When you wear a mask, you hide the emotions on your face and block the ailments of this world from entering a very useful tool; your mouth. So, what really grinds my gears, is when the locals in the neighbourhood I just moved into stand and stare at me like some wiredo even though our President announced not only a national quarantine but also a necessity to wear a mask FREQUENTLY when going outside. I swear those blokes outside that eatery are either insanely stupid or they're all ghoul's that can fight off a pesky pandemic.
-you should be focussing on the fact that you made Chapter 12's authors note too long again.
Will I never be rid of you?
-don't ask stupid questions, those fools at the diner are beginning to rub off on you.
Ugh, don't lump we in with old men living a mid-life crisis (*cringes)
-you didn't answer a faithful reviewer's question either.
An Interspecies Revie-
-(*smacks mihairu7) don't allow your inner pervert to show, you'll put the readers off this story.
Ow… why do you have to hit so hard? Anyways, in truth, I haven't said a word about a certain firstborn because I hadn't originally intended to put him in this story. However, if I manage to accumulate enough information and if there is a viable opening to include such an important character from the Dark Souls Universe, I will. For now, I'll be focussing on the characters of DS1.
As for why I didn't make the tickle scene a bit sexier, it's because that was a tickle scene… innocent without any bountiful melon juggling to note (as funny as it would have been to write about). Sometimes its best to go into minor detail. This fic is rated M for mutilated monster corpses and manifesting main bosses. No magnificent melon mounting available here. Not even one.
-(*smacks mihairu7 again)
What the hell was that for?
-you were imagining Priscilla when you said that.
Of course, how else would I have gotten the idea to mention it?!
-let me rephrase that, you imagined Priscilla's melons when you said that.
Not that I care but just how much of a dirtbag do you think I am?
-on with the story, please.
I wasn't imagining that, dammit!
Whether the sun rose or fell, the stars shone or were submerged in the true blackness of the Darkmoon, he stayed lying on the ground. No breath inflated the now flaking platemail he wore, and his faithful blade was little more than liquid seeping between the stone ground below his aching body. His armaments were supposed to be strong enough to withstand the Witch of Izalith's fury… look how pitifully they fared against that lone dragon.
In all truth, he should have risen by now. Lifted his non-existent limbs, walked an unmentionable distance to slay a less than noteworthy number of hollows that still infected the streets of his home like rats in a gutter. Speaking of gutter, which one of his reliable brethren also rid of their physical forms had been damned to patrol the never-ending flow of mutated rodents below? Were there any down in the Depth's to begin with, or had his King not seen it fit to depart his useful men of integrity and fodder to be slaughtered by a den of poisonous vermin? Were his kind only ever useful for standing guard beside Gwyn's forward daughter or propping up their shields to defend divinity that stood two full feet taller than themselves?
Why hadn't his body moved yet, he wondered in the deep recesses of his already fractured mind. Yes, he had fought a Darkwraith dressed like him and been roasted alive… no, not alive. Wasn't he dead for nearly a millennium now? His flesh had been turned to ash, even his soul was set ablaze – a thing he thought was impossible – so he couldn't assume to be one of the living.
And yet he didn't feel like he was dead either… if he was truly dead, would his mind continue to work like it did? Would it agonize on why Gwyn's influence was still upon him or why he felt hatred when he had chosen to follow the Sunlight Lord to the death? Wait, had he really done that? If so, where was the memory that proved it? He had been a brave Knight, not a stupid one. He would have remembered ever deciding to be his Lord's stepping stone.
His Lord… was that title still applicable now despite the god's betrayal? What had his commander told him that day? 'The wrong-doings of a King are blameless to his servants'? It made sense in a way. Silver and Black Knight's were superior beings of their own, they did not weep, grieve, lust, feel or hate anything for any reason. They all possessed a strong constitution, an indominable will… very much like the lost Wolf Knight of Lordran. Then again, he was no longer a Knight, now was he? Wait, what was he, a ghost like those in the flooded ruins of New Londo? And if so, what use was his pathetic pride now? Did the fact that he was once fanatically loyal matter? What did that coward of a commander even know about him? Who was he to determine if he could hate or not and why were all his questions unanswered?
With a whisper of a sigh, the Black Knight rose his upper half into a sitting position and gazed at the torched area before him. His armour inhaled deeply, making it sound more metallic than anything else. Needless to say, there wasn't much to look at through his charcoal visor besides burnt hollows and the clouds above. It was a strange sensation to be sitting idle like this, he mused and patted his legs gingerly with a sinister gauntlet.
