Flames and smoke obscured the vision of a nearby Capri Demon as Laurentius rolled right, under a blind swing that wound have decapitated him were he a slower fellow. He raised his reinforced shield to block another strike aimed for his chest and dashed behind the roaring beast. The humanoid Demon snapped its head from side-to-side in search of its prey as the swamp-dweller approached silently toward the thing's twitching tail. With a small thump, the pyromancer's weapon bit into the bony flesh and the Demon screamed in agony, using said tail to throw Laurentius a few meters away from it.
He landed with a thump and rolled to his feet, already preparing a fireball in his hand as the giant lumbered forward awkwardly. The axe he had lodged into its body was disrupting its sense of balance. Good, now it couldn't dodge even if it tried. He watched as the Demon took another step and stumbled, dropping to one knee and snarling at him behind that skull it had on. Or maybe that was its face, he didn't know, and he didn't care. What mattered right now was killing the damn thing, so he could continue forward without interruption. With a grunt, Laurentius threw the fireball in his hand. It broke apart against the Demon's muscled chest and wailed in pain as the flames wrapped around its torso, arms, legs and neck.
Yes, Quelana had been correct in assuming he would put this pyromancy to good use. Great Fireball was more potent than his own version and it bolstered the ferocity of whatever it impacted against if the temperature was higher than an ordinary Summer's day. He would have to thank her when he returned from slaying her mother and claiming her soul.
Woah just wait for a second.
He faltered mid step from delivering the killing blow and frowned. That had been a rather shady thing to think. Was it the heat? No, he had been in worse many times before, like that time he had been thrown into that crazy lady's furnace after eating her candy house as a child – those were scary times – so the issue of a more humid environment was out of the question.
Damn it, Argon. You're staring to rub off on me, friend.
He placed his gloved hand against the Capri Demon's forehead after its arms had fallen off from the intense flames and flexed his fingers. The Demon's scream was almost deafening as it was torched by hot, white flames before crumbling to ash at his feet. Laurentius relaxed his hand and rested it by his side. One more Demon down, a whole kingdom to go. Just perfect.
He identified the hilt of his battle axe amidst all the black ash and bent over to retrieve it. He knew he shouldn't be complaining about his situation now, he had chosen to take up both Argon and the Izalith Sister on their request to save Izalith, after all. He kicked more ash from his boots and two-handed his axe, moving through the broken pathways and corridors with caution.
It wasn't like didn't expect the birthplace of pyromancy to be a bed of roses, but he certainly hadn't expected it to look this bad either. Taurus and Capri Demons lined the walls and floors like debris from a nasty explosion, obese worms of monstrous proportions sat in wait at every corner for him to fall into their deadly traps and he didn't even want to know what that odd thing frozen to stone on the side of a nearby wall was.
It had been a challenge from the moment he walked into this arid city of lava, killing off hordes of those crawling things like Eingyi that had gone insane from too much time in the heat. Thereafter, he had experienced a fall from a drop he hadn't known was there and had to crush a sprite of humanity to repair his broken legs. It would have been smooth sailing from there after he reached the third floor were it not for the sea of literal lava blocking his path to the lower levels.
That's right, lava. Actual burning, churning, flowing, sizzling, molten lava; the worst kind you would ever find.
Now he wasn't one to brag – or even insinuate that he had been through the worst life had to offer – but he had grown up in a poison swamp, lived as an orphan from what little he could remember from his time as a human, recalled surviving the plague, the crazy woman in a candy house, the damn man-eating butcher in the Depth's and even the troublesome bog of Blighttown with nothing else but his wits, a few friends and a hell of a lot of luck. Laurentius could attest to living one of the most inconveniencing lives imaginable too. Who else could say that every time they escaped a near-death situation, it was when they were about to be eaten alive? He knew he was handsome and had a swell beard but that didn't make him food, dammit!
So, when the undead had had to clear a sea of lava and bypass a bloody lava monster that was known as 'Ceaseless Discharge', he was pretty certain he had earned the right to complain about whatever the hell he damn well pleased. Eingyi had briefly stated that it was once one of the Queen of Izalith's children, but he didn't believe it for a second. As far back as the records went about the Kingdom, there were never any mention of a son born from the Witch, never mind something to this magnitude in the ancient kingdom – although he could be wrong. Maybe this supposed son he had to grit his teeth and run from had been kept a secret… but if so, why hadn't Quelana or Quelaan said anything about it? Either way, he wouldn't face the thing now, he was already on the lower floors of Izalith, so it made no sense to backtrack anyways. On a different note, he was still peeved about something regarding the god's of Lordran. Why the hell did the Land of Ancient Lords have to have Ancient Demons that could only be killed by Ancient Weapons only useable by Ancient Warriors? And why the heck was everything focused on the 'ancient' part? Did the locals here really discriminate that badly against the new and improved? Sheesh, and they called him stubborn to change.
Laurentius heard a deep growl and lifted his head to see two more Capri Demon's approaching with menacing great swords in hand. Well at least he didn't have to waste the energy to come to them.
