one-hand resting on Darkdrift's hilt, thumbing the pommel. The other holds a witchtree branch; a common sorcery catalyst in Londor, where witchtree forests and saint-tree gardens are plenty. Like the Youngest Sister of the Sable Church, she too kept a bellvine hidden in her dress. "The Catacombs of Carthus art the only known route recorded by the Pilgrims."
"And the Catacombs is through Farron Keep, a land that was already flooded." Sirris says, the round shield of her grandfather strapped to her back, an ancient gold spear of the Darkmoon Knights held tight in her grip. When she helped her Lord and his Spook kill the Twin Princes, she believed her duty done, and tried to take her own life. But she survived, and when Firelink Shrine had moved to Londor, she could not leave behind her grandfather's shield.
It was all she had to remind herself of happier days, when Granddad taught her what it meant to be a Sunless Knight, to be a Blade of the Darkmoon.
"The rotten swamp was already up to our waist in some areas." Anri says, her helm set aside and the gifted Bluemoon hanging off her shoulder, yet she moves unaffected by its absurd weight. Her dull sword still sits sheathed at her hip, just like how Sirris's favorite estoc still sits on hers; all while His Lady's fingers drum along the repurposed table. "I can only imagine it's practically impassible now."
"The Boreal Valley." Yuria thinks aloud. "We couldst find another entrance. From the city's center, towards the East lie the open sea, towards the West lie an uncharted forest."
"We'd need boats for an Eastern assault, boats we don't have." Sirris says, tapping the marker and shaking her head. "And like you said, the Western forest is uncharted; which means we'd not only need to spend time going around the mountains to get to the Boreal Valley, we'd need to spend time mapping a route to the city itself."
"Carim had a most powerful navy. Although, I doubt knowledge of my homeland will be useful." Irina adds, a new self-confidence in her voice. "I do wonder where their ships are now, or if Carim even still stands."
The two Fire Keepers, dressed once-more in their black and white ensemble, stood with a grace they did not have previously. Irina's eyes were still blind, and Firelink's were still covered in bandages; yet it was quite obvious they achieved a new form of sight, even if it went against what the both of them had been taught. But with the Gods dead and the Flame dying and war on the horizon, it would be better if they did not bump against the table, if they had no trouble with their meal… and if they could see the frankly obvious problem with their given weapons.
Hollow weapons rely on an elusive and uniquely Human aspect, luck; but to be a Fire Keeper is to suffer, to have one's Light ripped from them and forced to become a vessel for souls, which in itself is not a fate given to those high in luck. They did not know it until they tried using their gifted Hollow estocs, but the very swords themselves had rejected the two Keepers.
They would need replacements, but as they were not meant to actively participate in the coming conflict, it would remain low on the list of things to do.
"Shanalotte." Anri, Lady-Knight and commander of the Londor Knights, asks the Dragon-eyed King. "The ship you sailed on, you said it sails on its own?"
"I did. And it does." The womanly King of Drangleic responds, her own food untouched and set aside. She recognized almost every ingredient within, and had been told how having digestible food and drink helps keep the Undead from Hollowing further. She, however, was… different, neither Human nor Undead. Many things she was willing to reveal, but her experimental origin was not yet one of them.
But Lapp, the poor soul, he needed all the help he could get. A second bowl would make him happy, if nothing else.
"How many warriors can the ship carry?"
"If I were to guess…" Shanalotte mumbles, gripping her chin in thought. "Perhaps a hundred or so, but no more."
A hundred Undead, on a trip that would take Flame-knows-how-long.
Londor is an old, OLD, land; a cold place, that seemed the perfect grave for Undead on the verge of Hollowing to travel to. A place where a Hollow can just give up, to sit down and go still, awaiting Final Death so they stop thinking, and stop hurting. And then the Sable Church was founded hundreds of years ago, three sisters that spread the teaching of the last Primordial Serpent. The art of Lifedrain became widespread, and Hollows that were lost had now found purpose.
And then new Undead came to Londor, finding it to be more than they had initially heard, no longer a grave for Hollows, but a strict home for the lost and desperate. By the time the Ashen One rose from the Kiln as the Lord of Londor, the land he was set to rule already accepted and predicted his reign. Nearly one-thousand Undead called the frozen realm home, drawn back from the brink of Final Death.
