Kingdom Come

by mihairu7

Priscilla's a cross breed trapped in the Painted World. Argon is the chosen undead that got pulled into the Painted World that comes across an imprisoned goddess. So what's a girl to do when a stranger grabs you and pulls you out of the Painted World with him?

11. Chapter 11

It's raining here at my place, there aren't any vampiric bugs munching on me and I met a fellow Bloodborne gamer just two days ago. Ah, how the fandom continues to grow…

Before I begin the chapter, I just need to give a shoutout to joecola00. Big thanks for that in-depth explanation of the Dark Souls convolution and state of time. I knew a few things about it and the hints from Solaire gave me some insight, but now I get the full picture, and it's all thanks to you! =D

And yes Mr. Adis, screw Midir and his scaly behind!

This is one of the reasons why I adore this community. People aren't afraid to lend their fellow gamer's a helpful explanation when we're obviously missing a few screws in the grand machine (and in our own heads). Thank God for you all.

As for this fic, I've already made it clear that time is the same whereby there's a day and night cycle (refer to chapter 2) so I might or might not change that depending on whether it suit's the story.

Any who, let this chapter begin!

---

"Hey Priscilla."

"Yes Argon?"

"Was that door always there?"

"What door are you referring to?"

"That one over there." The undead said, pointing to an almost non-existent building shaped like a cone.

"I still don't- wait. Has that been there all along?"

"You see? I think it's an illusion!"

"You seem to be more excited than usual. What makes this illusion any different to Sir Eingy's wall?"

"I don't know, I'm just excited!"

The goddess watched her companion bound over the muddy hill with as much enthusiasm as a flabbergasted child and sighed. Just where did he get all this energy from exactly?

"I've come through this part of Darkroot so many times before that I've basically memorised every nook and cranny. To discover a new area is like picking up a crateload of dropped souls from a corpse!"

She cringed at the image. She could understand his enthusiasm, but his way of wording things needed more practice. Imagining someone as kind as Argon happily scavenging through a hollowed undead's body parts was not a pleasant thought in the slightest.

The 'door' the two had been staring at for more than ten minutes wasn't as hidden as they assumed it was. A large declining hill on the side of the small cluster of trees led to said building, with small glowing flower's dotting the way there like torches on the walls of a cellar. The path there was wide enough to fit an armour-clad boar and was basically impossible for simple minds to notice.

Then again, the goddess reasoned that maybe she hadn't seen it at first glance because of the pure beauty of Darkroot's lake and waterfall. The added darkness of this area and the tall trees also did a superb job of hiding the small area of stone and wood.

She stared at Argon as he waited at the foot of the hill for her, his hand outstretched to take hers, which she accepted. As for why the black-haired undead hadn't noticed the area after coming down here multiple times was another story entirely. Perhaps that hydra he had spoken of before had occupied his attention or maybe his eyesight just wasn't that grand as compared to hers?

She mentally scratched out the latter. Argon was an undead. While that didn't guarantee that his eyes would be improved, his mastery with both the Dragonslayer bow and ordinary crossbow's and wood bows was astonishingly noteworthy. Even she, in all her godly glory, could not spear a hollow against the wall of the Undead Church when standing on the opposite end of the expansive building, and from around the corner of an arched walkway no less.

She narrowed it down to his tunnel vision. She knew that he had a problem with multitasking at certain moments, and this was a prime example. The cross breed knew him well enough to know when his mind was focused solely on one chunk of the titanite slab rather than the other shards that made it up.

She stumbled slightly while trying to reach him and his strong grip steadied her. After a moment of her getting her footing right, he released her hand and they walked up towards the mouldy door before them. Thankfully he his tunnel vision hadn't picked up on the pink blush she was sporting. She couldn't help but feel flustered when the man that had basically seen her nude held her with such a firm, yet gentle grip.

The stairs leading up to the circular tower were covered in mud and sand, and warm light outlined the gaps of the door like rays of sunlight bursting through the clouds.

"Where do you suppose it leads to?"

"Well, we are in the Basin of Darkroot, which is situated under the Parish," Argon began and cupped his chin.

"From where this building is situated, I would guess that it would take us to the Undead Burg… or somewhere around there."

Priscilla tilted her head to the side in question.

"The Undead Burg?"

"Ah, that's right. You haven't gotten a chance to see it yet." The undead replied and walked up the steps leading towards the door.

"It's great. Ash falling from the sky, the smell of smoke and the sight of broken architecture… Oh! And let's not forget the overpopulation of hollow's trying to steal your soul's and humanity." He placed a hand on the rusted handle of the door as he spoke.

"You'll love it there. Lots and lots of people to behead."

The cross breed huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Ever since their peaceful talk at the bonfire had ended, Argon had yet to stop teasing her about her new outfit. She had been both ecstatic and interested that the black leather she wore belonged to the worshipers of Velka. It wasn't everyday her she got the chance to learn something about her favourite aunt, and it was also rare to dress in clothing so snug, it felt almost breathable.

Her companion had mentioned that with the addition of a black cowl, she would resemble the Reaper's people always spoke about that claimed your soul at death. While the concept was mildly amusing she had immediately complained about the teasing title. As a goddess - no - as a woman, she didn't like the idea of being associated with something as dark and evil as a walking skeleton with a scythe.

"For the last time, I am not a Grim Reaper Argon." She whined and pouted at his back, her cheeks puffed out cutely.

"Aw, now don't be a kill joy, you know I'm only teas… huh."

She blinked and walked up to the stairway when he didn't say anything further. Her eye's landed on his hand that gripped the door handle. The lock hadn't budged.

Argon mumbled to himself before withdrawing his hand from the door and digging into the pouch that held his bottomless box. After a few seconds he pulled a set of keys attached to a large ring and shouted in triumph.

"Ah-ha! Found them."

"I didn't know you had keys for the locked areas in Lordran." She said in wonder. While he had given her a single master key to open the locked gate in New Londo, she had thought it was only for gates and other exits like it. She hadn't known the undead kept similar ones for every locked door they would encounter.

"Oh, I don't. These are my master keys, I found them on my person while trapped in the Asylum. Guess I must have forged them when I was human."

The goddess narrowed her eyes and stared at him as he placed the first key into the lock.

"And what use would that many keys be to a man, unless he were once a burglar?"

"Suspicious of me already, I see. What, are my words not enough to convince you?" he chuckled and turned his head to look at her. She returned his stare with a raised white eyebrow and folded her arms under her chest.

"Well?"

Argon shrugged in reply. "Not every person you meet had it easy in life. Maybe I was a thief as a human, maybe not." He withdrew the key and tried the second one, then the third.

"All I know is that I must have needed these for something, otherwise I wouldn't have them. Either way, at least they came in handy after arriving in Lordran. You know, I saved a trapped sorcerer once that was in the Lower Burg near the Depth's Laurentius hates so much. And it was all thanks to these very keys."

Priscilla dropped her suspicious attitude and played with a lock of her hair in curiosity. "Really?"

Argon nodded. "Want to hear more?"

The cross-breed's tail flicked the air excitedly as her emerald eyes widened in joy.

"Please continue!"

It was always a treat to hear of her companion's exploit's. He just had a knack for storytelling that made her tail swish about - like it did now - in anticipation. In truth, she felt like a child when he told her these stories, but she couldn't care less. The adventure's he had were immensely exciting to her that all she could do when he spoke of them was stare in awe, her mouth open in amazement. His explanation of delving into the maze of Sen's Fortress while madly sprinting away from boulder's or fighting off hordes of armed skeleton's while attempting to steal a perfectly good Zweihander, filled her skin with goosebumps and made her heartbeat quicken, as if she were right there in the mix.

Argon didn't go into as much depth as she would have liked whenever they were travelling from one area to the next, but the fleeting word's he offered still put a spell on her, nonetheless.

"Sure then." Argon continued. He was fitting the fifth key into the hole as he began his tale.

"Griggs had a voice like a scared handmaiden and the self-pity he wallowed in was on par with the bog of Blighttown. At first I thought it was an actual human trapped inside that small room that smelled like rotting wood." He fitted a lengthy key into the keyhole and jiggled it around. "Imagine my surprise when I busted down the door only to find a grown man cowering behind barrels of stale water."

Argon turned the key and a satisfying click met his ear's. He grinned behind his mask and pocketed his key's before pushing the door open and turning to face Priscilla.

"But at least he returned to Firelink without a scratch. Still though, what kind of sorcerer's too afraid to kill a mangey dog without fur and eyes? I feel bad that Logan left him behind but after conversing with the soft-spoken scholar myself, I honestly don't think that sorcery was the profession for him."

He pushed the door open wider and held out a hand for Priscilla to take. The light from the room splashed onto his back, making the crisp whiteness of his painting guardian uniform shine brighter. He almost looked like an angel standing there if the Velkian rapier at his waist wasn't present, or the porcelain mask that hid his handsome face from her yearning gaze.

"I'll introduce you when we return to Fire-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Priscilla watched as an enormous hunk of rock slammed into him from behind, sending his body careening into the air, over her startled form to land a few inches near the cliff-fall of Darkroot Basin.

He landed mask first into the dirt, disturbing the sand and creating an Argon-sized crater in the earth.

"-link… ow."

The goddess rushed to his side and rolled him over. He groaned in pain and they both stared at the open doorway. A tall figure dressed head-to-foot in what looked like solid rock stood at the entrance. On his back rested a hulking shield that blocked the light and on his shoulder's was a club so large, Priscilla did a double-take on whether he was holding it, or if the rock was holding him.

"What in the hell is that?!" Argon managed to shout before the figure turned on its heel and disappeared.

They waited for it to come back but after more than ten minutes with Argon stuck in shock, resting on an equally miffed Priscilla's lap, they got the sense that it wasn't returning anytime soon.

The cross breed sighed and was about to suggest they turn back when the undead in her lap suddenly shot to his feet and began cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, so you think you can hit me for four and walk away?! You ugly hunk of stone, I'm gonna shove that club where even the light of Gwyn doesn't shine!"

"A-Argon!" Priscilla stuttered out with red cheeks. It had certainly been a while since she had seen him like this. But the fact that his hollowed aggressiveness and vulgar language was combined to form this vengeful side of him wasn't a good thing. Whatever happened wasn't doing to be good, she just knew it.

"Oh, yeah, it's on now. It's on ya' one-shot wonder! This means war!" He blurted out and equipped a menacing looking greatsword from his inventory. At a closer glance, the cross breed noticed that it was the same greatsword he had asked Andre to re-forge.

Artorias' greatsword.

Argon walked up to the opened door and stomped through it, the sound echoing loudly in the circular room. "Two can play at that game. Let's see how you like it when I plunge this mighty blade up your-"

Priscilla could only cover her mouth with her hand's in greater shock when her saviour was bashed into the ground as if he were an ant under someone's boot. Someone's large, stony boot.

Should she even attempt to help him? He seemed pretty intent on facing this opponent himself, and she really didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those gigantic smashes, especially not in a smaller form where she would no doubt feel every bone in her tiny body break into powder. But this was Argon she was talking about. It was no time to be selfish. He was her comrade, her friend, she wouldn't leave him to die here.

With confidence in her stride, she took a firm step forward as Argon rose shakily to his hands and knees, groaning as he did so.

"G-Good one… you ugly bast-" she watched as the same block of rock slammed into his side, flinging him from view.

"Ga-hah!" She heard him shout as a loud thud sounded to her left.

She cast an illusion upon herself and drew her scythe as a swirl of icy air enveloped her form. It dissipated after a few seconds to reveal a completely cloaked cross breed.

She just hoped she would be able to make it in time to help him. This foe didn't seem unbeatable but something at the back of her mind nagged her to be cautious. With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Priscilla approached the opened door.

---

If the sensation of being sat on by an obese Asylum Demon was agonisingly gross, the new experience of getting swatted around like a pesky fly by a stoic hunk of rock was just insulting.