He took a breath and curled his fingers around empty air as one of them sprinted for him. It was about time to start using his flame more religiously after neglecting it for so long. The Demon reached his personal bubble of range and threw its arm wide to carve a jagged hole into his side. Laurentius leaned forward and flicked his wrist and a thick circular length of fire whipped against the Demon's skull-face, delaying its attack and making it take a step back in shock. The pyromancer decided to capitalize on the opportunity and flicked his wrist again, scoring a clear cut against the skull again with enough force to lop half of it off. The bottom half of the Capri Demon's face spurted black blood and it fell to the ground. He turned his gaze to the second one and smirked as it took a hesitant step back.
"What's the matter, mate? I thought you were resistant to fire?"
The Demon took another step back before charging forward and leaping into the air, great swords raised to make mincemeat out of him. Laurentius just sniffed and launched his flamed-whip at the thing, catching it around the neck and pulling with a grunt. These things were heavier than he thought.
The Demon jerked sideways roughly, a loud snap echoing around whatever floor he was currently on as he directed his whip towards the edge of the hallway. He cut of the flames and saw the Demon's body flail uselessly and approach another sea of lava below.
He sighed in mild ecstasy as the rush of souls entered his body, rewarding him with a fresh increase of endorphins. Being careful not to step in the small pools of lava that remained dotted around the area he was standing in, Laurentius picked up the small pieces of titanite he found from the Demon's corpses and rounded the next corner of a rather precarious turn. He spotted a smaller worm monster on the platform below that was resting next to what seemed like an unlit bonfire and grinned broadly. Lady Luck was definitely on his side today.
He drew his axe once again and jumped. Lava or no lava, he was really enjoying all the mighty smiting he was doing!
"We need to go to Anor Londo."
"No, we don't."
"Yes, we do."
"No, WE DON'T!"
"LOWER YOUR VOICE WHEN SPEAKING TO ME, BOY!"
"MAYBE YOU SHOULD HEED YOUR OWN COMMANDS FOR ONCE!"
"DO I LOOK LIKE THE ONE SCREAMING LIKE A MANIAC?"
"YES!"
Priscilla sighed into her hands as the trio walked towards the waterway of the Undead Burg. This conversation had been brought up, rejected, argued, ended, and repeated fives times over now. At first, she had tried to placate the two of her male companions by using partnership as an excuse – which had horribly backfired when the two had then argued about who hated who the most – but had given up hopelessly after the third round of berating them when their excessive quarrelling had gathered a large group of Berenike Knight's. Both Argon and Havel had blamed the other for attracting unwanted attention before making a competition on who could slay the most foes, anyway.
The goddess couldn't understand the bishop's reasoning at all. He had hammered in the fact that he despised the Shinning City and all it contained with a passion akin to a thief's greed; unbreakable and resolute. That very statement was what confused her to the point of silence. Why would he want to return to a place that brought up unwanted memories of betrayal in the first place?
"I don't get you, old man-"
"Stop calling me old, I'm only a few centuries old!"
"-You hate Anor Londo more than you hate the truth-"
"I said I'm not old!"
"-So why in the world would you ever want to return there?" Argon finally finished and turned his head towards the bishop.
Havel scratched his un-hollowed chin and sneered at the ground. They had reached the bonfire located inside a small storage building the night before where Argon had begrudgingly handed the obnoxious man one of his precious humanity sprites so that he could do something about that horrid appearance of his. Before he crushed it, the undead and cross breed had imagined an old man full of wrinkles and sun spots to appear before them. Havel had lived more than any ordinary human and undead ever recorded in history so physically he would be bound to look his age, as extended as it was. However, what the pair hadn't expected was the form of a man in his early sixties, bald and tanned with barely any wrinkles and a muscled physique that managed to look better than his half-meaty, half-scrawny hollow form.
It wasn't a perfect picture, however, as when he did revert to his human form and attempted to walk towards the two of them, he had promptly tripped over his beard and headbutted the floor with enough momentum to leave a round hole at the entrance of the storage room. The beard – or wizardry beard as Argon had dubbed it – hadn't stopped growing during his time hollow and had stretched to touch the floor. It had certainly been a treat for the younger undead to see Priscilla used her scythe to shear away meter-long grey hair form the bishop's sulking face. It had been so funny in fact, that Argon had to evade a Demon Hammer flung his way when he teased the man who was apparently self-centred and self-conscious as well.
Looking at the older man now that currently had that moat of grey trimmed to fit his jawline was different but not foreign to Argon. He could now see the undead for the archbishop he was. The way he moved when not hindered by the curse displayed his grace, poise and noble heritage. The way he looked at things through those steel-coloured eyes of his spoke of the wisdom and knowledge he held. Argon now understood why such a troublesome fellow had been feared by the gods' and why even the likes of Seath had made the rash decision to lock him up for eternity. Behind all that childishness, arrogance and nagging stood an unparalleled strategist, a juggernaut both physically and mentally – a dangerous asset to lose.
"Just tell me what's so important there that you of all people want to explore its empty streets and barren hallways."
Havel sighed and kicked the water he was ankle-deep in. Whatever it was he was after, it was clear that it had been weighing heavy on his mind. He had been badgering both him and the goddess from the early hours of the morning. Usually he would have just argued to no end before grumbling unintelligibly. Perhaps this was something vital to their quest that he was leading them to? They had already assigned Laurentius to Izalith, and with the help of Quelana and Quelaan, he was sure to succeed but they still had three more Lord Soul's to collect. They needed more people, or at least something to bolster their fire power when they encountered one of the three Ancient Lords. Did Havel somehow have something that could aid them in besting their perilous foes beyond the bonfires?