Good, they were still usable. He had thought they were but piles of useless metal after that dragon's flames had engulfed him. Wyvern, he corrected. Damn the idiot that had mistaken that breed for the more sinister beast. He absently thought of going after the Hellkite as he rose to his feet silently, retrieving his shield as he did so. Commander Arkon of the third legion would have been the perfect Knight to ask for aid when it came to the scaled beasts. He was revered above all the others for his strength and valour against the Everlasting Dragons. A Commander the Black Knight looked up to once upon a time. Bards had sung of Arkon the Dragonkiller in taverns and on the brightly lit streets of Anor Londo for eons as the days went by. He had inspired Knight and guardian alike in those days, created a standard all Silver Knight's worked to achieve with reckless abandon. Would Arkon have understood him better than his Commander if he were to witness and feel the same pain echoing through the Knight's mind like a malicious nightmare?
The Black Knight began to walk.
He somehow didn't feel the influence of Gwyn nagging him to continue his meaningless guard of the lower Burg, he didn't feel the unstoppable call of duty that had boxed him into this sad little part of town. Was it due to his sword melting, or maybe dragon fire had actually done him good instead of harm? Was it because of the Darkwraith?
That crafty fiend had been a clever one from the beginning of their duel. He had known that interaction would trigger his hostility, knew that he would give chase were the wraith to run, and of course he had known that he would have lost his advantage if he led them towards the flat terrain. The Knight wouldn't have been surprised if the Darkwraith had been the one to summon the Hellkite to their location in the first place. That particular breed of Wyvern was known to favour high places to roost rather than hunt for prey, it was a lazy lizard. The only way it could have appeared would be if it had been agitated and lured there… or the unspeakable; tamed.
That Darkwraith had known something about the Hellkite's approach, why else would he have shoved him before diving into that small cottage for cover? Was his hearing and eyesight on par with Knight Gough? The Black Knight thought not.
Along the side of the ascending stairway, the clattering of the Knight's torched armour sounded into the air as it carried the troubles of this desolate world away. How many other sounds had the gentle breeze taken around to different levels, Burgs and cities so far? How loud were they? How full of malice, pain, anger, regret and joy was each stroke of wind, and were the recipients of it hearing them via whispers or loud roars? Lordran, they all called it, flocked to it like crows. The land of Ancient Lords. If the Black Knight had a mouth, he would have laughed. Where were such beings now that their precious Flame was beginning to fade?
The Knight had been there when Lady Gwynevere packed up what little of her maidens remained and fled with the Flame God. How much more disgraceful could the 'Queen of Sunlight' be to abandon her throne like that after her father's sacrifice? The Knight had a reason to hate his former King, he had been lied to from the day he claimed his own soul from the First Flame, but the daughter of Gwyn? She had known all along the plans that bearded old man held for Anor Londo's future, she had been apart of the decision-making, dammit! And when her elder brother had been exiled for doing what was right, the torch had immediately been passed into the redhead's hands. Who would have guessed that the only deity that clung to the Sunlight Lord's bicep would be the first to crack under the pressure and betray all her beloved father had sacrificed to build?
Was the title of Queen too much for her now that an actual monarch had fallen? The Knight supposed so, that good for nothing goddess had only ever been useful for flaunting her sagging flesh to that traitorous dragon when she wanted attention. How difficult was it to sit and wait for the Chosen Undead to enter your bedchamber anyways when you had the honour to converse with Knight Ornstein himself? She hadn't the decency to even rescue her daughter or wish Lord Gwyndolin farewell, at least he had kept the kingdom afloat by scattering Silver Knight's around the Capital as a protective measure.
Gwyndolin was still every bit like his father, the Black Knight knew that, but he had used so much of his own power to make Anor Londo shine beautifully again, illusion or no. Even if the Knight couldn't really feel appreciation in his current state, his respect for the Darkmoon Lord was second to none. Perhaps he could have bargained with Flann to help relink the Flame with his divine power before spiriting away the Queen of Sunlight. He was the God of Flame, after all. Such divinity would have been the saving grace of Lordran many centuries ago. In some way at least.
The Black Knight absently kicked the sword of a fallen hollow and his body automatically reacted at the sound of metal clinking against stone, spinning his armour around and raising his shield. When the Knight realized what he had done, he lowered his arm and approached the blade reflecting the light against his helm. It was an ordinary longsword, nothing special as far as weapons went and the nicks and dull edges showed it had belonged to a foe of little intelligence. Even so the Black Knight bent over and picked it up.