Of course, the familiar bones in his spine and arm's breaking was normal, but the fact that this oversized troll had just bitch-slapped him into a wall hurt like hell.

Argon groaned as he stood up again and lifted his sword into an acceptable stance. The armour-wearing enemy stood patiently a few feet away, one hand on that enormous stick of his, while the other dug inside the jumble of chains and plates of his armour to fish out a silver talisman.

A Lloyd's Talisman? Why the hell would he need one of those?

Argon had had his fair share of experience with the shiny balls that contained magic condensed inside. They were useful during his first few weeks in Lordran, whereby the more difficult undead needed to be prevented from healing with Estus. Although that moment they took to drink those liquid flames were a great opening for Argon to strike, he had found it much more useful - and hilarious - to incapacitate their only source of healing by smashing a talisman in their faces before battle.

Not only did it piss them off and make them attack wildly, but the looks on their dumb faces when the Estus they drank did nothing but burn their wrinkled lips was priceless to Argon. In fact, he ended up bursting into laughter whenever it happened most of the time.

The smile that had been present on his face while he thought about those moments quickly faded, however, when he realized why this weird-looking human had one of those talismans to begin with.

Oh crap.

The armoured man flung the silver ball at him and Argon barely had enough time to raise the length of his sword in front of him before the talisman burst into wisps of silver smoke around it.

Argon coughed as the smoke entered his lungs and caused him to gag. He hadn't known such tools would even work on a sane undead like himself but didn't stew on it long before he had to roll to the side as that tooth-shaped rock broke the cobblestone next to him.

Argon pivoted on his heel and swung his greatsword against the man's back but groaned when his blade met the wall shield. He had forgotten it was there. This guy was like that golem he had faced with Tarkus' phantom, impregnable and damn annoying.

With surprising speed for his size and weight, the armoured giant spun around and brought that rock hammer down upon Argon, who lifted his blade up just in time to prevent himself from being a pancake on the floor.

The rock met greatsword and the undead was brought to his knees. He was about to stand up to strike his foe's vulnerable front when a big boot connected with his chest and sent him flying back, his greatsword clattering to the broken ground.

Argon felt his body go numb as his back skated against the ground before his head painfully met a set of spiralling stairs.

"Ouch." He didn't have the strength to scream out, or enough will power make the words coming out from his mouth believable. This ugly giant in rock had just exhausted him after a few cheap shots… how anti-climactic.

He laid motionless as the giant in rock-armour stomped towards him. This was it. His first death in a while. He wondered how it would feel, whether his darksign would burn hot or cold, or if he would feel the soul's drain out of him when he died. The stomping caused his dreary mind to be lulled into a state of sleepiness and he briefly wondered what Priscilla would do whilst he made the tedious trek back down to Darkroot Basin.

Knowing her she'd most likely cleave through torrents of enemies to reach him or frost the entire Burg to ice just to ease her frayed nerves. The undead understood she was prone to worrying like an over-protective mother; hell, he could write his own book on the number of occasions she had forced him to rest before the start of a new day or stay grounded whilst she healed him with the power of her Lifehunt.

In his imagination he could even picture a mini-Priscilla huffing and puffing in exasperation as she waited with a laughing Andre for his return, body half-hollow and expression as flat as he was about to become from this ogre of a humans killing blow. How the hell could the guy even move with such dexterity like that with a literal boulder on his shoulder? Argon knew for a fact that he himself could lift things nearly triple his weight - he had hauled the Lordvessel to its final resting place after all - but this person's raw strength was just ridiculous. Maybe when he revived and plunged a lengthy sword up this giant's posterior he could calmly ask what he bench-pressed? The thought made him chuckle despite his dire situation.

"So, you are still capable of communication... how interesting."

Wait... did the ogre just speak?

"Most of the filth that has ever come into my chamber are nothing more than bloodstain's after my first strike. I commend you, if anything, at your stubbornness to die, boy."

There's no way it just spoke. It's an OGRE for Lloyd's sake, they can't possibly talk. Hold on, do Ogre's even exist?

"What is the matter youngling? Hound chewed your tongue?" the Ogre - or stone giant - chuckled from where it stood gazing down at Argon.

Whatever this thing was, it seemed to have its own personality. Moreover, it had encountered undead like him before on various occasions. Perhaps he could gain some information before his imminent demise?

Argon forced a smile onto his masked features and choked out a laugh. "And here I was thinking that ugly tapestries were only good for melting the eyes of passers-by. Then again, I guess even centuries-old troll's like you can learn to grow a sense of humour."

The rock in man's image grunted and adjusted the human-sized club in his grip. If he were a few feet taller and wore shining gold, he could face Smough in a duel of sticks and stones, maybe he would have the advantage too given the guy was the complete opposite of the lumbering bone-eater in terms of size.

All jokes aside, Smough's mighty smiting was nothing compared to this thing's clobbering. That bulbous end delivered massive damage to his body after a light tap and it wasn't even enchanted. He would need to choose his words carefully the next time he spoke, least he be another bloodstain on the floor.

"You recovered from my blow better than I anticipated if the speck of dirt you are can still fling insults an archbishop, boy." The armoured man shifted to lean on his other leg and managed what looked like a shrug, Argon couldn't tell from how high the shoulder plates were.

"Yet all undead lack the etiquette and respect that dwellers of Lordran are renowned for. I shouldn't raise my expectations that high."

"Big talk from a fellow undead in arms."

The giant huffed again. "Comparing pathetic ants to a mountain is the epitome of underestimation. That aside, it seems you've also a sharp mind."

"Hard not think about it when it's clear you've been around for more than just a few decades. The armour you wear and the crest you carry on that breastplate isn't from this era." Not that Argon could relate to anything from this era. The memories from his past were still non-existent, he wouldn't know the difference between artwork from this era or the previous one.

"Not that it matters, but my will to live overshadows this curse I've spent almost millennia attempting to purge."

Argon scoffed. "Maybe if you weren't so bad at your duty you wouldn't have been trapped in here praying until eternity ended, old man."

The talking armour shifted again before lifting the massive club skyward. Argon had certainly pissed him off now.

"Those will be your final words. Begone filth."

The undead caught a shimmer of light behind the imposing armour before him and a grin split his face. Maybe he wouldn't have to revive after all.

"You do realize I won't actually die, right?"

The giant remained unperturbed and used both hands to grasp the rock in his hand. If that hit landed, it would certainly leave him paralysed after revival, or at least his mind would be.

"Then we will re-enact this event when you return to collect the treasure you will leave behind." He raised the black stone high above his head and Argon was again astonished that this freak of Lordran could really utilize a weapon so gargantuan without the need to rest. He agreed that he would be most certainly screwed if he was alone.

It was good thing he wasn't.

A slash of silver flashed behind the hulking set of armour before the sound of metal parting and blood gushing was heard throughout the room. The giant let out a surprised gasp and looked down to see its flank bleeding from a long gash the length of one's hand. It wasn't even a few seconds later when two more gashes decorated his armour on the right bicep and ankle that spurted blood like a burst fountain.

"What witchcraft is this!" The giant shouted in pain and the grip on that cobbering stick lessened substantially. It was at this moment that Argon decided to flip his broken body up from the floor and aim his ashen catalyst at the thing's rocky chest. An azure glow as bright as the sky flared, casting the circular room in a brighter light. The giant, for his part, could only freeze up at the sudden change in pace before Argon uttered the final words of the spell's incantation he had been silently chanting.

"...And from the dark cometh unsmotherable light to purge disparity- Soul Spear !"

The giant could only watch as his vision was filled with a brilliant white before he was struck by a thousand balls of azure flame, flinging his body backwards but not capsizing him as the undead had expected. Swirls of blue energy cascaded off his breastplate and arms before dissipating.

The armoured man panted loudly, one hand resting on a bloodied leg as he balanced one knee against the cobblestoned ground. A large hole decorated his breastplate between the helm and the abdomen to reveal damaged skin beneath. Purple, wrinkled skin with thick veins that pulsated as more blood seeped from the wound.

"So, an old crow like you still bleeds, huh?" Argon said to himself as the armoured undead lifted his head to him, that enormous rock somehow still held in his right hand as he rose to his feet.

"But damn, are you resilient. Just what is that amour made of, hypocrisy?"

The giant drew his shield as Priscilla suddenly appeared next to Argon, her illusionary spell finally wearing off. She gave her companion a sideways glance and he nodded to her in thanks before reaching into a pouch on his hip.

"I have an idea if this becomes a losing battle," he whispered under his breath to her as he drew his Estus flask to heal up. Priscilla's keen ears caught the soft voice but made no action to show it. "but I'll require your help distracting him for it to work." Argon pushed his mask up so that only his mouth was visible and placed the tip of the flask against his lips. After a tiny second of hesitation he took an even tinier sip. The flames that usually healed his injures and warmed his body instead wet his lips with a cold sensation and a vile taste of moist soot.

He made a disgusted sound and spat, making his companion turn and frown at him. It was worth a shot, and at least now his curiosity of the matter had been sated, as well as his appetite.

"You are brave, youngling." The giant said as Argon replaced his flask and pulled his mask back into place, securing the straps and clips which held the porcelain face covering. Some of them had come loose or just outright broke when the undead had been hammered, swatted and kicked into the ground. He would need to mend what he could later.

"Even in the face of death you remain passive. However, even with a goddess as your reinforcement, you cannot hope to best me."

Argon tilted his head to the side in surprise whilst Priscilla faltered, almost dropping her scythe in the process. Was this guy psychic along with comically strong?

The giant chuckled in mild amusement. "The stench of your grandfather lay's heavy on you, child. I certainly would not be one to forget the divinity I detest most." He raised his shield and took low stance, covering his chest and legs.

"It is unfortunate, but as the descendant of that swine's kin, your light must also be snuffed out..."

Now it was Argon's turn to laugh in amusement as he waved the ash-coloured catalyst in front of him already in the midst of another spell. "Let's see if you can back up your words with actions, old man."

The undead dressed in rock tensed as more azure light began to fill the space around them. He watched cautiously as orbs of the blue energy condensed into a semicircle around both of his target's, spiralling around them like wheels with no spurs and axels.

Argon put away the catalyst and dug into another pouch. All the while the goddess next to him dropped into a low crouch, legs far apart as she two-handed her scythe and locked it at her side for a strong sweeping attack, ready to pounce at any moment. Even though they were in a dangerous situation that could mean his hollowing and her eternal slumber, Argon couldn't help but imagine white-pointy cat ears on her to complete the image he could see in his mind as he saw her in his periphery. A stray thought crossed his mind as he drew continued to poke around for something before it left his overactive imagination.

She got down real low. And she previously wore fur. Now she's in pretty form-fitting legging's... Should I start calling her 'shorty' from now on? But wouldn't that just mean I'm teasing her height? Who came up the name 'shorty', or did I just make it up? Wait... what was I thinking about again?

"Enough of this," the giant grunted out an took a big step forward. Priscilla tensed even more. The fact that he still had that much fight left in him after stomaching a sorcery strong enough to take off a Taurus Demon's deformed skull was impressive.

"You will come to understand your ignorance for daring to challenge Lordran's Archbishop, the immovable Rock known as-"

In the time Argon took to blink, the goddess shot forward with speed befitting of a lightning bolt, before her scythe flashed menacingly with its Lifehunt enchantment ready to decapitate another poor fool for his overconfidence. Unfortunately, she hadn't accounted for just how skilled this giant of a man was, and she blinked in both confusion and shock when her blade screeched off his chained wall shield - the force of her attack stopped as effortlessly as a barricade would an incoming arrow. She audibly gawked as the man's body twitched in response.

"-Havel."

He swung his club down upon the cross breed with such speed and raw power, it was as if he was throwing a small stone - which in his case wasn't quite far from the truth.

Priscilla dived to the right, narrowly missing the attack that would have made her shorter than a blade of grass and was about to reply with a strike of her own when she had to backstep the next smash that the giant in rock miraculously formed from nowhere. She lifted her gaze to him and was amazed at how fluid his movement with that heavy weapon was.