"It's an important part of our core strength if we are to work as a group." Havel said and adjusted the hammer across his spine.
"Will obtaining it ensure we can defeat a Lord and obtain their soul?" Priscilla asked.
The man thought for a moment before nodding, "It will increase our chances of it, yes."
"Then its settled," Argon replied, not wanting to be left out of the conversation and aimed his bow at a large rat placed at the exit of the waterway. "I don't really want to go back to a god feeding me fake words and ultimatums, but I suppose another tussle with a few Silver Knight's is worth the journey." His fingers released the arrow he was holding, and the cross breed watched as it flew with a whistle before sinking into the rat's skull with a dull thunk.
"Besides!" the undead said happily, "The Shinning City is where one of our target's lie in wait."
Both Havel and Priscilla sobered up at this. They both had a bone to pick with the albino dragon seated in his ivory tower. Now that both had been freed from their imprisonment with hatred and pain festering in their heart's, and along with an unbeatable Chosen Undead, they would, without a doubt, succeed in exacting their revenge.
"Now, lets get moving!" Argon cheered and began to skip towards the entrance, literally skip. Havel frowned whilst Priscilla smiled warmly at the sight.
It was perfectly normal to see the aloof undead act like a fool to just about anyone or anything, inanimate objects included. Yet seeing him dance around dirty water under the Undead Burg with a reinforced bow in his hand was just disturbing to the archbishop. It was so disturbing that he shivered at the sight. He may be a hypocrite when he said this, but he didn't care, that was positively childish.
The goddess, on the other hand, smiled like she had just been given a bouquet of roses as she observed the jolly undead with glittering emerald eyes. Despite their current situation she couldn't help but smile. They had just endured so much that would have broken any normal undeads spirit – if there were any normal undead out there to begin with – and he was hopping around as if everything was going to be alright.
From a personal perspective, she knew he was finding it tougher as compared to herself and Havel. He was still struggling to resist the effects of the abyssal corruption placed upon him, after all, and the previous night they had taken to rest had done him more harm than good.
She had caught him writhing in agony inside a small house across the bonfire. He had been shirtless, mask tossed aside, and muscles strained as the corruption spread. At first, she had wanted to throw open the door and rush to his side. However, when her eyes caught the thin, black veins that had spread from his chest, to his face and curling around his right shoulder towards his elbow, she had frozen up.
She didn't know why or what had prevented her from trying to help him, but she had spent those few hours watching him gasp, groan, cry out and shake from the pain without lifting a finger in response. He had tried to hold his screams in so that she and Havel wouldn't hear them, but she had been at the window watching. It began with those mesmerising eyes of his scrunching shut as the pain travelled upwards like a wave of joy-sucking disparity. His back had been arched, and he had clamped a hand over his mouth as his voice raised in octaves. The sound of his raw screech had been like a slap to the face and the tears that slid down her face at the display had finally forced her body into action.
Her clawed fingers had reached for the door handle, his name on her tongue as she prepared to call out to him… until Havel's large hand had stopped her in her tracks. The archbishop had known about the undeads condition, it was almost foolish to think he wouldn't have figured it out after observing them with a gaze that had endured the ages. He had quietly shaken his head at her and gently led her back to the bonfire. Needless to say, the cross breed hadn't managed to get any sleep with her sharp ears fine-tuning every scream and pant Argon had made. What woman could ignore it when their beloved was being assaulted by the darkness he had done his best to banish?
So, when she saw him frolicking around the area as if he were the happiest undead in Lordran, she was glad. He wouldn't bother either of them with his problems because of who he was, she knew that. Even if she forced it out of him she doubted he would loosen the ironic ability he possessed to shut up when it came to his personal issues, so the only thing she could do from here was support him. During his rising and his falling, his moments of hesitation and tribulation, she would support him. She had come to understand that he suffered from pistanthrophobia1, so she would wait for him to slowly come out of his closely guarded shell. Whether it took him months, years or even decades, she would wait. He was her saviour, so she couldn't turn her back on him when it was clear he was far, far away from alright. At the same time, he was also the only person she loved this deeply. So, she would give him everything she had, because he offered so much and asked for nothing in return. She owed it to herself to make his life full of the one thing he yearned for but never openly requested… happiness.
"Wait just a moment, boy." Havel spoke, stopping the skipping undead from reaching the exit. Argon turned around and looked at the bishop, amber orbs glowing from behind his mask in the dark space.
"What is it now, old man? I already said we'll go to Anor Londo. We just need to make a stop by Firelink first."
"I understood that already."
"Then what's the problem?"
"If you can travel between bonfires with the power of the Lordvessel, then why didn't we just warp there at the one we just rested at instead of coming all this way?"
Argon froze mid-step. "Err…"
"Well? I'm waiting Chosen Undead." Havel said folding his arms and smiling triumphantly. This was going to be good.
"Uh, yes! Well…" he began and tapped his finger against his mask in thought. Priscilla simply giggled behind her hand, further embarrassing the undead as he stuttered more. Argon was many amazing things to her and she cherished every side of him for the simple reason that it made up the Argon she so loved but if she were to be honest, she adored this part of him. It was just too good to see the otherwise unflappable undead miss such a small piece of the puzzle and flush a brilliant ruby red when he attempted to use logic to explain his innocent blunder.