It was strange. He found that was only way to put it; strange. From his dark thoughts and ill behaviour, even his sudden sense of opinion. They were all strange to him for the simple reason that they scared him. As a Silver Knight serving Gwyn, he hadn't known what fear, pain, or rebellion was. His only emotion had been stoicism, and the teachings of Ornstein, Artorias and Gwyn were that of loyalty, integrity, honour, obedience and sacrifice. After being set ablaze by the First Flame and becoming one of the few but deadly legion of Black Knight's, the feeling of despair and anguish had briefly filled him for nearly six or seven generations. However, for a being like himself to experience all these new emotions swimming within his armour almost felt sinful, blasphemous.
Nevertheless, the Knight stood tall, sheathing the worn blade within its metallic mate and continued to walk. This would do for now, despite its obvious flimsiness. He wouldn't very well fight with his gauntlets and shield, now could he? Briefly, he felt as if he were becoming human, as absurd as it was. No Knight of Gwyn had ever truly felt this hesitation, this confusion… this uncertainty. It was uncertainty, wasn't it? This pang of indecisiveness?
Then again, no Knight of Gwyn had ever been betrayed, burnt alive, forced to fight when there was nothing left to fight for and then left for dead when there was nothing a lowly soldier like him could offer. The Knight's thoughts lingered on whether his kind did possess all these emotions in the first place, but they had just been withheld. It was true, the Knight was nothing like a human physically, although was that the same when it came to the mind?
The Black Knight shook his helm as he reached the sun-kissed sky blessing the ramparts with their warmth. It didn't matter whether these feelings were hidden to him or because of his fractured soul, he had no choice but to use them now that he was somehow free of Gwyn's divine authority. Perhaps now he could search Lordran for other Black Knight's like himself? If he was experiencing these humanly emotions, maybe his brethren were as well? However, thinking logically, he doubted another Knight would allow him the chance to explain himself before they tried to lop off his head for treason towards a deceased deity. How would he even begin to converse without a mouth, tongue and set of lips anyways?
How the Knight wished that Archbishop Havel were still alive. He wasn't a god, but he was wiser than Gwyn and posed the right questions when everything in the kingdom began to go wrong. But that was a pipe-dream. Havel, the Rock was dead or gone insane by now, cursed to be stuck inside a tower no one knew the location of. Whatever wisdom was in that bald head of his had blown away like dust on a high hill, far, far away from anyone's grasp.
The Black Knight turned and walked along the outer wall of Lordran. Since he was now free, he would start by looking for any sign of his fellow scorched brethren. Whether they chose to attack him or not was of no consequence to him, they were all husks like him now and would probably be grateful to be let out of their black cages of despair. Only one of them needed to bear the pain and regret of the rest, so why not him? He was already beyond saving anyways. Besides, if his mindless comrades did try to claim his life it wouldn't really matter… all he needed was one of their great sword's or halberds to continue his journey.
"ACHOO!" was what the Silver Knight before the archbishop heard before his helm was filled with tiny pebbles of saliva and his body was smashed into an alabaster wall.
"The hells up with you old man, that swing was sloppy!"
"You calling me weak, boy?!"
"I'm saying that all this fighting's squeezing out the dust from your grey lungs," Argon said, dodging a jab from a spear-wielding Knight and kicking him over the railing of the spiralling staircase the trio were standing on. "Concentrate, will you? We're currently in battle if your amnesic brain can comprehend that."
Havel grunted and lifted his Dragontooth up to block a strike meant to carve a crooked L-shape into Priscilla's back. He had taken up the younger undeads offer to slay a few Silver Knight's for the sport of it – an idea their cross-breed companion had stringently disagreed with – and test their mettle after so many years away from the Shinning City. Admittedly, when Argon had taken him to Firelink he had been against the idea of even sparing a glance for that reeking serpent of teeth and gurgling for the simple fact that Havel hated any beast that resembled dragons or had any acquaintance with that revolting Lord of Sunlight. However, after Priscilla's buttering up and a healthy dose of logic the masked man had conjured from nowhere, they had convinced him to at least greet Frampt. Now he knew why Priscilla always waited for the annoyingly optimistic undeads input before deciding anything, he could be extremely convincing when he wanted to be. Forget that toothy bastard's brother Havel knew so little about, Argon was almost like them himself with that silver tongue of his.