After putting his back into that first strike that lifted him off his feet, he had used the momentum to his advantage; utilizing that massive shield as a counterweight to spin on his foot, lift that monstrosity of a club and follow up with another strike more powerful than the last. The cross breed briefly played with the thought that the name Havel was familiar to her in some way, but she couldn't entertain it long enough before she had to backflip away from the huge shield that would have certainly caved her face in if she had stood still.

The soulmass around her form spun like a glowing halo before rushing to meet the intruder, curving around the giant's shield to explode against his thigh, waist and exposed chest cavity. Havel grunted in what seemed like annoyance and stomped after the cross breed, attempting to crush her tail under his massive boot to halt her movements but was stopped midway when a spear the size of a spire broke against his shoulder plate from behind, causing him to lurch forward.

Havel turned his visored gaze towards the cocky undead momentarily to see him aiming another stone-tipped spear at him from a large bow planted into the ground.

"That tail is exclusively for mood indicating. It is not your personal floor mat."

Behind the giant in rock, a certain cross breed flushed crimson as a wave of spiked icicles left her mouth, piercing the armoured giant at point blank range. She stood frozen from shock and embarrassment at the undeads confession.

He knew this whole time?!

Havel redirected his focus back onto the statue-like cross breed, preparing a heavy strike in reply and got a dragonslayer arrow in the leg for his efforts. He grunted out and dropped to his knee, raising his shield up as Argon's soulmass darted towards him. Azure balls of light burst against it harmlessly as the armoured undead recovered and rose once again.

Argon, meanwhile, busied himself with lighting the fuses of the remaining three black firebomb's in his inventory. He would have to use what little amount of the less potent one's he had collecting dust somewhere in his bottomless box, but they would have to do. Right now, the trio of bombs in his hands were his only lifeline. With as much force as his arm could muster in his beaten state, he flung the firebomb's at Havel's boots, momentarily stopping his advance towards him. Red flame burnt in a crooked line in front of the self-proclaimed archbishop as he stood there impassively, wall shield slung onto his back again. Argon's eyes glinted beneath his mask.

"You expect weak explosions to mar my armour?" Havel asked mockingly with a gauntlet thumping against his chest. Priscilla chose this moment to rush forward and slashed against the base of his spine. The armoured man spun round, however, and used his club like a shield to absorb the blow. He stepped forward and tried to flatten her but only managed to cave in the floor as she backflipped out of his reach for the second time.

"A ram alone cannot hope to best the mountain if it's hooves are unfit for the terrain."

"Are you sure the title of archbishop was the right calling for you? Ragged philosopher seemed more apt in my opinion." Argon replied as he began to climb the spiralling staircase which he had reached during Havel's scuffle with the cross breed.

"Hmph! Higher ground will not avail you an advantage. You will perish like the other's that were foolish enough to brew the same suicidal tactic."

Instead of a biting retort, Argon just chuckled. Havel turned his body towards the stairs as the flames at his feet finally died and adjusted his grip on his club. It was now or never. Argon folded his arms smugly and nodded to himself, as if agreeing on something in his mind.

"You think I mean to lure you up here and use gravity as my advantage to wound you?"

The man shifted in his armour and regarded the undead. "So, you aren't as foolish as I predicted." He said impressed. "To what end is this endeavour then?"

The undead allowed a grin to split his feature's and placed a hand on his hip.

"If external explosions don't affect a tank like you, then I have no choice but to use implosion." He briefly turned his head to the goddess standing a few meters away from the giant before pointing a gloved finger at the ground Havel stood on.

"Now. Be torn asunder."

Before Havel could rush into attack-mode, he raised his club to block another torrent of ice that was fired his way from Priscilla but couldn't dodge the fireballs that struck him from above as it burst against his side in a flurry of flames. He glanced up as the masked undead conjured more pyromancy spells and flung it at him. So the fool knew pyromancy as well as Vinheimian sorcery? Maybe he wasn't as mindless as he gave him credit for, but even so…

Havel felt more shards of icy spears attempt to penetrate his armour. The spell in itself was decent in power, this descendant of Gwyn had skill, he agreed but it would do naught against his enchanted armour. Of course, after so many centuries without tools to repair his equipment he agreed that that last spell – Soul Spear was it – had left his front vulnerable. However, with mere shards of ice stabbing his rock armour, it felt little more than an annoying tickle. Besides… their attacks were uncoordinated. The tailed woman in black would cast her spell only for the ice to melt due to the undeads intense flames. It was a good plan to flog his vision with offensive magic, but foolish to do so without understanding basic logic. Hot and cold just didn't mix well together, they repulsed one another.

Havel merely scoffed.

Then suddenly, the armoured archbishop felt the space around him condense and expand rapidly before the air rippled violently and exploded. The armoured giant experienced the feeling of being pulled and pushed apart simultaneously as his body ricocheted off multiple shockwaves that tore apart his armour like old rags on a decomposed corpse. The area around Havel erupted in white steam, obscuring both Priscilla and Argon's vision.

And then there was silence.

Priscilla clenched and unclenched her free hand anxiously as they waited for the steam to clear. That last blast of ice had drained her reserves to the limit. If their friend decided to survive that attack she wouldn't be strong enough to escape or defend herself. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face as she panted lightly and turned her slitted eyes to Argon. He was standing a motionless as before, but she could tell that his mind was already working in overdrive.

As an undead that had spent months in Lordran with his life hanging by a thread, Argon knew that lowering your guard when assuming to be the victor was a devastating mistake. The foe's here were all merciless - from the mindless hollows to the seemingly docile sewer rats - and would never pass up an opportunity to use any possibility of winning they had, even if it meant suicide.

So, the chosen undead stood firm atop the stairwell, arms at his sides. His mind was already formulating minor tactics to slow the strong undead before him in case he had survived his and Priscilla's joint attack. Sub-consciously he hoped that Havel had perished by now, as it stood he didn't have enough in him to face another wave of vain metaphors and spine-crushing blows.

He breathed in deeply to calm himself and steel his nerves. His body ached all over from the force they'd had to endure thus far, and he would be lying if he said the cracked bones in his limbs weren't bothering him. It was normal for the undead to suffer such extremities while travelling the kingdom, and broken bones were more like a badge of honour after each battle than a hinderance. However, the pain of breaking said bones never really did ebb away after experiencing it over five dozen times.

He was almost about to consider resting his aching legs on the smooth-stoned stairwell when the annoying sound of rattling chains and armour sounded in the eye of the steam.

Here we go again...

A wrinkled arm covered in broken pieces of armour emerged to swat the white steam away and revealed a still breathing Havel at its centre. The man still had that ridiculous helm on that made the back of his head resemble a floor brush and his right hand somehow still held onto that massive club as if it was a lifeline. His armour was positively destroyed and revealed patches of his hollowed flesh beneath, purple and void of all muscle mass. He looked like a skeleton with sagging flesh under that armour, and honestly Argon didn't throw a taunt at the sight. Who knew how long the man had been locked inside of this circular building without a single sprite of humanity to sustain him. In fact, the undead almost felt sorry for him, almost. He had just tried to kill them after all.

"Do you... think you've won?" Havel rasped out. It was clear that blast had wounded him badly. Argon and Priscilla watched as he lifted a foot to take a step forward. His body was shaking from the exertion, they were in no danger from him anymore.

"Don't be foolish. I am Havel the Rock... and you will receive the final rest you deserve."

Argon placed a hand back onto his hip and sighed deeply. Forget about him being stubborn, this guy was delusional if he thought he could still manage to kill the both of them, never mind just one.

"Time to end this for real." Havel stared at the undead as he raised his arm and curled his hand into a fist. In what seemed like another form of magic, a gigantic hammer made of what seemed to be a petrified tree materialised in his grasp.

Argon double-handed the hammer and tensed the muscles in his legs, preparing to leap off the stairs. Immediately, Havel reached behind him to grab his shield but found nothing there. He turned his head. His shield had been thrown far across the room from that blast earlier. He was defenceless.

"Undead Smash!"

The archbishop snapped his head back to Argon in time to see the undead hurtling down at him in mid-air. The dull grey of his hammer caught the man's attention and he did the only thing he could in this situation by raising his own club like a shield. A blow from that weapon from that height by such an insane undead would surely kill him, it was safer to use what he could to survive even if it did mean his prized possession was the scapegoat.

Priscilla stared in awe as her saviour brought down his hammer against Havel's club with such force that the ground beneath the armoured man cracked under the pressure. She had thought that he was weakened direly from the continuous barrage of clobbering he had endured. To witness him lift a weapon twice his size, leap from a higher platform despite his injuries and possess such power in his attack was astonishing to her emerald orbs.

The sound of two weapons of devastation colliding created a noise so sudden that a shockwave rippled from the point of impact, pushing the cross breed back a step. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the two undead were stuck in limbo as their respective weapons screeched against the other, before a loud crack broke the suspense.

She watched as Havel's monstrous club snapped in two halves as Argon's hammer forced its way through, connecting with the man's helm and smashing him to the floor in the same way he had dropped Argon to eat the stone below.

Dust and broken flakes of stone flew in every direction around the two as Argon's feet touched the ground. He stood stationary for a few moments, his hammer still planting Havel against the floor like a nail against wood. When the armoured man didn't even twitch a finger, Argon sighed and fell backwards, the hammer tumbling to the ground with a mighty crash. It was at this moment that Priscilla decided to reunite with him, kneeling at his side, her arms supporting him up as he panted breathlessly.

"And stay... oh," Argon rested a hand over his chest and gasped for air. That hammer had been too much for him to handle. He still needed to strengthen his body it seemed.

"...Stay down. Ha... remind me to never... oh man... never to use that thing again. It's way too heavy."

The cross breed sighed and allowed a smile to finally grace her tired features. That battle had been strenuous for the both of them. Although she hadn't been smashed with that terrifying club of Havel's, the amount of magic she had used as well as the agility she had to show to manoeuvre around the armoured undead drained her completely. She was glad Argon wasn't too badly injured, otherwise the small amount of healing she had collected from striking Havel with her Lifehunt wouldn't be enough to heal her companion. She would be able to mend his bones and repair any damaged organs now.

She rested her scythe against the broken ground and went to place her hands on the undeads chest but was stopped when both his hands intertwined with hers. Priscilla blushed at the action and stared at his larger hands holding her smaller ones at bay. His left hand was gloveless, and she felt the roughness of his callouses against her softer skin. It would be a lie if she said that the sensation wasn't pleasing, in addition, the size she shrunk to also made it possible to actually do things like this with him. She had never been happier to be the size of a human.

The cross breed was about to close her clawed fingers over his knuckles but was stopped when Argon pushed her hands back to her body and released the gentle grip he had on them. She looked at him in confusion as he reclined onto his back.

"Use it on the brute we just beat. He's still alive."

Priscilla blinked dumbly at him whilst he groaned in pain. He was asking her to heal the man that had clobbered him into the ground multiple times with the intent of making him a literal flap-jack? The same one that had noticed her divinity and made it his life's goal to turn her into a pretty pile of scales and crushed bones? Was Argon missing a few brain cells after that battle?

"Are... you certain?" She said it slowly, so he could rethink the command.

"Uh-huh."

"Are you truly, truly certain that you wish for me to heal our foe, Argon?"

The undead picked himself up and stared at her without saying a word. She just had to be certain he was making the right decision here. There was nothing wrong with discussing this together as a couple. Well, they weren't a couple exactly... more of a partnership, a co-operative when she looked for the right word. Of course, she wouldn't really mind them being a couple. He was an undead with personality disorder, she was a cross breed with parental issues and a fear of being left alone... surely, they could make it work between the two of them, right?

Her cheeks flushed red as a tomato at the thought's that had suddenly derailed from their foe to the dreamy undead. Oh, now she was calling him dreamy!

Well, it isn't that Argon's not dreamy. Maybe just more mesmerising and breathtakingly- oh dear! Why is this happening?