"Ha! I've got it!" he said finally, pointing a gloved hand at Havel.
"Oh, really now? Please… indulge me."
"It's the journey that matters here, not the speed we take to finish it. What's the point of a quest if all we do is warp to every area without the joys of tedious travel?"
Havel deadpanned the undead and sighed, walking passed him with a gentle pat on the shoulder.
"There, there, son. Just be grateful she's so blindly in love with you and live happy."
This time it was Priscilla's time to flush red.
Drakes. Blue scaled, valley surveying, lightning-breathing drakes. The descendants of the titanic dragon and the newest degeneration of the current wyvern. Their size was still humungous and their appetites for blood and guts even more ravenous. One would have assumed that after so many lonely years spent without a drop of water or a piece of meat these lethargic lizards were most definitely be deceased by now, nothing more than rotting scales attached to brittle bones. And yet, as the Knight of Thorns stood at the foot of a greyscale hill leading to the bottom of the Darkroot Basin he began to feel more and more impatient than before.
He didn't understand why that ambiguously confusing Lithecore had suddenly come up with the idea to drain the floodgates of New Londo on a whim that it would attract that lucky undead. The two of them already used the resting place of the Five Kings' as their home base, what was the need to make it vulnerable to detection – not that any soul besides a Darkwraith could enter the ruined kingdom's abyss if they wanted to. This had been after he had encountered said undead not even a full day ago. Lithecore had told him that he had been duelling a Black Knight for entertainment at the time – he said it so casually as if anyone could do so with a literal tank of an enemy – when the undead and his party of two other's had passed by after a surprise visit from a Hellkite Dragon. This intrigued the commander for three reasons.
Firstly, the insane wraith was able to toy with a Black Knight and live to tell the tale. Black Knights weren't anything special, all things considered. They were just mindless husks of their former visages of silver, their confused souls trapped within their own armour until the Flame finally withered and died. They were no less than the Berenike soldiers than aimlessly patrolled Lordran, but if encountered, they would soon become a nightmare you couldn't awake from. Black Knights still retained their armaments and bolstered strength from the moment the First Flame torched them alive. As such, battle would be near impossible to win. Those terrifying great swords stained red from the Demon blood drunk, those twisted horns above their small heads and the horrific silence they possessed despite being so freakishly large. For Kirk's second in command to call fighting a Knight such as that entertainment was either a testament to his strength or amplification of his insanity.
Secondly, the wraith had said Argon was travelling in a trio. The last he had known, that pyromancer had chosen to stay in Blighttown to brave the lost city of Izalith. According to Lithecore's report, the third member of the undeads party was a stout man dressed in heavy armour, a white beard on his face and gruesome hammer resting in his hands. So, the bishop of Gwyn wasn't hollow after all, it seemed. Caution would need to be taken with him, too many wraiths would lose their decayed lives if they faced him carelessly.
Lastly, the fact that a Hellkite still existed in Lordran with its head still attached meant more trouble than it was worth. The scaled beasts were unpredictable, wild and annoying if they fancied you as the next item to flambé. The worst part about the hellish being was the fact that Hellkite's were renowned for their healing abilities. Just one curl of their wings and the battle you've been fighting for who knows how long and they would recover from near death in a heartbeat. Also, he could understand why people insisted on called them dragons when it was plainly clear they were ordinary Wyverns… with insane healing factors.
An obnoxious sound from one of the drakes brought the Darkwraith back to reality as he drew his blade, stabbed the earth and summoned a vortex of pure darkness from it. Despite Kirk's battle prowess and skill, he wouldn't be enough to best all these winged-lizards single-handedly. He needed his wraiths to pull off this plan and summon them to his aid he would without a moment's hesitation. He was their commander after all… what Darkwraith – besides that raspy Black Knight wannabe – would dare ignore his call to brilliant slaughter?
Kirk stepped back from the vortex as the first wraith ascended from its depths, hands clutching a copy of the terrifying blades all his subordinates carried. His armour was as wicked as Kirk's own and the skull mask added to pure despair when glanced at. It made the Knight proud to know that his fellow brethren inspired so much fear into the hearts of the world. The commander continued to watch as more wraiths rose and fell into formation along the length of the hilltop. One by one they all came, silently arriving and drawing swords to rush the mindless beasts below. Kirk admired them for not waiting for orders as the final wraith left the circle and joined the ranks. It was satisfying to see a horde of skull-face Darkwraith's rush down the hill and collide with the first two drakes on the edge of the valley. These soul ravenous simpletons were obedient and efficient, he had to give them that.
Without wasting a single moment, Kirk sprinted down the hill towards on of the drakes four of his wraiths were fighting. The scaly beast wailed in pain as a blade sheared through its flank before it used a wing to bash the wraith away. The next one came from the vanguard, leaping into the air to sever the things head from its thick neck. As the sword met scales, the beast cried out and tried to violently shake the wraith off. The drake turned and breathed a stream of lighting that tore the closest Darkwraith's body to shreds, emitting a cloud of bloody mist as the Knight of Thorns dived through it and stabbed below the beast's exposed throat. His blade dug into the softer flesh and he pushed the blade all the way until the hilt, grinning when the drake screamed its last and burst into a pool of souls.