So, with much grumbling and half-hearted glares at the masked undead, the bishop had walked up the broken steps of the weathered Firelink Shrine and met with Kingseeker Frampt. At least it had been a treat to see the otherwise calm and collected stinker stutter in utter shock before having the pride to ask if he were well. The snake wasn't a fool in any regard, those slitted eyes spoke tomes of knowledge with a simple glance, but it was a nice change to see the beast try and fail to explain how it was possible for him to still keep his sanity after so many centuries. Havel knew that the Kingseeker had bade his time by sleeping for eons while in wait for the Chosen Undead to appear, it was the only way to possibly pass the time when you have a lifespan that lived passed that of a god. With that bit of information, it would have been an obvious assumption to anyone that the ugly snake would have been left out of the loop regarding how the undead of the current generation were able to tame the curse to some degree; and in his case, live long enough to bypass its inevitable disease.
They reached the rooftop of the spire they were climbing that led to two other parts of the castle. Near the farthest side, two Knight's stood watch, Dragonbow's in their hands as they took aim at Priscilla and Argon. Havel pushed passed the pair and raised his massive shield, arm jolting from the impact of the spear-like arrowheads. He dared to lift his gaze over the shield and saw the archers reloading before he darted into action, crushing the first Knight with his Dragontooth and batting the other's sword arm away with a flick of his shield. The Silver Knight on the floor wailed in pain before bursting into a mass of souls as the second strafed Havel with that composed dignity he hated so much. The bishop watched the Knight weigh his options for a moment, draw his shield in reply and rush in for an opening. Havel merely snorted in amusement before caving the fool's helm down into the space between his broad shoulders. The Knight resembled an illustration of that mythical Dullahan he had read so much about before collapsing and bursting into white.
After they had travelled to Anor Londo and taken the scenic route filled with lovely sentinel's, imps and a large gargoyle to kill, Argon had deemed it necessary to inform the bishop of his and the goddess' plan for when all Lord Soul's had been collected. Havel wasn't a betting man but somehow even he had guessed that Lordran's confirmed Chosen Undead wouldn't be keen to relink the Flame and claim the title of Lord of Cinder in the process. It wasn't because he had observed the undead religiously since their time together or stuck his nose into the man's passed to discover Gwyndolin and Frampt had both cooked up a lousy story to brainwash him from the truth – even though Havel had done both these things and come to realize Argon's actions via a completely different reason.
It was the simple, stupid and hilarious fact that Argon felt too self-important to risk his life for something as sacred as the First Flame. The memory of the cocky undead saying that he wasn't brave enough to commit eternal suicide but mad enough to die a thousand times just to claim a single Lord Soul was now Havel's favourite one to note. The boy never ceased to amaze him, he swore.
While it was true that Frampt had carried out the wicked lies Gwyndolin had formed to back Argon into a corner, the undead had made it vital to explain that he bore the two of them no thoughts of revenge or ill-will. At the same time, he had also made it a point to mention that he hated that their 'only way out' had been to murder many innocent lives in search of 'true peace', Argon made it clear that to hate them for wanting to protect their kingdom was wrong.
Havel had begged to differ, he still hated Gwyn and the other gods with a passion that would never fade for what they had done to him and the humans around him at that time. It was the only thing currently keeping him sane, he couldn't let that go, now could he. Besides, weren't old men like him infamous for carrying everlasting grudges? It would be a waste to live down the stereotype.
What amazed him most of all was the path Priscilla had taken. By all right, with Gwynevere gone and Lordran left without a Queen, the cross breed was eligible to take the seat beside her uncle. It wasn't like anyone could have denied her that right since Gwyn was basically trapped in the Kiln and every biased 'advisor' to the throne were either hollow or ash. Yet, instead of taking the path of royalty, riches and reclaiming her nobility, she had chosen to follow that idiot that had been marked for death the moment he had escaped the Undead Asylum. What's more, after hearing Argon's decision to kill her father, claim his Lord Soul and then not link the Flame, the only thing she had requested was what the three of them were to have for supper! The bishop had never seen such rebellion of an heiress before that stooped to so many low levels, broke every rule of order. He loved it!
So, with the understanding that Frampt and the Lord of the Darkmoon was never to know of their plan, the three of them were to not link the Flame, yet simultaneously not let it die out… maybe the older undead had been drunk on the Estus he couldn't get enough of but just how ambiguous was the masked man's main objective? It was either one or the other in this regard. Link or not relink the First Flame and he wanted to craft a third option from scratch?! Well he wasn't saying it was an impossible goal, just an unorthodox one. It wasn't like he wasn't going to join them in whatever this journey to the Kiln was, there was still some proud Lightning God smashing he had to do.