While the cross breed continued her internal debate Argon just watched as her face changed to four different shades of red in the span of two seconds per flush - yes, he had actually counted between intervals.

Maybe he shouldn't have stared like that. Then again, he was wearing his mask. She wouldn't have been able to see his reaction anyways. Perhaps she thought her question was silly? He could understand that Havel was their enemy and that asking her to heal the old man was like telling her to go perfume herself with rotten pine resin. He just needed to reassure her, that was it.

"Priscilla I-"

"Y-Yes?!" She blurted out rather loudly, a startled expression on her face as if she was just noticing him in front of her now. How strange... he would also need to check her for any injuries to the head just in case.

"Uh, well..." Argon cleared his throat.

"I need you to heal the old man because he might be useful to our journey. He knows more about Gwyn and the other god's than we do combined." The cross breed nodded in understanding at his words. It was true, this Havel person had been able to identify her divinity with a simple glance. If they were able to get him to explain all he knows about this dying land maybe they would be able to quicken their journey to the Lord Soul's.

Hesitantly, she approached the prone man. He seemed to be knocked out cold, she hoped she was correct in her assumption. Priscilla carefully placed her hands atop the undeads shattered armour and focussed her mind on directing the life force she gathered into him. There wasn't much she could do to make any significant difference to his physical condition, he had been mortally wounded, it didn't take a Dragon School Scholar to see that. The explosion from before had been strong enough to rip apart that impenetrable armour of his, and the lines of blood that flowed freely around parts of his body like leaks in a ship's hull emphasized that. The least she could manage right now was close the wounds that seemed the worst and, if possible, mend the burnt skin beneath.

As she did so, Argon tried to take another sip of Estus. He judged that the time of their battle should have lasted long enough for that talisman's effects to wear off. He put the flask to his lips again and took a small sip. The sensation of cold fire and the taste of soot gave him his answer and he sighed. Just how potent was the magic imbued into that ball of silver?

He briefly thought of using that weird black ring he had found in the Depth's to help him recover. It had granted him the strange ability to absorb a small portion of the life essence of the enemies he slew, and while he could admit it was a handy item to keep on his person, he couldn't escape the eerie feeling he got when wearing it. His train of thought broke when he heard the undead across from him groan. Argon turned to Havel and relaxed into a comfortable position.

"You really are a stubborn old man, 'ya know?"

The man in broken armour raised his right hand and flipped him the bird. Argon chuckled in amusement, who knew an ancient geyser like him knew how to swear in the modern era?

"Please just kill me already."

"Already begging and I haven't even mentioned your torture yet. You keep jumping two steps ahead of me and I'll run out of ideas. Besides, the whole point was to save you, not let you become a worthless hollow."

"I'd much rather you do just that, hearing you speak is a nuisance that will cause me to go hollow if I keep listening."

"You say that now but let's face it, you enjoyed that clash more than you let on."

"Hmph." Havel grunted and turned his head away from him. Priscilla, who had been silent the whole time, chose this moment to speak to the annoyed undead.

"How did you know that I was the granddaughter of Lord Gwyn?" she asked in a soft tone, removing her hands from his bloodied breastplate to rest on her lap. He remained silent for a long time, thinking that by ignoring her she would go away. Instead the cross breed did the opposite and patiently waited at his side, her attention solely focussed on the old undead. Eventually, the armoured man mumbled in displeasure and turned his visor to her.

"As an archbishop of the Church of Anor Londo, it was my duty to identify the divinity of various god's and enlist their aid in purging the first signs of the undead curse, under the order of the God of Sunlight himself."

"So, you were with Gwyn all those centuries ago?" Argon interrupted, and Havel grunted in reply.

"But you were human. You should have died long ago or gone hollow with the spread of the curse."

"Not that it's any of your business," Havel seethed at the masked undead as he sat up, most of his serious injuries healed up. "but I did go hollow many years ago."

Argon frowned beneath his mask. He had already gone hollow? Then how was it he still retained cognitive function of his mind and body? To be hollow meant your sanity and will to live was depleted beyond zero, it meant that you were nothing but an empty shell of what you once were. Even your soul would have lost fragments of itself during the completion of hollowing. It didn't make sense for him to miraculously come back from such a state.

"That's impossible, undead cannot come back from turning hollow. Even if they could, they wouldn't be the same again due to how fractured the soul would become after losing all hope and security."

"It was that very reason that I was able to return from mindlessness." The man replied and removed his helm. His face was wrinkled just like any hollow's but the light that still shined behind the blackness of his sunken eye sockets spoke of an unbridled will to live, to survive.

"I had become hollow after the betrayal of that spiteful bastard. He locked me in this tower, sealed it with his own conviction against all I stood for, and abandoned his most faithful ally in favour of that scaleless beast." Havel's ugly mouth curved into a scowl as he thought about his past. Priscilla flinched. There was only one scaleless beast in all Lordran the man could have been referring to. It seemed her father – if he could be called that – had made managed to become infamous among the impossibly strong and fierce. Yet another reason to despise the dragon.

In Argon's opinion, he didn't blame the man. To be betrayed, locked up and have your own friend side against you wasn't an easy thing to stomach. It reminded the younger undead of his own shadowed and fragmented past. Every time he closed his eyes the only things he really saw were the faces of people he couldn't recognise but somehow knew well. All he remembered in those dreams was the laughing, the beatings, the days spent whimpering in shackles in the farthest corner of some rotten cellar.

"It took me decades, and the many undead I annihilated with my Dragontooth only served to foster my hatred for Gwyn. That hate, along with regret and guilt is what brought me back to my senses. It is the reason I still refuse to perish, for I cannot rest while that proud excuse of a great soul lives only to uplift the gods' and trample humanity."

"Well you might find do that a difficult task." Argon stated bluntly, earning him a glare from both Havel and Priscilla. The undead looked at the two in confusion.

"What?"

"How could you say that?!" the cross breed blurted out.

"I'm not lying, am I? Gwyn stands behind a pair of immovable doors in a Kiln that may never be opened should we fail our mission."

The goddess opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it. However harsh the reality was, he was right. Havel wouldn't be able to face the Sunlight Lord if that Kiln remained closed and that Lordvessel stayed empty. Still, it was like kicking the bishop whilst he was down when the masked undead just shot down Havel's reason for remaining sane.

"So, he had chosen to flee even from the consequences of his actions... pathetic." Havel spat and shook his bald head. Whether the God of Sunlight had tried to save the First Flame or not, he had still weaselled his way out of a confrontation between all the beings he had wronged. Noble intentions aside, Havel still hated his ex-ally with a passion.

"Seems so, old man. I'd feel bad for you but you're still an insane brute with an inferiority complex." Argon commented boredly and picked up his Estus flask again to stare at its emerald and amber colour.

"Drinking that will not help." Havel said in what seemed like an act of helpfulness, or perhaps it was just to add salt to the wound that Argon couldn't recover from the beating he had just endured. "the talisman's All-father Lloyd crafted personally for my use only deplete their magical enchantment after the cycle of a full day."

"Well isn't that helpful?" the undead asked tiredly and tossed the flask to the older man.

"They were to prevent the undead we hunted from healing. These damnable flasks were a nuisance we sought to do without. Preventing one from healing for a full day signed his death warrant, a sure-fire way to allow one to rest in peace after death." Havel replied rather smugly and gulped down some of the liquid. He sighed loudly as his wounds, burns and broken body parts mended themselves and relieved the remaining pain he felt.

Argon merely shook his head at the man's words. If that talisman would prevent him from healing for the remainder of the day when they were still far from a bonfire, he was in trouble. Usually he didn't mind the danger or the risks any area and its terrain posed, he had spent too long in this desolate place that such things were a walk in the park. The trouble only arose when one of two things in particular occurred; the loss of his ability to heal with Estus, and the problematic situation of soul count.

In truth, Argon agreed that he was a minimalist at times, the issue of soul's and humanity being the trigger to that part of him. Previously he would have just splurged it on weaponry and materials. The new diversion in his path of the Chosen Undead had prevented him from doing so, however, and the addition of people to his army of one hadn't been an easy situation to adapt to either.

Argon mentally groaned. He was short on blood and energy as it was. A careless move on his part when killing an annoying hollow and he'd be ripped from the plethora of precious soul's he had taken the time to cultivate and earn. It wasn't that he was attached to the only source of currency here like that idiot cleric back at Firelink but the idea of letting go of a count so high, even Andre would be drooling at, was a waste.

Then again, walking with souls in the tens of thousands was like slapping an aural decoy spell onto your back and walking around the Catacombs like nothing in Lordran was wrong. Perhaps he could rush to the Undead Merchant or just any sane fellow out there, so he could empty whatever he could from his person. Many would have thought him foolish for thinking in such a way due to the rarity of that many souls collected by one person. In contrast, Argon saw it as weight off his shoulders. Too many souls caused a mass of hollows to hunt you down, the scent he gave off when packing that much heat was intense. Needless to say, the undead didn't want a repeat of being chased by over ten Berenike Warriors with wall shields throughout Sen's Fortress just because of ten-thousand measly souls in his back pocket.

It would also be a shame to lose all the humanity I've accumulated thus far. Sure I, gave most of them to Quelaan but the few I have left need to be kept safe. Who knows how many other bonfire's I'll need to bolster along the way?

Just as Argon was about to begin pulling out his trusty bag of repair powder, an idea so simple entered his mind that literally made him slap a hand against his mask, startling Priscilla that had been quietly conversing with Havel whilst collecting the broken shards of armour scattered around the room.

"Argon, are you alright?"

"I think the question you should be asking is 'are you sane?'." Havel corrected her and took another swig of Estus despite already being healed to the maximum. "What's wrong boy, spot a fly?"

The undead growled at the older man from behind his mask before drawing a soul capsule from his pouch. The two people in front of him gazed at his hand as it cradled the humanity sprite stored within.

"Oh, why thank you son. I've been needing to do something about this atrocious form of mine." Havel said with a sudden happiness in his voice as he jumped to his feet and reached for the sprite in Argon's hand.

"Huh, what are yo- Woah! Back off old man." he said pulling his hand back from the older undeads reach.

Havel regarded him with a wrinkled frown. "You're not going to even offer one to me in the state I'm in?! Selfish buffoon, and I was beginning to actually like you. Well not anymore!"

"Oh, shut it you annoying bag of bones." Argon groaned in response. Who knew the archbishop of the Church and Gwyn's ex-comrade in arms was such a drama queen?

"You'll get your fill when we reach a suitable bonfire. Right now, I need this in order to get us there." It was the truth, he had expended the last Homeward Bone he had at Blighttown, what a time to run out of the precious resource now of all times.

Without a second thought Argon crushed the sprite in his hand and released a breath a hadn't known he had been holding. He heard various snap's and crack's as his bones, organs and flesh mended to its original state faster than a sip of Estus would have been able to manage. At least now he wouldn't have to worry about being killed and losing his souls and humanity, plus he felt his stamina reserves revive itself. Sometimes he wished there was a mental bar only he could see that displayed how much health and stamina he had left. It would be easier than judging in the middle of a serious battle and he could actually calculate how many shots he could fire off from his Dragonslayer bow before he needed to rest.

"You say 'we' as if I'll be accompanying you there." Havel said in a sulky voice, breaking the undead from his thoughts. He turned his head to the older man and deadpanned. The now un-armoured bishop currently had his back to him whilst his arms were crossed over his chest in defiance. Priscilla gave him an apologetic smile for his troubles as he sighed for the umpteenth time that day.

Childish old fart. And you call yourself a rock. Last time I checked, rocks don't sulk... or speak.

"Why would I consider joining your party in the first place?"

At this, the undeads grimace turned into a grin. He reached for the greatsword his companion offered to him as he walked back towards the stairwell and rested it across his back.