He turned and watched a small group of wraiths raise their Dark-hand shields to block incoming flashes of yellow gold. Three more drakes across the bridge were wreaking havoc amongst his subordinates and the commander dashed over the body of a long dead hollow and took to the small staircase, two wraiths flanking him on his right and his left. This scuffle would be over in a few more moments, no force of a few drakes could ever hope to stop an army of Darkwraith's. Kirk swung his sword and severed the tail of a drake that attempted to take flight and observed as his fellow wraiths converged onto the beast like ants after a morsel of food had been dropped. It was almost comical when he saw their blades injecting the blue lizard like mandibles tearing away crumbs from a loaf of bread.
The second and third drake screamed in unison, crushing a wraith under their talons whilst another had his head bitten off within the blink of an eye. If the commander of the Darkwraith's was supposed to feel grief or anger at the loss of a soldier, he didn't show it. In actual fact, he didn't even bat an eye as the drakes were slowly overpowered and slaughtered mercilessly, killing of handfuls of his minions as their lives left them. These wraiths may have been his to command, but they meant nothing to him. What use was caring for fodder anyways when the only thing these suits of armour possessed was a humanly lust for souls? A lost wraith just meant another piece of filth purged from the world to Kirk, five more would always take its place anyways and the world would be filthier than before. That was just how he saw it. That's just how it was.
The commander noticed a ladder against the side of a watchtower and approached it, sheathing his blade before climbing it. He didn't give any orders to his subordinates, they would standby like obedient little dogs awaiting his return like they always did. What a pathetic waste of space they all were. Kirk reached the top of the tower and stood to full height, breathing in the fresh mountain air that didn't smell like dragon blood and looked towards the impressive floodgates of New Londo. It was large enough to house the ancient golems of Sen's Fortress, that was for certain. For a moment he thought of what that proud God of Sparkles would do if he were trapped behind these doors. Would his meagre fireworks be enough to pierce the walls of layered rock and iron that kept even the feared Abyss at bay?
As Kirk paced around the circular turret, he took note of a strange object on the floor and bent over to pick it up. The red stone set into the golden band shone in the sun like a crystalized drop of blood. It was strangely pleasing to look at from the Darkwraith's perspective and he pocketed the ring. This would be a good gift to give to Quelaan when he saw her again.
He knew that his presence was no longer needed there thanks to that annoying undead, but the Knight of Thorns just couldn't keep his mind from travelling to the stunning survivor of Izalith. She had replaced his reason for living the day he had warped into her chamber, intent on collecting her soul as ordered to by Kaathe. She had appeared as ethereal to him, majestic almost to a point where he would just drop by to gaze at her silently praying for hours at a time before leaving refreshed and motivated to continue.
He hadn't understood why he had begun to collect sprites of humanity for her under the nose of that manly sister of hers, he just did it. Whether it was due to a small shred of pity or perhaps something more he couldn't say, the only thing swimming around in his mind when he conversed with her was to ensure she was able to walk properly. But now there was no need for that. She had been fully healed – save for her sight – from what Argon had told him. Kirk was more annoyed that he had believed the ignoble sow at face value instead of checking on her for himself. Yet, even though he argued that he didn't need to return to that hovel… something in his chest yearned to revisit it just once.
He wouldn't be a fool to call it love, Darkwraith's didn't possess physical hearts to begin with, even if he was an undead. He would use the ring as an excuse, call it a congratulatory present to hide the truth from even himself because he didn't want to believe that after committing such atrocities as the Knight of Thorns, that he of all people deserved to feel love, or to be loved in return. Besides, such things weren't eternal, relations were as fragile as a human's scrawny neck – a simple squeeze and all the muscles and bones would snap in an instant… just like the sad truth of love.
Kirk gazed down at his fellow subordinates and remembered that they were standing in front of the floodgates. He would need to order them to scatter before the great doors op-
As the thought left his mind, the sound of gigantic hinges groaning entered his ears and the watched as the floodgates of New Londo opened, spilling a sea of putrid water onto the wraiths stationed down below. What caught Kirk's attention wasn't the scores of Darkwraith's that were droned and thrown over the tall valley below, but the number of corpses comprised of men, women and children that accompanied the flowing water. The bloated citizens of this ruined city littered the entrance to New Londo like debris from an explosion. The bodies that weren't lucky enough to go over the cliff hung halfway on the bridge like broken puppets without their strings.
The commander turned his gaze to the entrance and saw a figure clad in black emerge with his hands folded. Lithecore's cowl was down and his pale skin was struck by a ray of sunlight, illuminating his glowing amber eyes as he looked at a particular Darkwraith descending from a watchtower.
"I thought the other wraiths were supposed to join us?"
"They departed with the blessing of rain you gave them." Kirk replied, glancing at the inside of the dark city. Lithecore just shrugged in reply.
"Baptism purges all impurities… I suppose there wasn't anything pure remaining on the inside of our Darkwraith's." he said and chuckled whilst Kirk sighed. His second in command was insane, sure, but couldn't his attempts at humour be more genuine at least.
"Now what? The city has been drained. How will less water attract a fish?"
"Oh, it won't. This was just step one, now we need to acquire the necessary bait."
Kirk nodded and walked passed him. Lithecore was many things, but foolish was not one of them. If the Darkwraith had a plan, then it was wise to follow it without argument. His unorthodox thinking was one of the reasons Kaathe had entrusted him to lead beside the Knight of Thorns after just becoming a wraith. If his master trusted him unconditionally, he would as well.