Roughly four-hundred Undead fanatics, assuming they find the Boreal Valley in a reasonable amount of time, would still require four trips forwards, and four trips backwards. That could easily take months, months they did not have.
"If I may." Cornyx says, certain he had a solution. A new addition is affixed to his belt; a crude handaxe, both tool and weapon, a favorite amongst his people. "The Great Swamp has been around for a long time; by the time I was born, the poisonous muck could no longer be traversed by foot. We pyromancers had to learn the art of shipcraft, so we could continue to live in the land we called home."
"How advanced art thy Great Swamp vessels? Yuria asks.
"Simple canoes, but bigger than you're imagining. These were mobile homes while away from our dwellings above the swamp. With a little redesign, they could easily hold half-a-dozen Undead."
Half-a-dozen Undead per boat, with almost four-hundred Undead in total. A single hundred can fit on the Drangleic ship, but that would mean they would need canoes for the other three, and that's not taking into account supplies. Furthermore, the canoes would need to be built in the first place, which means Cornyx would have to teach many, MANY Londorians from memory; an immediate risk, considering what Hollowing does to the mind, but the Old Sage's confidence in his shipcraft had to mean he still retained the necessary knowledge.
"Couldst we not traverse both East and West?" Firelink suddenly says, gently pushing Sirris's hand away to tap where Irithyll's forest would have been drawn, if the mapmaker knew of its existence. "While new ships art under construction, couldst we not investigate the Irithyllian forest?"
"That's not a bad idea." His Lady mutters, heading towards the open windows. "But we will need a faster way to get to through the mountains surrounding the Boreal Valley."
A lot of the witchtree forests, visible from her perch, would need to be cut down. The construction work and increased lumberjacking could take weeks, and they had to hope the Deep didn't swallow Londor before it was done. Irithyll's walls were high, its central city protected by a barrier that survived the Pontiff's death, and its sewers had aqueducts. Sure, the waterways needed to be repaired; but a majority of them worked enough for the time being.
The City of Gods still seemed like the best plan.
"The Sable Church hast carriages to spare." The Middle Sister states, thinking over her religion's stock, her fingers running along the grooves of her sorcery catalyst. "Their mounts hath long since passed, but they hath survived the years. Perhaps one mayst be found appropriately suitable, and unmolested."
"What good is a vehicle without a means of movement?" The Sunless Knight counters. "If we had fast creatures to pull a carriage, then I'd be in agreement; but as it stands, we do not."
"If I couldst interject." The Rat King speaks, his deep voice rumbling from his Man-sized frame. "Thy hath seen fit to feed mineself, even if thine food stores art sparsely rationed. I wouldst not be worth my title of King, if I let such hospitality go unrewarded.
"Thou hast carriages that need carting? Then I shalt lend an Authority to Londor. Thou hast land that need scouting? Then I shalt lend my son Aidel, whom I love greatly, and his entourage to Londor."
The ancient Rat, while offering generous aid (even if only Yuria knew what he meant by Authority), was unfortunately right about their food supply. Normally an Undead wouldn't be affected by a lack of food, but the Undead Curse forces them to seek out and devour souls to feed their affliction. The food and drink Bellclaire provides lessens this desire, almost nullifying it, but that only lasted while there was food and drink abundant. Bellclaire's personal quest to find food an Undead could eat was an enormous boon to Londor, but she did not have enough supplies to feed an entire realm for such extended periods. It would run out, especially if they did not take Anor Londo soon.
The Londor Scholars being trained would need to start a farming program as soon as the war meeting was over, to try and soften the strain as much as possible. It wouldn't be much, and there's no chance it could be permanent, but it would give them hope that the siege would begin in time. Right now; anything past the next month was just desperate prayers, and wishful thinking.
"Thou art most generous." Yuria says, gracefully bowing before her old friend. "Lending us such a powerful creature— as well as thy own blood— is no small measure."
"The Profaned Capital hath been promised to me, and it wouldst be unreasonable if I did nothing to aid in its immediate capture. My son is an accomplished warrior and a skilled tracker, and though we Rats mayst be born of Deep, without the lands below Irithyll; we too shalt drown in this dying world."