"Because my job as the Chosen Undead is to slay the Lord of Sunlight and his fellow gods'," His smile grew wider when Havel turned his bald head his way, like a child when tempted with an irresistible treat. "with that knowledge so freely given, do you still want to go separate ways?"

Havel looked at him and Priscilla for a while, considering the proposition before shrugging his shoulders and discarding the breastplate he currently wore to the floor. It made a loud crash due to its impressive weight before he walked up to the undead.

"I believe you have twisted my arm," he replied and returned Argon's flask to him. The undead nodded and was about to continue walking up the stairs when a large hand clapped his shoulder, pulling him back to face a half-hollowed archbishop.

"But first you're going to be giving me a replacement set of armour for the one you just broke, boy."

Argon sweat dropped and gave him a soft chuckle.

"Maybe I can work something out. You are a pretty big guy, hollow form aside..."

---

Up above the trio of bickering being's both undead and goddess, a lone Black Knight stood motionless, silently observing the burning remains of what were once inhabitants of a small town from a stone balcony. The wind blew gently in the direction of the old church. He watched as the shinning specks of orange ash drifted away from the scene, taking the horrors and screams it had been born from far, far away where none would remember it.

The Knight breathed in deeply from his grotesque helm with twisted black horns, inhaling the death that those hooded thieves in the Lower Burg had caused before allowing it to coil in his empty soul.

He felt the festering of old and new hatred circulate within his armour. Old hate for the scourge of the Abyss that had caused this disaster to befall Lordran. Old hate for Izalith and its witch that had spawned the demon's that were once his friends, comrades and family. He focused his mind on the new hate that brewed within him, hate that made his swung his blade with more force and rush his many foes with more ferocity.

New hate for the hollowed undead, the foolish men and woman that had taken the title of 'Chosen' only to fall to their own greed and despair. He brewed the new hate for his King most, however. Hate for the way in which his brethren had been used like puppets against the ancient dragons, fodder for their gusts of fire, ice and lightning. He experienced hate for the way his loyal service in the Shinning City was used to control him, to kill innocent human's that knew not the reason for the undead curse they were afflicted by.

And he felt pain for the moment his physical form had been burnt and frozen all at the same time when his King had decided to relink the dying Flame. Even now as he stood guarding nothing but putrid air, he longed for the familiar feeling of his limbs again. The flame had blackened the armour he had proudly polished day and night, and additionally, it had also darkened his mind - along with obliterating his body - by revealing to him the shocking truth.

How sad it was to realise that the King you faithfully worshipped from the first day you came into existence only cared for his reign over Lordran. It was even sadder to uncover the fact that he would sacrifice anything - even his own firstborn - from revealing his ulterior motive the his equally disgusting kith.

Yet even after all the hate stirring within the Knight's platemail, after the many soul's he had slaughtered in vain and the lies he had blindly believed under the guise of obedience, he still couldn't pull himself away from the agonisingly ironic loyalty he showed to the God of Sunlight.

One would think discovering such a secret darker than Nito's resting place would snap any soldier out from any sense of devotion to such a rotten overlord, and that wouldn't be far from the truth.

However, people tend to overlook just how vast the influence of the gods really are. For after such time in service to a seemingly benevolent ruler, the repetition of duty never really does wear off with time. The Knight had first narrowed it down to the influence of Gwyn's divinity, thinking that he had the power not only to deceive the masses for centuries but also bind his subjects to servitude after death - for now in the Kiln he was anything but alive. Yet the Black Knight knew that it was not so.

The answer was actually so simple, that it had been staring him in the helm for decades now as he pondered and pondered on the same topic until his non-existent brain grew ragged. It was the pride all Knights of Anor Londo possessed. They had been born from the great Lord whether they liked it or not. Created from a sliver of his mere will alone that took down legions of terrifying winged beast's and carved fear into the many kingdoms bordering their powerful land. In their heart's was set the pathetic sense of remorse, guilt and abundant loyalty to death's end.

Even though Gwyn had lied, abused and trampled upon the Knight and his comrades, he still couldn't find it in him to utilize that hatred into anything more visceral. He couldn't, for the life of him, abandon his post in the Undead Burg guarding nothing but the dregs of an already fallen town.

It wasn't that he still wished to be useful or of service to anyone or anything. He was just a haunted soul trapped in his own armour, what care could he honestly possess? It was the fear that made him remain. The fear that walking away from the lie he had come to trust and believe in for his entire life would mean the immediate decomposition of whatever remained of his consciousness.

It was truly ironic. He wanted to die, to fall into an eternal slumber like the Gravelord he used to be creeped out by. Now he understood the neutrality of the Death God. The Black Knight was suffering in this twisted metal he lived in, in fact he prayed every day for a worthy foe to claim his wailing soul.

Yet at the same time, the Knight also feared death. He feared what would come of him after his ethereal form left this world he had come to love and hate simultaneously. Did Heaven exist? He had thought Anor Londo was the true Heaven at first but now he was unsure… that beloved Kingdom had become a shadow of its former self after the Lady Gwynevere had departed with Flann, the God of Flame.

Was he to go to Hell instead? And if so, would it be better or worse than what he currently faced here in this empty land that slowly ate itself from the inside out? He had been told by Commander Ornstein once that people make their own Hell whilst living in fear of effigy's that didn't exist. Was this his Hell then? Technically he wasn't a body of flesh and blood, but a soul in living armour. Did that mean he was already dead? Was he already living a nightmare that would never end?

A lone hollow groaned near a set of old and broken stairs behind the Knight and he turned his body towards the sound, his grip on his greatsword tightening. It seemed that even after the fall of his monarch, duty still tugged the reigns of his consciousness. He watched as the hollow limped down the steps slowly, tumbling and righting itself only to repeat the same actions as before as it searched for something it could never truly be satisfied with; souls.

When the barely-clothed thing reached the foot of the stairs and lifted its ugly head his way, he began to stride forward assertively. The hollow seemed to recognize danger and immediately dived through the space separating them, using what remained of a straight sword as a weapon.

The Black Knight raised his shield and deflected the careless attack. It would take more than mindless swings to down such a being of intelligence anyways. With the guard of his shield raised, the Knight smashed it into the face of the hollow and listened as it wailed in fury and pain. As it stumbled backwards and swung around blindly, the Knight took another firm step forward and raised his blade skyward.

The beautiful carvings of the blade reflected in the afternoon sun as it stood stationary and the Black Knight offered the weak hollow a shard of pity before he brought his blade down upon its head. Crimson blood and brain matter splashed across his blade and leggings as the body before him was crushed from the brute force of the Black Knight's blow, cracking the sandstone floor below.

Before he could retrieve his blade from yet another fallen enemy, he heard more groanings on the level above him and rested his shield across his back. It seemed there was still much more work to be done in this dying land of failed warriors and forsaken gods.

He lifted his greatsword and raced up the steps, his armour jangling loudly and more hollows in the vicinity gaining his attention. The Black Knight was met by three light-armoured hollows brandishing sturdier armaments than the first he had killed. He took a step back before going into a deep crouch. The hollows spotted him and advanced frantically, shields up and swords behind them for a deep thrust. It was a good tactic, a tried and tested method capable of shutting off any escape routes for any would-be foes. However, it was a bad plan when the Knight before them had the same idea.

With a rush of impressive speed and force, the Black Knight shot forward, greatsword pulling the air with it as it broke through the first shield and skewered the hollow holding it. It gasped as its sword bounced off his breastplate and its body was thrust forcefully backwards into the next hollow that was also pierced in the same way. The last one stared from its position a few feet away from the Black Knight and his sword before strafing his right side cautiously.

This one possessed some cognitive function then...

The Knight ripped his blade free of the corpses with a well-timed flick of his wrist, sending their bodies crashing against the wall and ground so hard that they exploded in a burst of red. The hollow continued to back away from the Knight as he approached and stood stationary behind another set of stairs that led into a tower. He was about to take another taunting step forward when a slash against the shield on his back alerted him of a new enemy. He twisted on the spot and cleaved the head of a spear-wielding hollow from its shoulders before dashing forwards towards the previous one set in his sights.

The hollow froze in fear for a moment before pulling back his sword arm and thrusting forward. He would have managed to land a decent strike too… if the Knight hadn't used the momentum of his last attack to crater the ground with his large blade and uppercut the hollow with enough power to lift him into the air. As the hollow began to fall back to earth, the Black Knight used the opportunity to impale him on his mighty blade, causing another shower of crimson to coat his body like liquid rubies.

Without a second thought, he dropped the hollow from his blade and marched up yet another set of steps to meet three bare hollows with firebombs. He raised is sword like a wall of obsidian as they chucked the bombs his way before they exploded. Some of the flames created whiplash that curved round his blade and caught against his armour, but he wasn't fazed as he lowered the sword and broke the leg of one of the hollows with a strong kick. At least one advantage of possessing corrupted armour was that it was fire resistant.

He stomped on the fallen hollows head and impaled the next as he tried to light the fuse of another bomb. They both gurgled and groaned as they died. The Black Knight grabbed the last of the trio by the neck and began to squeeze. He watched impassively as the thing writhed and gasped for air, kicking and clawing at his gauntlet which only caused its dead skin to rip apart and bleed. The Knight briefly wondered why these things even needed air to begin with. They were dead, hollow and void of any need for the resource. It bothered him that such a vile creature of devious intent still required its lungs but couldn't really argue much, the dragons were the same even though they were technically immortal. Even he – as limbless as he was – had to breath in and out raggedly for some reason. He didn't understand why something neither living or dead required air either, but this was the Land of Ancient Lords. Absurdity and unanswered questions were the only constant here now that all the hypocritical divinity had eloped, died or been exiled.

A sharp whistling noise sounded behind him before an arrowhead pierced his back. The Black Knight shifted but didn't waver. he turned his head to a small watchtower where a crossbowman stood, he had found his next target. With a tighter clenching of his fist a loud snap came from the struggling hollow and he dropped it to the floor carelessly before stomping to the foot of the tower's stairs and began to climb.

He heard the reloading of a bolt in the crossbow's chamber as he reached the platform and dodged right as said bolt whizzed past his helm. The archer dropped the weapon and made a frantic grab for the sword at his hip. The Knight reacted quickly by close-lining the hollow with his gauntlet and they both fell from the tower.

For a moment, the Black Knight briefly wondered if his neck would break from this fall, like how he had just killed that hollow before he crushed the archer with his weight. A loud gasp left his otherwise silent helm as the pain flared all over his body like a blast from a pyromancer's glove.

No, it seemed he was still alive. How unsatisfactory and simultaneously pleasing. Why had fate decided to make his life – if he could call it his life – more difficult, it would have been for the better if he had just crushed the vertebrae in his nec-

Ah. That was right, he didn't have a spine to injure. He was a tortured soul in armour.

He took a moment to rest against the ground, using the archer's corpse as a makeshift pillow as he thought about desperately he wanted to live yet die at the same time. The thought of living a second longer in this decayed system where he only lived to purge scores of hollows that wold just keep growing made him sick to his stomach. What was use of living when he had not a master to serve, and no actual use here in the lower levels of Lordran? He almost felt like plunging his own sword through his chest so that he could experience, just for a moment, the excruciating bliss of being freed from the confines of his cursed armour. He wished for death to take him, prayed for Nito to hear his cries wherever the mass of skeletons and miasma was. Yet as he rose from his position on the floor and picked up his sword for the thousandth time, he couldn't bring himself to perish just yet.

There was this new feeling in him, a feeling he hadn't even known existed inside of him. He felt alive, free - and for the first time - happy. It was a strange thing to think of. He had been all those things under the leadership of Lord Gwyn and the kind tutelage of Commander Ornstein, living with his comrades and slaying foes for the honour of Anor Londo. However, this felt vastly different from those anecdotes he lived through eons go. At this moment, in this space, while in the state of near insanity he was currently in; his soul soared like an eagle above the clouds. He was unperturbed by the endless hollows he had to slaughter, or the amount of undead he would need to test to determine their worth as the true Chosen Undead.