"Lead the way then."
"You made us come all this way for a spare set of armour?!"
Argon pointed an accusing finger at Havel as the bishop readjusted his gauntlets, completely ignoring the irate undead.
"Now, now, don't overreact, son. I couldn't very well continue using that ugly armour you gave as a replacement, now could I?"
"Tarkus' armour was made from black steel in the Berenike kingdom."
"Flimsy pieces of metal easily melted by fire," the bishop waved him off and thumped a hand over his covered chest. "This is real protection."
The undead sighed and turned to Priscilla for help. The more he spoke to the old man the more he felt like he was lowering his how ability to think concisely. For a man that held an abundance of wisdom, Havel sure did act like a grumbling old goat. Argon was about to ask his cross-breed companion what she thought but the words died on his tongue when he saw her curled up into a ball holding her sides as laughter threatened to burst from the seams of her leather outfit.
Priscilla normally found the exchanges between Argon and Havel to be more of a hassle than anything else. The conversation always ended in a full-blown argument that she would either have to resolve herself or simply wait for the two of them to duke it out and lose all steam before they could begin their journey again. However, given the difficult times they had just faced together and the fact that Lordran was still dying whilst they paddled along a stagnant lake with all this bickering, seeing this very anti-climactic outcome had been the breaking point for her – in a good way too with how much her mouth hurt from smiling so much. She would have loved to back Argon up but right now she was a little busy trying to stop from crying out as her tail writhed with her in laughter.
Argon, for his part, simply sighed out and grabbed at his hair in frustration. This old geezer had not only ruined his chances of ever finding a moment of peace with the amount of times he pushed the younger undeads buttons, but now he had also brainwashed his fluffy-tailed companion into acting like a giggling mess whenever something seriously outrageous happened?!
"See? Even Priscilla's seeing the funny side of things." Havel said and fixed his shield against his back, revelling in its reassuring weight before grabbing that horrid excuse for a weapon he called the Dragontooth Club.
"You know, I was told you were actually a funny guy to be around… for all the time I've spent with the two of you, I must admit you don't seem to have a single funny bone in your body."
"Your ugly face weakens its effectiveness is all." Argon grumbled out.
"Really? Well it's a good thing I have this now, isn't it?" Havel said with glee as he rubbed that brush-top helm of his against his cheek, making the undead groan in response. It wasn't that he wasn't funny, it was just that Havel was too annoying to even bother joking around. Would he even be able to understand the jokes of the new era?
A large unopened chest to their right caught his attention and Argon approached it in curiosity. "What's in this one, old man?"
Havel turned to him after putting on his helm and walked toward it. The undead looked at the archbishop as he stared at the box for some time before using a boot to lift the lid. "Take a look for yourself." Priscilla took this moment to creep up behind both men, peering over Argon's shoulder to see a long piece of wood resting in the chest.
"Another club?" she asked with a frown, her sharp canines poking out from her mouth as she chewed her bottom lip in thought. Havel had his Dragontooth, a weapon almost near indestructible despite it being an ordinary hunk of black stone. Why would he even need a wooden club when he was basically a weapon himself? Maybe it was for practicing his swings as a child?
"Huh… guess this wasn't a total loss after all." Argon mused and lifted the club up to examine it closer. Priscilla's frown deepened. Was she missing something here? It was just a club crafted from ordinary wood, by a most likely ordinary smith-
Or is it ordinary?
Her eyes focused on the club again, broadening her senses to pick up on anything that she might be missing when she caught a faint flicker of black emit from the weapon. The goddess moved in closer to Argon and placed a finger against the hilt of the club. Instantly she felt the difference. It was like the entire room around her was drained of physical colour, turned to light and dark shades of grey in the timeframe of a single second of contact with the seemingly innocent club. As her heart beat, ripples of dark energy flowed from the club's centre, casting a feeling of vertigo upon her and she quickly removed her hand, gasping as colour and normal emotions filled her mind again.
"You felt it too, right?" Argon asked, and she nodded, unable to speak as he tossed the club back to Havel.
"Were did you manage to find something like that?"
"I had a smith forge it in secret using an ember that was destroyed long ago."
Argon hummed in reply, folding his arms and thinking for a moment. That strange power that pulled the user into a world of monochrome due to its dark influence had nearly given Priscilla a heart attack, and for good reason. Power like that is dangerous, uncontrollable and illegal in Lordran, it was the reason Velka and her followers had been cast out of the kingdom all those years ago. Yet, even as the undead had been the one to hold that club in his hands and feel the same feeling of despair, he wasn't affected like his comrade.
In truth, the Velkian rapier he wielded possessed the same essence, but to a smaller degree. Occultic magic was the first and only fear of the gods since ancient times that the Everlasting Dragons were like mythical beasts in a fairy tale compared to that sinister power. Black magic imbued into armaments weren't as dissimilar as ascending a blade with fire or a shield with an enchantment, the only upside to occultic power was that it had the adverse effect to beings of divinity due to its corrupt nature more twisted than minions of the Abyss. And of course, Gwyn had feared such weapons for the simple fact that it was the only power capable of slaying a god. It was no wonder Velka hated Anor Londo when she was shunned for being born a Goddess that judged the sins of all beings, including gods.