"Then it's settled." Anri calls from the window, the stress of the situation lifting from her heart. Her voice was commanding, her following orders spoken firmly. "While Sunshine is rescuing the Winged Knights, our Sage-Scholar will begin work recreating the Great Swamp ships. Sirris, I want you and your Hunters to join the Rat King's son in scouting the Western forest."
"You wish for me to bring the Fingers?" Sirris asks, an eyebrow raised in questioning.
"They need to prove themselves somehow. I can spare two of my best Knights for the journey, but they are…" Anri pauses, a very noticeable grimace in her words and on her face. "… eccentric."
"I imagine we've all lost some of our wits at this point."
"They're Luet and Villard."
The name reveals are enough to tense the Knight-Hunter's mouth into a thin line.
Among the four-hundred Undead of Londor, one-half were members of the Sable Church's Londor Soldiers, and about one-fourth were members of His Lady's Londor Knights. Most of the Undead in the Hollow Lands needed to be retaught how to fight, to defend and dodge, and to not die in battle. That, however, was a foreseen problem that the Sable Church had quickly stamped out, long before their Lord rose from the First Flame's Kiln.
It is very easy to forget that Anri's ironclad warriors were originally fighters of the Sable Church; Soldiers undergoing inspection from their Lady, to see if they would be good candidates for Knights.
Yet not all of the Londor Knights needed to be retaught from the ground up, and in every Knight sect, no matter the King or their kingdom, there always seemed to be a doomed few that obsessively worshiped Dragons. Knight Villard fit that role like a glove fit a hand; and was supposedly a member of the fabled Millwood Knights; clad in charbronze armor, his breastplate and thick black cloak adorned with the emblem of the Ethereal Oak.
No one knew how close the madman sits to Final Death, nor just how Hollowed his broken mind was; but everyone had seen the madness in his eyes, roused from slumber when he would express aloud his black poetry, singing of Dragons and Men and Dark; all-the-while calling himself Dragonfang— after the horrific tailbone sword he wielded, alongside his greatbow of black oak. He bore the self-proclaimed title like it was his name, sometimes like it was his God.
And then there was Knight Luet, who had not said a single word since taking up service under Anri.
But this was not his eccentricity; no, his oddity came from the way he carried himself like a machine, as well as his personal armaments. Armor made of stone, as if hewn from great boulders, and strapped to his body head-to-toe with great iron chains; cast in the image of an ancient warrior that none remember. Two greatshields adorned with flowing patterns, celebrating some form of ancient glory; the result of his title, Sellsword, being taken to an absolute extreme.
One for each hand, Knight Luet the Sellsword's never flinched, nor retreated from battle, crushing any foe that stood in his way.
"Fine." Sirris eventually says, eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Lets hope the carriage doesn't break under Luet's weight."
"With that, I think we're done here." Anri speaks, her words firm and strong. "Firelink, Irina; I want the two of you in the courtyard in the next hour. I need a quick word with our resident Pilgrim, and then I have a prisoner to interrogate. We've all got jobs to do, let us not delay them further."
The Abyss…
What was once a small room in the Undead Settlement was now a murky swamp under siege by madness more ancient than sanity. When the First Flame ignited, the First Shadow followed like a spurned lover; and those that called it home were things both nostalgic and inconceivable.
Humanities they were once called, many millennia ago; when the world still remembered what Humanity was. Now they are formless, writhing masses that burned with a mere touch; with glowing white eyes across their bodyless existence, and far too many hands to count. At once curious, yet also malevolent; for what is more Human than wanting to learn something new, as well as finding ways to destroy it?
The (former) Cathedral Knight, Steel-willed Lorrie, had to grit her teeth under the Abyss's strain, her massive greatshield abandoned and unleashing its innate blessing, a mimicry of the Deep Protection miracle, surrounding the wheelchair-bound armorer in a protective dome of living water and keeping the Abyss at bay.