The Black Knight walked to the centre of the square walkway in front of him that opened to the lower areas of Lordran - now dubbed the Undead Burg - and planted his blade point first into the ground. It would be a lie to deny the enjoyment of the breeze that squeezed between his chainmail and the warmth of the sun that shone above him, whether it truly was a grand illusion of Lord Gwyndolin or not. Perhaps he could find it in him to live just a little bit longer? Just until the Chosen Undead - whoever the hell that really was - had relinked the Flame and brought peace to this crying land. Surely it wasn't too much to ask for?

"My, my... you look positively lonely."

The Black Knight turned his body to the voice slowly and lifted his blade to rest against the spiked collar of his armour. Through his visor he saw what looked to be another Knight like himself, however this one wore a cowl instead of the standard helm and he was about a foot shorter than the Knight. Fixed across his back rested a greatsword like the Knight's but composed of an entirely different metal and design, a Darkwraith's weapon of choice.

So this was what a corrupted human looked like. The man's voice sounded like nails scratching against dry bone, and the blood staining the armour he had most likely stolen from the corpse of one his brethren had already formed an ugly smear akin to red mud. The Knight had seen and engaged many other wraiths of the sort in combat before, watching for their glowing left hand's and unstoppable flow of attacks. They were a silent bunch - no different to the Knight himself in that respect - but the aura of malice and death they all displayed with those skull-face masks of theirs and gear more twisted than his own, was a sight the Knight had hoped never to see again.

This wraith, however, seemed to be much more different. He was hunched, his arms hanging uselessly in front of him as if they were lame. It was odd for any Darkwraith to show such a bored expression when facing a Knight of Gwyn for the simple fact that those abyssal being's lusted for soul's powerful enough to satiate their depravity.

But this was no ordinary wraith. The Black Knight knew that not all Darkwraith's were human or undead, he had cut one open with a slash of his mighty blade to prove it. The original wraiths were manifestations of dark desire's and filled with ominous vapour that could putrefy even the crystal waters of Oolacile. He needed to be cautious if this one engaged him in battle. This particular one looked be something in between human and undead, though that was nearly the same thing. He couldn't accurately name it, but this wraith just seemed… off. Either way, humans were an unpredictable race, but undead were an entirely different matter altogether, especially after siding with the very party that sought to destroy the world rather than cure it. Coming into contact with a Darkwraith that seemed undead but felt like another entity entirely was a larger problem. There would be many disadvantages in this battle due to how unknown the Knight's foe was. Yet even as he thought that it was clear the man dressed in Black Knight armour wasn't going to let him walk free. Good. As far as he was concerned, he wasn't going to allow the Darkwraith to escape either. There was still work to be done in Lordran, whether the Knight wanted to follow Gwyn's last order or not, and this wraith was the perfect example of that work; to purge all disparity.

"I must ask, why is it that you knight's refuse to speak? You scream in pure agony when the killing blow is dealt, so why do you all act so... mute?" The wraith asked as he swung his arms from side to side as he walked, as if trying to pass the time and ease his boredom.

"Personally, to stop speaking entirely would be a death in itself," The Black Knight watch the wraith draw his greatsword and straighten his spine. He took the opportunity to fully face his next opponent and ready himself.

"But I suppose that doesn't matter now, does it? In the end, we're all just waiting idly by to end the lives we never asked to be granted in the first place."

The Knight rushed forward on impulse, greatsword raised like a terrifying guillotine. It was just like a Darkwraith to bend the meaning of words and ideals to suit their twisted personalities. Silver tongues like theirs was the reason his duty here in the lower cities and towns of Lordran had been made that much more difficult.

Even so, the Black Knight felt the familiar excitement bubble up inside his empty armour and prepared to make mincemeat of the wraith before him. It was a crass thought he would have denied if anyone even alive would bother to listen to his voiceless opinion, but he was certain he was becoming just a touch more human than he had originally thought.

And to be honest, he didn't particularly mind it all that much. Who knew feeling emotions of such strange creature's was so exhilarating?

---

"How in Lloyd's name am I supposed to move around in this excuse for armour you've oh-so-graciously blessed me with?"

"Hey, don't blame the armour, old man. It ain't my fault you're too big to even fit into Tarkus' gear. If it's this difficult to find something decent for you to wear, then I strongly recommend you not reverting to your human form."

"What's that supposed to mean?! You calling me fat, brat?"

"I'm saying you're bigger than normal clothing you old fart, now STOP BLOODY SHOUTING!"

"Um, Argon... maybe you should follow your own advice."

The undead stopped dead in his tracks at the head of their trio and turned his head to her slowly. Priscilla almost took a step back at the action, she understood that he was angry, Sir Havel had been doing nothing but engaging in arguments worse than the last from the time they departed from the base of the tower. She wouldn't be surprised if he lashed out at her because of the mental strain he was taking – not that she would exactly welcome it with a smile, she had feelings too – and besides that, he was too focused on spending all those souls of his. She braced herself for a biting retort but instead smiled when his voice quivered in embarrassment.

"W-Was I really that loud?" He asked meekly.

"You damn near popped my eardrums, boy. Keep in mind we old folk are frail too." Havel replied on her behalf whilst trying in vain to cross his arms without snapping the breastplate he wore in two.

"Shut it, goat." Argon hissed, all meekness gone and turned back around to lead them to whatever exit there was in this tower of stairs, stairs and more stairs.

"Baaa." the undead grit his teeth at the childish reply and continued stomping up the spiral stairwell.

Why the hell does this freaking Kingdom have so many damned stairs?!

Argon had thought that making the archbishop join their party would be both a benefit to their knowledge of the land, and a tank that would be able to keep dangerous foes and bosses busy whilst he and Priscilla dealt finishing blows. Now, however, he just thought as the older undead as a nagging burden worse than that pessimistic idiot for a sorcerer in Firelink. The mental battle he had to endure thus far was torture to the undead.

It hadn't been Argon's fault in the slightest, even the goddess could back him up. All he had done was given the strong armour of Tarkus to Havel as better covering than his destroyed rock gear. How the hell was the undead supposed to know that Havel was a brute in physique as well as on the battlefield?

The man had barely managed to fit his legs into the black chainmail leggings and had an even more difficult time slipping the heavy breastplate over his broad chest that looked as if someone had plastered a thick wall of meat onto an even thicker slab of rock. The man's body was so oddly proportioned that the undead couldn't understand how Havel's legs managed to bear the weight of his upper-half.

As of late, he and Argon had just conformed to throwing insults at one another as they walked up the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs. It was like a game of back and forth knife-throwing when he thought about it. While his cross-breed companion had spoken her dislike of the name-calling, it was actually greatly pleasing for the younger undead to hear the old man cuss under his breath and go silent when a certain jab at his size was entered into the equation. Sometimes Argon swore the ex-friend of Gwyn was actually meant to be born a woman with the way he was so self-conscious.

"How long until we reach the entrance, anyways?" Argon asked as he tugged at the hem of his cloak. He had needed to change his gear after the older man had literally wiped the floor with him, so he had donned a comfortable pair of trousers and the gold rimmed cloak that Quelana had gifted to him. It was a shame too, he had liked the breathable clothing of the painting guardians.

"You're asking me that why exactly?"

"For the simple reason that you've been trapped her for over a bloody century." Argon growled.

"I may have been down here for that long, but it doesn't mean I know every nook and cranny of the damned place."

"You mean you've never bothered looking!"

Havel shrugged, "I was hollow for a long time, couldn't do it then now could I?"

"What about after you were hollow, eh?!" A large tick mark formed above the undeads eye. This old man was asking for it.

"I uh... didn't think of that I guess."

There was silence for a full minute until...

"You're a complete waste of space, 'ya know that?"

"WHAT'D YOU SAY, BOY?!"

"I SAID YOU DESERVE TO BE TEN FEET UNDER BECAUSE SIX WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH TO COVER THAT OVERSIZED GUT OF YOURS!"

"I can't believe you just said that! I'm gonna cave you into a wall!"

"What's that, wanna rumble old man? Did you forget how I pinned you to the floor like the trash you are?"

"You're the trash if you think making a woman subdue me with magic is even considered a win, you sissy!"

" ENOUGH! " Priscilla shouted, silencing both of them into shock.

The goddess had been silent the entire time, only offering small words to placate the growing blaze the two undead had been feeding with their needless bickering. At first, she had agreed to let them argue it out – they were men after all – but after the constant back and forth had been grating on her sensitive hearing with her being in the middle of the two, she had changed her mind rather quickly.

"Can the two of you please stop fighting like children?" she said in a kinder voice than the demonic tone more fitting for a more masculine Gwyndolin she had used earlier. "We've finally reached the upper entrance to the tower."

Both undead looked at her and then at one another before putting their heads down in shame and nodding quietly, not a word spoken to question the cross breed. She smiled brightly and stood in front of said door, patiently waiting for Argon to open it like the gentleman she knew he was somewhere deep down. Said undead wasted no time in rushing to the door, unlocking it with his masker key and opening it wide for her to happily walk out. He waited for Havel to do the same and the man did so without sparking another argument before Argon followed and closed the door with a soft click.

The trio gazed around the familiar circular platform but breathed a sigh of relief when an opened door in front of them displayed the sight of the setting sun over a small town.

"Ahh, finally my first glimpse at the bright sun!" Havel jeered with arms outstretched, "Well... what's left of today's one, I suppose."

"Damned Illusion." Argon muttered under his breath which Havel didn't hear but Priscilla did. She turned to him and smiled in a way that made his heart speed up five times its current speed. He hated that the sun was nothing but a fake conjured up by a god that feigned honesty, but he was also glad they had all reached some sort of civilization.

"Well, where to from here masked man?" Havel questioned rather cheerily. Perhaps not telling him that the sun was fake was a good idea for now... at least until the brute had had the chance to be updated with all the happenings of Lordran, "I'm unfamiliar with this part of town and our cross breed here has most likely only seen the outside of the painting she was trapped in since childhood. Your help guiding us would be appreciated."

Argon raised an eyebrow. For an old man he was still pretty intuitive. Not only that, but the curt comments he gave offered more insight into the days of the old gods' than he thought possible. It was good thing they hadn't decided to slay him then and there. Besides his skills and memory, it would have been inhumane of the undead to grant such a premature death to a foe he didn't hold any ill-will to. They hadn't duelled like proper undead anyways, so he couldn't have killed the annoying oaf even if he had wanted to, the guilt would have been too much.

"I don't recall every saying that I wouldn't guide you around Lordran." Argon huffed. "but for what it's worth, this will be an eye-opener for the two of you."

Priscilla and Havel turned to the masked undead and frowned at him as he placed one hand on his hip and the other pointing outwards to the scenery beyond.

"Welcome to the Undead Burg."

Priscilla gazed out at the vast walkways of sandstone, square houses and wooden constructs formed for renovations long forgotten. The stairway to their left held a sizeable chunk of its banister missing, most likely from some explosion and flecks of orange flashed before Priscilla's eyes. She took a closer look and discovered it to be ashes from a fire that still burned somewhere nearby and made a move to take a step forward before her eye's widened and she gagged in disgust.

"Uh... something wrong?" Argon asked cluelessly.

"It's stinks down here!" she replied and blocked her nose with her fingers.

"Well duh, it's called the Undead Burg for a reason. You expected it to be like walking through a field of daisies with everything we've been through thus far?"

"But this is worse than anything I've ever smelled before." the cross breed whined and gagged again as the horrid scent touched the tip of her tongue. Argon watched as she closed a hand over her mouth and squirmed in disgust, he eye's scrunched up as she tried in vain to eliminate the air from her body. The undead sighed before taking a step forward and down the steps before them, a hand firmly gripped onto a complaining goddess as they all descended in the lower levels of Lordran. Havel had even plucked a handkerchief out of nowhere and handed it to her so that she wouldn't have to endure the smell, but she just shook her head and gagged even more.