"Well it's a shame," Argon said and stretched his arms above his head. "You made another caveman weapon. Are you certain you're not actually one of those deprived I hear so much about?"
Havel laughed and turned on his heel. "If I swung a sword it would probably break from the impact against my target. It was best to stick what I was renowned for; pulverising people to a pulp." He approached the stairway they had used earlier, and Priscilla followed closely behind, tail still on end from touching that god-killer weapon.
"Woah, where are you guys going?"
Havel and Priscilla turned around to face him.
"There's still one more chest we haven't opened here." He said pointing to the one behind him and the cross breed immediately rushed to his side, static tail now a wagging indicator of excitement. Argon gazed at her smiling face and grinned. She looked like a child expecting a mountain of food for dinner. He took note of how her emerald eyes sparkled brightly in the darker room and how her hands closed into tight fists in anticipation. If Havel wasn't looking he would have certainly petted her on the head. Wait, screw what he said, he still wanted to pet her on the head regardless; she just looked so damn cute!
"What other chest?" Havel asked, stomping towards them and looking down at said chest in question. "This doesn't belong to me."
Priscilla tilted her head to the side and Argon felt like pulling her into the tightest hug he could. "Are you sure, Sir Havel?"
"I'm positive. I only had four chests down here. This last one doesn't ring a bell in my memory."
He turned his head towards the two to see them giggling ominously at the chest, their hands flexing involuntarily the more they looked at it, like dastardly thieves ready to steal a valuable possession. Havel sweat-dropped and muttered under his breath. He would expect such behaviour from the undead due to how different his life had been compared to Priscilla's as royalty and him as an archbishop. To see said cross breed acting the same however, was new to him. It appeared that Argon was rubbing off on her a little too much. He didn't say anything because the older undead was silently routing for the pair to actually become a pair, but this was just scarring to his weathered eyes. If she had already begun to speak like the common undead and acted like a bandit every time she came across the possibility of treasure, how long would he have to wait before she began thinking like the undead she loved so much or started wearing a bland mask to hide her adorable features?! Havel paled at the possibility of such a thing occurring.
"Well, I guess we should just open it then," she said, and Argon nodded quickly, the excitement rolling off him in waves.
"Not like any Silver Knight will come down here and accuse us of stealing his personal artefacts, 'ya know." Argon replied and kicked the chest open with the tip of his boot, like the way Havel had done earlier.
"Now, what do we have he-"
CHOMP!
The undead froze and looked down at his right leg that was currently bleeding profusely from being bitten by a multitude of sharp teeth. He heard a ridiculous giggle and the blood in his veins froze when he saw a thick, grey tongue emerge from the chest.
"YEEOUCH!" he screamed as the mimic continued to chomp down on his leg, enjoying the dungeon-styled B whilst Priscilla promptly burst into laughter and collapsed onto the floor.
A mimic was trying to eat him. A freaking mimic! These sly, sleeping bastards that acted like innocent treasure troves only to deplete your life with a few good bites into your abdomen before ripping you in two like stuffed turkey at the bloody end of the year. Argon hated these abnormal freaks of nature with a passion. It wasn't the first time he had encountered one of these ugly hunks of deceit. How could he ever hope to forget when they had smeared his blood all over the walls in Sen's Fortress, made him repeat the pained journey through Anor Londo's upper floors when facing giant sentinels, created more enemies than he could handle inside the castle and been the reason he had had to resort to blowing up every damn crate he saw with a pyromancy spell before he could actually open them?! These atrocious buggers had given him PTSD whenever they encountered anything inanimate! Why the hell was his guard down now of all moments? Was it because he had seen Havel open the other four without any problems that he thought his luck would be the same? He knew for a fact fate never smiled on him that often so why hadn't he checked just to be certain? Wait, forget checking, why the hell was his luck so damned terrible to begin with?!
As he continued to scream in pain and the cross breed grew from laughing to gasping in pure ecstasy, Havel watched the two of them while trying to figure out what in Lloyd's name was going on. Argon had kicked open a chest, yes, but why did it have teeth and a tongue and why was it currently munching on his leg as casually as waking up from some decade-old nap? Furthermore, Argon was in trouble. His leg was about to get torn off and the goddess was busy laughing at him as if it was the funniest thing in the world? Was she okay? Had his occultic club broken her mind somehow to make her enjoy seeing other people in pain? No, never. She was just… laughing in irony?
Okay, he didn't really know how to put it, but his friend needed help. When the mimic raised its jaws again to try and clamp down, Havel delivered a strong smash of his club to the chest's opening, sending the monster container sprawling against the wall with a crash. What shocked the bishop to silence however, was the fact that when the man-eating chest recovered, it stood up on arms and legs three times longer than his Dragontooth. How could such a monster even stand properly with a head that most definitely weighed a ton?!
The mimic began to approach them with that sickening giggle and Havel tensed up in slight fear. This was odd for the undead, for two reasons. One, he wasn't used to being afraid of anything at all, and two, a bloody man-eating chest on two bloody tall legs was going to try and eat him alive. What should he do, run? Fight? Scream?
Before he could answer his own question, Argon grabbed a talisman from the bishop's waist and threw it at the things open mouth. Chest. Whatever that open part with teeth was. The mimic clamped down on the silver ball and it burst from inside, expelling wisps of magic from between the teeth before the thing burped loudly. Havel was about to state that doing that was useless when he noticed the tall box with teeth offer a human-sounding yawn before putting its arms and legs back under the chest-head and falling asleep with a snore.