In the First Shadow, those who hold Light within their soul would always be at risk, for it will rip past and present and future into a single moment at all moments, destroying those beholden to Time with prolonged exposure. A Witch, however, despite their souls being born of both Dark and Flame, were Timeless; and thus suffered no ill effects from the Abyss itself, just its bodyless denizens.
It is a testament then, to Lorrie's iron mind; as her Blessed greatmace annihilates one of said denizens, all while being torn across every possible moment that she ever has, ever did, and ever will.
"This is "They're crawling out the muck!" "She's a Gods-damned "Protect her!" Witch!" bad!"
Hawkwood the Deserter, who has walked both the Path of the Dragon and the Path of the Wolf, did not suffer as his compatriot did. All of her movements and words had several layers, as if she moved in afterimages, different moments in Time all happening in one place. But Dragons, no matter how young, are older than Light, and thus, removed from Time; there is no past or future to tear Hawkwood across, for a Dragon is only ever present.
A Wolf's call pierces through the endless black, a high-pitched howl singing from the Wolfdrake's throat. It is a warning, a threat, and a cry to rally; a signal to begin the hunt. And in the black Dark he is a whirlwind of metal and flames, an animal of fur and stone that bites down on one of the formless masses; thrashing the poor creature as hot fire spews from between his fangs, setting the forgotten Humanity ablaze and carving through countless more.
His real target, the Witch that flung them into this nightmare, was currently stuck in the midst of a panic attack. One of Aldrich's paladin warriors— the source of her nightmares and pain and trauma— had been reaching for her, and then something crawled through her brain to the surface and now everything had become Dark, with formless masses crawling towards her specifically.
Was it any surprise then, as she slipped on the murky black beneath her feet, that her power to summon the Black Flame was forgotten? As her back hit the muck, as one of the bodyless Humanities— dozens of formless hands crawling forward, dozens of shapeless eyes staring unblinking— clambers over her; was it any real surprise, when those hands grabbed her body— her neck— her face, burned through her skin and clothes and hair; that she let loose a tongueless scream, her feet kicking out from beneath the denizen atop her?
Those who carried the blood of Izalith were also children of the Abyss, and the First Shadow would claim all of its children—
A furred blade of coarse metal cuts through the once-Human amalgamate, severing fake flesh and cleaving its spiritual form in twain. The deathless black that surrounded her in white-hot agony had yet to completely separate from her body, before a dull green flask had been shoved in her mouth, and soothing estus poured down her throat, healing her pain.
"I've got her!" Hawkwood yells, wrapping his stone and fur arms around the healing Witch. Her clothes were mere tatters now.
Despite her title of Steel-willed, Lorrie; still breaking Abyss denizens with her Blessed greatmace, while simultaneously experiencing the burden of being torn across every possible moment that she ever has, ever did, and ever will; was not in a position to articulate her words neatly.
"Then what "That's great!" are you "Good "I'm gonna be sick." job!" waiting for?!"
It is mere moments later that the both of them have a twin in their grasp, a talisman in their hand, and the Homeward miracle on their lips.
The True Deep, Graveyard of Swords…
Three warriors sit atop a pond, surrounded by water on all sides. The Deep is around them, still and unmoving; but it isn't stillborn, it isn't dead. There is no lack of life within the droplets, and the three breathe easy within their immediate environment.
They can see, despite there being no light, despite there being no Light. They can see, and they can see just how endless this still and flat pond is, stretching out forever as an ocean— but the thought of it as an ocean gets corrected into a pond; it is just a pond, no-more-no-less, despite its size.
A pond they sit atop, yet there is water around them still, even as they sit on the solid liquid without worry of floating off into places unknown. A pond they stand atop, yet there are huge swords plunged into the pond itself; greatblades the size of people, with handles too small to wield them in a proper two-handed grip.
The legendary Farron Greatswords of the Undead Legion, of the Abyss Watchers, fill the Lightless pond. So many swords, embedded blade-down and hilt-high, could only mean that this place was a graveyard, dedicated to the dead Lord of Cinder.
"You probably have questions." A voice calls, speaking without words, yet reaching the three all-the-same. There; sitting in a crosslegged, meditative stance at the pond's center; an Evangelist— one of the many missionaries of the Cathedral of the Deep— with the missing Dark Witch and Youngest Sister asleep beside her. But her gaze is warm and her smile kind. She did not have the corrupted stench and look of the other missionaries. "Do not speak, just think. And do step gently. This place is a haven only so long as it is quiet."