It was surprising to see the archbishop be kind to her after nearly killing her, sure, but it was more of a surprise to witness his female companion react this badly to the mere smell of rot. She had lived in worse for centuries and she was complaining because of some burning corpses?!

Yeah, royalty my foot. The only thing princess-like about her is the way she complains.

They continued along their path towards what seemed like a pass towards another level, an alleyway and a small cottage. They immediately noticed the dead hollows scattered around the floor and spilt up without a word. Priscilla whimpered at the smell of the fallen corpses but adopted a brave face, nonetheless. Argon climbed a tall ledge with Havel's help to get into the cottage and motioned for them to keep an eye out for anything. Whilst the undead searched, Havel decided to make his way down the bloody steps into the alleyway. He drew a large, petrified tree hanging from his back and two-handed it with ease as he took slow, cautious steps downwards leading to another corpse at the foot of the stairs.

While the Demon's Hammer the younger undead had given him was perfect for defeating stronger foes and shattering even sturdier armour, the archbishop still yearned for the comfortable feeling of the cold black rock of his Dragontooth. Its texture was smooth compared the rough bark of this ashen tree he was lumbering around, and its weight was more reassuring to have on hand - and let's not forget longer to deliver a greater range of damage.

Havel sighed wistfully before giving the corpse a good kick to ensure it was dead. When the thing's body flew into the wall and made a loud cracking sound the bishop smiled in satisfaction and moved on. He had no choice but to endure the conditions of his armament and armour for now until he could find a more suitable set of gear, or maybe a smith that would make something for him with the right amount of souls. He briefly wondered if that giant blacksmith still lived in Lordran.

The massive being had been the only neutral and generally pleasant thing about the Shinning City that Havel had really liked, save for Gough of course. Whenever he had attempted to make casual conversation with the giant, he had always been met with a deep voiced refusal. The smith had prided himself on his work mending and beating weaponry into art with those tiny tools of his, he never cared for small talk - pun intended - and didn't have a care in the world besides how well those swords of his were ascended. Perhaps the archbishop could pay him a visit, he had been the one to create his armour after all.

Havel snorted at the thought and continued looking around. Even if the giant was still alive due to his unrivalled longevity, the undead would never step foot or boot back inside those hypocritical walls of gold. He had been made a fool by both Gwyn and Seath, betrayed and left to rot in that tower when he had caused a revolt for all the right reasons. Havel had thought the Sunlight God would be for the humans, for the people. It was one of the reasons he had become an archbishop in their Church, to unite gods' and human alike and ensure a peace that would last until time itself expired.

He had been a fool not to listen to that twisted serpent that dripped with malice for all thing's divinity. Gwyn hadn't given a damn about equality between humanity and the gods. He had only sought to rule over them using Havel as the blinded mouthpiece to keep the weaker race in check. Why hadn't he seen it sooner like the giant race and abandoned that slowly decaying Kingdom? Maybe his people would have survived the purge after turning undead? Maybe he wouldn't have had to seek out that evil ember and cause his men unneeded slaughter to begin with?

He didn't have the answer but there was one thing that resounded clearly in his mind as he observed the broken pathway between the alleyway and an undercover passage under the level Priscilla stood on. Argon, this annoying and enigmatic undead that had bested him, was not like the other undead he had come across before. His words, actions and thinking were on par with an Emperor - though the rock of a man was loathed to admit it - and he held that important essence inside of him that somehow drew Havel into his little circle. An essence of realization, of hatred, regret, pain and anguish. The voice behind that mask that spoke of experiences too great for his tiny body to bear. The voice of someone that possessed wisdom and courage ahead of their years. It was also due to a factor about the intelligent undead that caused Havel to even agree to join his party.

He had also discovered the truth of this ancient land.

He didn't mean the truth of whatever divinity still alive in this land had cooked up, the bishop meant the truth about Gwyn. Havel was no fool. He had lived centuries, hunted numerous undead and mastered the many wicked ways of that albino dragon to know enough to last four lifetimes. This undead he travelled with knew he had been lied to. He could tell from the moment their battle had ended. How could he not when Havel had the exact same reaction towards the world around him? That silent suspicion of everyone that dared converse with him, the way his words indirectly hinted that he knew more than he less people believe… it was the exact persona anyone would possess when faced with a truth so shocking, it questioned your very existence and purpose. The epiphany was like a burst of endorphins to his sluggish bloodstream that made him hop from one foot to the other in pure excitement. What was more intriguing was that the undead had offered him what no other before him had done before; a shot at claiming his revenge against his age-old nemesis, Gwyn.

The mere fact that Argon had managed to come this far without losing any and all sanity in this accursed land was admirable, the fact that he had promised Havel a chance to face Gwyn despite knowing the perilous journey ahead was just captivating. He was cocky, yes, but not in a way that would hinder their approach towards the goal at hand. This undead was actually certain he would survive long enough to reach the Kiln. That alone was more than the bishop had hoped for.

Havel backtracked his steps and approached a balcony that would have given a pretty view of the lower Burg were it not for the fact that there were multiple bonfire's lit fuelled by cacophonies of burning human corpses. So that was what was causing the stink. He and Argon were both cut from the same cloth in the sense that the stench of death didn't bother them in the slightest, but the cross breed was different. He didn't really blame the girl, the smell of burnt human meat was hardly appetizing to any other than mutated animals and demon's from Izalith. In retrospect, however, he was impressed at how she was able to keep on doing despite the air being almost toxic to her smaller body. He knew she was partly of divine descent, so she could handle that much but for any lady to stomach such things besides a female warrior or knight, was astonishing.

Perhaps it was because she was a cross breed that she could endure such things? He had said nothing about her parents besides the fact that she had ties to the Sunlight God, but he would have been a fool not to notice the draconic strain of genes she was born with.

White hair, nearly the shade of silver and shinning scales that decorated the back of her neck and hands like jewellery were an unmistakable trait. One he could only match with that pathetic excuse for an everlasting dragon.

Seath.

It was blasphemous and purely atrocious to find out that that thing and Queen Gwynevere had copulated in the first place. What had Gwyn been thinking to allow that scum to come near his daughter without a care in the world? He had refused to listen to him when Havel's spies had found out the scaleless fiend had been abducting maidens for his cruel experiments, so why had he made it an unbreakable rule for the thing to be Gwynevere's personal escort and guard in the first place? Any idiot with a brain would have put two and two together that she was smitten for the ugly serpent with wings.

What was even more of a shock to the bishop's wise eyes was the fact that the Lord of Sunlight hadn't batted an eye when his daughter had given birth. The now undead bishop had expected him to be filled with righteous fury like all those years ago and torn that dragon to little pieces of fodder for deflowering his only girl - Havel knew he would, given the circumstances. But no, instead the poor child of Gwynevere had been exiled after just five years of staying in the halls of Ancient Lords. His ex-comrade had summoned a mental painter to craft a prison for offspring he despised without reason. That traitorous snake had walked free, not giving a damn about his own child, stating that it was little more than a failed experiment whilst Gwynevere had suffered in anguish. She was truly to blame but what man couldn't feel sorry for her despite the predicament she placed herself into, she had just lost her own flesh and blood after all.

Havel sniffed the air and steeled himself. What had been done was irreversible and no amount of arguing could turn it back around. He decided he would remain silent about the cross-breed's history, as selfish as it was. He could already see that she hated the gods' and that was enough for him, adding more fuel to the fire would just blow the whole damned place up anyways.

The undead turned on his heel, completely satisfied that this area had been cleared when a flash of something shiny caught his eye. Havel turned and stared at the object resting against the ground and frowned. Who in their right minds would leave an enchanted ring lying on the floor so carelessly? With a grunt he bent over, sucking in his gut as he did so, and picked up the item. Maybe Argon was right about him being too large, the muscles he had gained from wielding his armour and weaponry had made him a literal wall of flesh. However, now that he was undead and near hollow, his muscles were chunks of old meat hanging for dear life against wrinkled skin and bone.

He stared at the ring in his hands and recognition flashed across his mind. This was a powerful ring indeed, one of the Tearstone series. A lucky find that could match his own enchanted ring in ability. Hold on a minute, could he even manage to wear more than one magical ring? His aptitude for magic wasn't vast and the only miracles he knew were healing scriptures and guidance...

"Sir Havel, are you okay down there?" he heard the goddess call in a softer voice than usual and he pocketed the ring. He could think about it later when they were in a safer place.

He jogged up the steps and reunited with the cross breed that was currently crouching on the stairs leading to a higher level of the town. She turned her head to him and placed a finger on her lips as he approached. The bishop furrowed his brow and was about to ask what he should be silent for when the sound of blades clashing sounded against his eardrums.

Without a word, he silently lowered himself to her level and peeked over the steps to see two Black Knight's duking it out in what seemed to be a deathmatch, the bodies of hollows scattered around them indicated who had caused the corpses behind them.

"What reason would Knights of Gwyn have for duelling like this?" she whispered to him, a hand on the scythe resting on her back just in case. "And what strange armour. I haven't seen such twisted metal before on a servant of the Great Lord before."

"These are the Black Knight's," Havel replied softly. "they accompanied Gwyn to the Kiln so that he could link the First Flame." She turned her face to him in deeper confusion.

"But how could their armour be so sinister? What could cause such a change?"

"The First Flame." he said. Priscilla seemed to understand and turned back to the fight, watching as one of the Knight's blocked a devastating strike from his comrade before using his shield as a battering ram to break the other's defence.

"When Gwyn bolstered the dying Flame, it incinerated everything within the Kiln, the loyal Knight's included. They became nothing more than husks within their blackened armour, and their weapons were mutated into grotesque blades capable of facing the strongest of demons without aid.

The goddess nodded her head and they watched as the two Knight's clashed again, one using his elbow to temporarily stagger the other Knight before leaping back and thrusting his blooded greatsword forward. The Knight with the shield twisted out of the thrust and swiped downwards. A burst of crimson came from the other Knight's shoulder and he raised his sword hand to block the next strike that would have torn his upper body from its waist. They continued to dance around one another; strafing, colliding, counter-attacking and blocking as if it were a performance in a grand hall.

Havel observed the fighting style of each and noticed the differences amongst the various blows and swipes. Whilst one fought with the proper poise and skill of a true Knight of Gwyn, the other was more unorthodox. He flailed his sword around as if it were an extension of himself while his other hand remained limp like a paralysed appendage. He also noticed how the same Black Knight sported a black cowl rather and the standard helm of malevolence.

"We should warn Argon not to interfere. Even with the three of us joining the fray, two Black Knight's is too great a risk." Havel stated and prepared to leave the battle scene as quietly as he could when the masked face of a certain undead appeared in front of him.

"Oh! For Lloyd's sake boy, learn to announce your presence." the archbishop said breathlessly as he held a hand above his heart. He may have been the immovable Rock, but that scare nearly gave him an undead heart-attack.

"Apologies old man," Argon replied and pulled Havel back into a crouch next to Priscilla. "this fight just caught my interest."

Havel grunted and shrugged off his hand before watching the fight again. Leave it to the Chosen Undead to find two Knights duelling a form of good-natured entertainment.

"It is funny that two Knights of Gwyn would battle while on the same side."

"And Black Knight's at that," the younger undead added in excitement. He was finally getting to witness a deathmatch between two powerhouses at work. It was as if his age-old wish had come true!

"Is it really that intriguing?" Priscilla asked with a frown. Personally, she couldn't care less about the entire situation. Watching two beings kill each other was not the sort of sport she indulged in, both as a lady and a person in general.

"Are you kidding me? Black Knights are like the nightmare of all undead." Argon said, turning to her. "Although it's not that difficult to defeat one once you've properly watched their movements, they can be a real pain to deal with when traversing important parts of Lordran. They can be so dangerous, in fact, that just one hit from those menacing blades of theirs can put down a lightning-breathing drake."