A few seconds passed with Priscilla still rolling on the floor laughing as ungracefully as always.
The bishop was about to ask what the hell just happened for the second time when Argon turned to him and grabbed his Dragontooth from his hands.
"Lend me this for a second."
He watched the undead limp towards the now innocent looking chest and slam the slab of rock against the top of it, caving in the wood and snapping what Havel supposed was the things jaw as it was shocked out of sleep with a loud yell.
"Take this 'ya little bastard!" Argon roared and slammed the club against the mimic's head again, splintering the head so badly that it gave a wail of pain before dissipating into souls.
"UUUUOOOHHHHH! "
"And stay dead!" The undead shouted back and returned Havel's club before lifting his mask and gulping Estus.
The goddess of their party was breathing heavily now, gasping in between small laughs that jolted her body and left her breathless again. Under normal circumstances seeing her like this would have been perfectly fine, but these weren't normal circumstances in Argon's book as he limped towards her, the mimic's bite was still pretty damn painful despite healing the wound. It would take him at least a few more minutes before he could walk properly. It was a good thing he knew the best way to bide his time while he healed… by exacting his revenge.
"So… you thought that was funny, did you?" Argon asked a smiling goddess siting in front of him with the sweetest voice he could muster.
"Y-You're voice… haha… it… hahahaha… was jus-just too much… haaa." She was still a stuttering mess even in the face of death? At least she had the stones for it.
"That's great, just fine really," the undead replied, crouching down to her level, removing his mask in the process and smiling sweetly at her. By this point, given that he had taken his mask off and smiled at her had done a perfect job in instantly killing her giggles. By this point, instead of positively happy, she was positively terrified. He had removed his mask to look at her face, while that wasn't surprising since they were so close he did it out of habit at bonfires when Havel was asleep, he had just taken off his mask while in the field of all places. She honestly didn't know whether to try apologising or running for her life, that sweet smile could only mean more trouble than it was worth.
Priscilla gulped involuntarily.
"Now…" the emphasis he put on that word made her entire body erupt in goose bumps. "Let me give you a reason to laugh, my dear Priscilla."
He leaned in towards her, hands grasping her shoulders as he pulled her close, murder written on his face as she paled, eyes going wide.
"A-Argon, w-w-wait a moment… m-maybe we could tal- wait! D-Don't. No!"
Havel just stood there as Argon tickled the woman to tears, cackling ominously as he did so like some psychopath. The cross breed screamed and cried for help from him over and over as she writhed, curled up, jerked from side to side, gasped and tensed as the undead was relentless in his revenge against her. Forget everything Havel had ever said about his personality and her ungracefulness; they were two perfectly mad peas in a pod. He wouldn't every say a word against it, not after what he was witnessing now. Honestly, the bishop couldn't blame him though… what better way to seek revenge than death-by-tickle? However, his mind was more focussed on the fact that now Lordran had chests that could eat a man in one bite.
As Priscilla's terrifying screams continued, Havel thought of the best way to tackle these mimicking fiends in case they ever came across another chest, walking up the stairway as he did so and closing the door behind him, firmly shutting out the wails of terror below. He sighed out and rested his helmed head against the doorframe. He could still hear them shouting.
"Sir Havel! Please hel- AH! S-Sto-AHAHAHAHHAHA!"
"Don't think the old man will save you! I will have my revenge!"
"NOOOOOOO!!!"
I need stronger armour…
I liked the death-by-tickle part, it sounds like something Argon would do; and it's kinda cute too. As for mimic's… smashing them with a huge-ass club just ain't enough, the bloody bane of all treasure hunters!
I've been going over a lot of different scenarios in my head for when Argon and Lithecore face off for the first time. All of them sound pretty good but I'd like to hear any ideas you guys have if you're interested in this encounter. As for the other characters like Laurentius and Havel, I'm going to focus on them more as they each head to their respective Lord Soul's while still keeping Argon and Priscilla as mains for every chapter.
Thanks again to joecola00 for pointing out a couple of noteworthy things about the previous chapter. The only thing I'll say is this: Whoever said the Black Knight was dead in the first place?
I like giving background characters centre stage so Black Knight's, painting guardians, stone giants and the like are characters that I'll be giving personalities to quite often in Kingdom Come. Please enjoy their traits and personas as much as I will enjoy writing them up.
If you find the time, please do read my spin-off of Kingdom Come relating to Argon and Priscilla in a less violent atmosphere. It was supposed to have this really long name, but I couldn't fit it in the story title :( but it's still a good read. I've only posted chapter 1 so far but I will post more of it concurrently with Kingdom Come if I manage to write up the material in time. My spin-off is light-hearted and aimed purely for the comedy and romance aspect.
As for the issue of the worldwide pandemic that rhymes with torona, my country – as well as most of yours as well – has placed me on house arrest so besides studying and working from home, I guess I'll be devoting my spare time to writing more chapters for you to enjoy.
Lastly, please stay safe wherever you are in the world. I don't know you from a bar of soap, but I still don't want you guys – whoever you are – to contract this problematic illness and suffer, so please stay safe and God bless you all! We shall overcome this!