"Do not speak?" Vorgel thinks, his golden armor slowly returning to the steel it had been before. His pain and his power fading away.
"Do as she says." The Lord of Londor speaks without a voice, his soundless words riding the waters towards the two Lothricites. "I have been in waters like this before, our thoughts have weight here."
In a bewildered circle does the Winged Knight turn, confused and somewhat alarmed, before finding his previous enemy focused entirely on him, a sense of command flowing through the Deep and radiating from the Champion of Ash.
"There are Beasts in the Deep's waters." The Undead Lord reinforces. "Abominations that could rip the ill-prepared in half."
Meanwhile the Old Guard; whose eyes have stopped their red glow, and whose black lightning have stopped sparking across his (now-stained black) armor; adopts the Evangelist's meditative stance as his own, joining her in crosslegged rest. His very emotions bled into the water, hidden beneath honor and virtue, but still raw and real. Vengeance, loss, despair, anger… and a sense of purpose beneath all of it. He had sworn to serve the Lords until his dying breath, but now there is only one Lord left.
His emotions swirled together in the wet, mixing and merging and twisting into a strange contentment. His fight with the Lord of Ash may be postponed, but he would have his rematch when time permits… and he would do it alone, as honor demands.
It is over the course of many minutes that Feeva, Abbess of the Way of White and practitioner of the True Deep, explains that she took the three warriors. She relays how the Deep rises faster than it should, for it had chosen a Champion of sorts, and that poor creature's very presence was affecting the water's growth. The longer it lives, the faster the water grows; and she can not tell its current location.
So, at an impasse, the Abbess used what little favor she had with the True Deep to summon the three of them here. The Lord of Londor can no longer warp— for the bonfires have grown cold— and the Winged Knights would be too late to aid Londor in their siege of Irithyll… but the High Wall just might survive the death of the world, even if it did not have the sorcerous barrier of the Boreal Valley. Lothric Castle currently sits far above most mountaintops, and as long as the Winged Knights can remove whatever stillborn waters bubbled from the High Wall's ground level, then a conquered Anor Londo would have an allied Lothric, after the world finished its death throes.
"My guardian, Lorrie, and our student, Hawkwood, are currently gathering those young Karla wished to rescue." The Abbess talks through the living water, her lips unmoving as the still waves carry her thoughts. "They will return, for I have faith in them so, and when they do, you all must make haste to Lothric Castle. Another threat, one that has plagued Man and God since time immemorial is starting to take form."
The Evangelist's gloves tighten, her teeth biting her bottom lip as a worried expression crosses her features.
"In his current form he is mindless, but his will restores with every passing second. If he regains his sense of self and being, I fear he will stop at nothing to rule everything. Please, I beg of you… put down the Consumed King as quickly as you can, and do not let Seath the Paledrake return to this world."
AN(2): Sorry the chapter took so long, life's been keeping me busy, and I've just been juggling a lot of things at once. New chapters will still be sporadic, but are being worked on.
It's a little weird how small the realms are in the Dark Souls series. Amusingly enough I'd say Dark Souls 2 got area sizes right, with every individual map being huge and just littered with mobs. You feel like you're going through a decrepit fortress in the Forest of Fallen Giants, and you feel like you're assaulting an enemy castle in Iron Keep.
But in Dark Souls 1, I never felt like there were enough soldiers in Anor Londo; nor did I feel like New Londo had enough Darkwraiths. We're told these are supposed to be capital cities, so where are the populace?
Hawkeye Gough said that every Dragon they felled, they lost threescore Silver Knights. That's sixty Silver Knights per Dragon. We don't even see sixty Silver Knights in Anor Londo, the city of Silver Knights.
We're told the world is huge, and I think the only reason we don't fight that many enemies is because the games physically couldn't handle that many enemies. In Dark Souls 3 just look at Irithyll, and just how big it is; with horrible abominations and Pontiff Knights at every corner!
So yeah, I think Londor having about four hundred Undead is reasonable.
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