The cross breed gawked at the two men next to her. "They're capable of doing that much?!" Drakes were not secret to any inhabitant of the Kingdom. They were the farthest descendent of the Everlasting Dragons, smaller than a Wyvern but fierce in battle. Ordinary Silver Knights were no match for the creature's alone, that was the reason they hunted in groups of six with dragonslayer bows on their backs. Moreover, it was the reason the Elite Four of Gwyn had been tasked with the elimination of any scale-back creature with wings because only they had the individual power to best the beast's alone.

To hear that such creatures could be defeated by a single swing from these Black Knight's was almost incomprehensible. Now she understood Havel's reluctance, if he lost but an arm whilst engaging the two of those Knight's his advantage would be lost.

She was about to suggest that they divert from their path in favour of not encountering these terrifying foes, when Argon shushed her with his hand and looked up toward the sky. Havel followed his gaze and frowned when he saw nothing but darkening sky.

"What in Lordran are you doing now? You think we've got time to sit around daydream-"

"Can you hear that?" he asked, ignoring the older man's words.

Havel shut his mouth and tried to hear something other than the clashing of great swords. When his hearing picked up on nothing he scowled again. "Get your head out of the sewer's, boy. There's nothing out here but-"

"Sir Havel."

"What is it now?" the man groaned and looked at the cross breed. She had apparently caught onto something that he didn't, and for the briefest of moment's he wondered if age and all that time wearing his helmet had dulled his sense of sound.

Priscilla sniffed the air a few times before she caught the scent of something and looked back to Argon who nodded in confirmation. It was apparent that they had discovered something else that Havel hadn't. He waited patiently for them to relay the information to him.

"I can hear something coming down from above us, but I'm not sure what." Argon said with a grunt.

"When you mean something, do you mean-"

"-Something extremely dangerous." Priscilla finished and placed a hand on Argon's shoulder. It was about time they left this area.

"Alright, I understand that but where should we retreat to?" the bishop asked with a hand stroking the beard he had growing on his jaw. "I thought I saw another level in the tower leading to the outer wall."

Argon nodded, "It leads to the Old Church of the Parish. If we can reach it then we can bypass the Knight's here and reach the Lower Burg. There's a waterway there we can use to reach Firelink Shrine, a suitable sanctuary for now."

"Then that's where we're head-" Havel began but stopped when he heard the loud flapping of wings and hot air press against his shoulders. This was odd indeed, he wasn't aware of any winged monsters on this side of Lordran.

"Wyvern." Argon said quickly and shot to his feet. He grabbed both Havel and Priscilla's hands and began to rush for the alleyway in the lower level. As his companion's rushed to it with him, they noticed a large shadow descend above them, blocking out the light like a gargantuan shield of darkness with wings.

"Crap, Wyvern!" the undead shouted and shoved his companions down the steps before diving head first as a torrent of flames enveloped the area they were just standing in.

Argon felt the heat of the flames lick against his back and he gasped as the aftershock flung his body across the alleyway and into a shocked Havel. They crashed against the floor in a clatter of armour and the bishop groaned from the weight the younger undead added to his own.

Just when both undead thought things couldn't get any worse, a mighty roar was heard that screeched against their ears and stunned them to pained silence. They remained silent moments after the Wyvern roared and heard the creature's loud puffing, like deep grunts from inside an oversized cauldron. Then, as if the thing was pissed at life itself, the trio watched as more flames burnt the area black and curled around the buildings like snakes before the Wyvern beat its great wings and took off, roaring loudly in the distance.

"That was no Wyvern, you fool." Havel snarled at Argon, who was still on top of the big man. "And what are still doing on top of me? Do I look like the cross breed you hang onto like a tick?" he shoved the undead off him and Argon hit the ground hard.

"Oof!"

"Serves you right," the bishop said and turned to a blushing cross breed that was currently staring wide-eyed into space. Havel just sighed and held out a hand for her to take. What was with the youth of today, couldn't they just admit their feelings, face whatever decision arrived and move on? He swore that if this constant embarrassment continued without proper actions he'd lose all the hair on his face too.

"Of course it was a Wyvern." Argon replied as Priscilla accepted Havel's hand and stood to her feet. "That one had red scales, two legs and a vicious blast to it."

"And your point is?" Havel asked.

"My point is that that particular creature is somewhat notorious to us undead here in the Parish." Havel motioned for him to continue. Dragons were thought to have been slain long ago by the trusted Knights of Gwyn. Havel had assumed that there weren't any left in the land at all with how fine a job Ornstein and Gough had done purging and collecting the heads of all those winged lizards.

"That, my dear Havel, is the Hellkite Dragon. You wouldn't want to tango with it unless you have enough strength in that club of yours to bring down a mountain… although I'm not entirely certain why we still call it a dragon."

The archbishop considered his words for a moment before nodding. Argon was an insufferable fool that he would sooner slam into a wall than trust with his life, but it was obvious that the charismatic undead never lied when it came to information.

"Anyways, we should go through that upper level now."

"Is that wise?" the cross breed asked. "Those two Black Knights were fighting there. Dragon fire or not, their armour should be near impervious to any flame damage after being charred by the First Flame itself."

"Indeed," Argon sang and dusted the back of his cloak. He was glad he had chosen to wear the Izalith garb now, who knew it was that resistant to fire?

"We'll mow them down if they still remain the least bit able to fight."

Havel choked on the Estus he was drinking and turned to the undead. "Are you insane? Those are Black Knight's, not hollows. How can you possible expect to best them?"

"They've been trading blow for blow from before we saw them so it's no joke that they're injured quite a bit." he said adjusting his mask before pulling his gloves on tighter. "besides that, they were hit point blank with dragon fire. Whether you're resistant or not, it'll do immense damage to your body."

His companions couldn't argue with him there, he might have been overly confident but was also a sound strategist when it came to anything covert or combat-based.

"Fine then, let's move out." Havel seconded, and the trio rushed up the stairs, weapons drawn and guards up as the fire cleared, revealing scorched sandstone below.

They dashed up the final set of stairs and prepared to fight tooth and nail. When the remaining flames settled they rejoiced to see nothing but a prone Black Knight resting on the ground. It seemed the attack from the Hellkite had been enough to render even these monotonous monsters powerless.

Argon offered a few words to guide them down the right path and they all turned to a declining walkway. Excitement bubbled in Argon's chest as he led Priscilla and Havel to the closest bonfire. They had been through the worst of the day and had come out on top, with a new addition to their party to boot.

With their numbers expanding like this, they would be able to collect those Lord Soul's in no time. A genuine smile graced the undeads masked face as they slew a half-dressed undead and continued forward. The real war was just beginning.

---

Inside the cottage next to the watchtower, behind the dirty window stood a Black Knight with a cowl, his gaze set on the back of the masked undead outside. He reached up a hand and placed it against the glass of the window, a crooked smile forming on his pale face.

"Looks like I finally found you."

The wraith had been looking for a way to ease his boredom since Kirk had given him an account of his duel with the undead. How better to do so than to engage a Black Knight in battle, and the cherry on top was that he had met the very soul he'd been dying to find. How fate had a way of linking two sides of the same coin.

The Darkwraith placed his other hand on the left side of his face, softly petting the black veins with the underside of his glove and smiling broadly. He could feel it from this distance, how deeply the corruption had overtaken the undeads mind and soul. It was almost there, almost ready for harvesting that the wraith could practically smell it. It wouldn't be long now. Just a small push and the time would come to him to... reunite with his significant other.

With a shaky breath, Lithecore dropped his hands to his sides and stretched his smile so wide, the ends of his mouth began to cut from the exertion.

"I can't wait for us to see eye to eye again, perhaps then you'll finally remember..."

Lithecore turned away from the window as a vortex of black and noxious purple appeared behind him.

"Remember who we really are and bring judgement upon this wicked world."

---

I figured that since I've been making chapters of 8k and 9k in length, and you all deserved a special chapter with double for your trouble. I hope you enjoyed this eleventh chapter as much as I did.

I'm also so bloody excited, the demo for Final Fantasy VII was just released!!! Have you guys had a chance to play it? It's freaking AWESOME!

And they also FINALLY released the game for One Punch Man (*faints from too much excitement) I love this year!

Aside from all that, however, I'd like to explain some things in this chapter in case anything confused you guys (but of course it didn't, you people are all geniuses!)

1. I mention that when Argon and gang use and collect soul's and humanity, it's via something called a 'soul capsule'. I decided to add this bit in since it didn't really seem believable for the player in game to just haul out a boatload of souls from some infinite pouch and crush it without said souls rushing away from him to the Heavens above. While it can be argued that the reason the souls stay in the player's hand is due to Lordran's weird convolution or some other idea that keeps them tethered to the Kingdom, they still need to be encapsulated into something to effectively 'crush', understand what I'm getting at?

2. Argon's mask is something I don't go into much detail with. I do this so that you focus more on the reason he wears it rather than the mask itself. As you already know, Argon is contagiously optimistic and happy-go-lucky. However, he also has his own moments of deep depression and sudden bipolar tendencies when half-hollow. On the surface plot, he wears that plain mask as afront to block out the terror he feels deeply engraved into his eyes. Although this sounds cheesy, realistically nobody would be able to smile normally when facing monsters and things so horrific Medusa herself would turn to stone. FromSoftware did a great job freaking us the hell out with how ugly these main bosses and enemies look, imagine how we'd wet our pants if they were real?

3. He's also got this abyssal corruption that makes his face all fugly and stuff, but that isn't the reason he wears it entirely. I will explain it in later chapters and include a lovely flashback of his last moment's as a human if that's what the story boils down to.

4. The killer finishing move against Havel. I took a page out of My Hero Academia's Season 2 Sport's Festival here (woah, that's a lot of camel case 0o0). During the battle between Todoroki and Midoria, the entire platform implodes due to the rapid decrease and increase in temperature due to Tordorki's ice and fire. I decided to use that as it would have been a sure-fire way to disarm the brute without costing Argon or Priscilla an arm or leg. Since the implosion was caused via physics and not magic, Havel's armour couldn't do much to absorb the blow, and because centuries had gone by since he could repair his armour, it's safe for me to say that it was weakened enough to be destroyed by external forces… still, that being said, some of you might find a reason to logically disarm my reasoning. If I'm wrong and this theory was actually pretty good on my part, then yay me :D

5. When Argon shout's 'undead smash', I was referring to All Might in that aspect. I'm a Boku no Hero fan but not to the extreme, I just thought it would make the story more interesting.

6. The Black Knight. Since not many people put much effort into the servants of Gwyn due to them just being annoying pitfalls and soul drainer's during your playthrough, I thought of giving you the perspective of one such Knight. Whether it was a waste of time or interesting is your decision I guess, thought I'd do it since I did the same for the painting guarding in Chapter 2.

7. Lithecore meets Argon. People hate this character since it's like a generic thing I think most DS writer's do, I'm not entirely certain. What I am certain about is that our Darkwraith plays an important role in this fic, and that's comic relief.

-no, it's not.

What the bloody hell are you still doing here?!

-providing comic relief.

Oh, ha ha, very humorous.

-I thought so too.

Really, I'm dying right now, it's too much. Please stop.

-that's what she said.

Okay, that's enough out of you. Why are you actually here?

-you made the authors note too long again.

I was just explaining things!

-did anyone ask for an explanation?

Well... no.

-then stop it.

I, well... okay.

-I feel bad for that Black Knight that was set alight.

Feel bad for me, I'm the one being verbally abused by myself!

-then you need help. Seriously, see a doctor. Nobody should be able to insult themselves half-heartedly and then feel sad about it.

I'm not sad!

-you're right. You're not sad, you're looking for attention.

What's that?! Come here, you little sliver of insanity! (*grabs sliver)

-Did you get it?

Yep! It's not getting away from me now. Can you believe it was trying to imitate you and get on my bad side? What a joke!

-what a joke indeed (he doesn't realize that he was already playing into its hands... does he?)

Any who, thank you for reading and God Bless 'ya.

-remember to do the elbow and foot shake when greeting people. It's not tested but a good way to prevent Coronavirus or something like that.