"Alright, that should be most of them." Argon said with a light pant. After much jogging and Silver Knight slaying Havel was feeling pretty good about himself. Not only had his skills not dulled whilst trapped in that blasted tower but it seemed the fighting style of the Knight's he had previously trained millennium ago had changed. To face such opponents with such vigour was exhilarating to the bishop. Perhaps these new Knight's didn't know a single thing about him after the old ones had perished but one thing was certain; nobody, not even unperturbed Silver Knight's were prepared for the great Havel, the Rock when he was about to smite the world with his almighty justice. He had to say he rather enjoyed the momentary hesitation in the Knight's that faced him before they were easily swatted to the side like ragdolls.
"Someone tell me why we decided to come to the main hall of Anor Londo again," the archbishop replied and looked down the high walls towards the two royal sentinels guarding the passageway to the Throne Room. "If I'm not mistaken, our goal was to locate my treasure trove and then head for that blasphemous Duke, no offense."
"No offense taken." Priscilla waved him off as simply as shooing a pesky fly. He didn't blame her for hating that naked lizard, he was a bastard for creating a child for the science of it in the first place. Seath was more pathetic than even Gwyn in that aspect, what father dumped his daughter into a warped world painted by a warped mind just because she couldn't produce more scales for him to extract and experiment on? Furthermore, who the hell did that winged lizard think he was to put Havel inside a dog-box? Did he honestly think a simple tower would have kept him from seeking revenge, tearing off the pale things wings and cooking them in a stew that would go down nicely with some moss?
Argon shook his head and pointed to a door on the wall parallel to the one they were standing next to. There was another door leading to a lower floor. "That exit or entrance – I'm not sure how you see it – leads to a noteworthy smith. A smith capable of ascending weaponry to god-like qualities and he sells shards of titanite."
Priscilla and Havel rolled their eyes and sighed in unison. Here he went again.
"Oh, come on! Do you know how difficult it is to find decent materials in this land? Almost every new piece of weaponry and set of armour I pick up along our travels only resonates with twinkling shards of the obsidian rock. It's like these armaments are spoilt children wanting beef pieces in their cream stew! I can barely find enough of the shiny rocks to reinforce my goddamn boots."
Titanite, shards of obsidian of different forms that once belonged to great slabs long ago. With one, you could craft armour and weapons so powerful the ground itself would be torn asunder, Ornstein's spear was proof of that. Argon's companions knew for a fact that such materials were hard to find but agonising over them was pointless. If you didn't have them, you didn't have them. End of story. The masked undead, however, had a different opinion.
They had seen him halt their journey to explore various areas of the kingdom that seemed absolutely pointless only for the undead to excitedly hop from one foot to the other in elation when he discovered a large piece of the material buried in the sand or stuck on high peaks – how they landed in crags and inside chests were another story altogether.
"Look, I understand Twinkling Titanite is hard to come by and it's probably sold for exorbitant prices, but it's necessary for me to acquire." The undead continued to argue whilst Havel raised his shield to block an arrow the length of a spear. It seemed another archer was nearby, the damned pests and their Dragonbow's. Priscilla followed the bishops gaze as a few more Silver Knight's climbed up the stairs flanking the main hall. They looked like the party the trio had decided to leave in that joined bedchamber earlier.
Without wasting a breath, they charged forward, straight swords raised before a pillar of flames rose up and torched three of them to ash. Havel and Priscilla turned their heads to Argon as he splayed his hand wearing the pyromancer glove and blasted the next Knight in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the stairs. "Could the two of you please listen to me when I'm trying to explain myself."
"Fine, fine, we'll listen," Havel said. What was up with this guy, hadn't they already been on this topic one too many times? "Havel, your armour's strong enough to withstand Logan's Soul Spear-"
"Who's that supposed to be again?" the bishop interrupted, earning him a growl from the masked undead.
"-and Priscilla's Life Hunt was literally made to slay gods with a simple swing." He continued as they began to walk around the floor they were on towards the other side rather than descend to face a pair of Royal Sentinels. The Knight from before appeared at the foot of the staircase again, a perfectly large burn mark adorning his left side. He weakly lifted his sword up before the goddess swung her scythe, causing his helmed head to bounce on the marble floor with a clatter of metal.
"The point I'm trying to make is that without that Titanite, I'm useless in a battle against one of the Ancient Lords."
"And yet the ability you possess that allows you to wield any weapon from your bottomless box is thrown out of the window." Havel replied with another grunt as he blocked another spear-length arrow. Argon was a beast on the field of battle, it was no lie. In an instant he could switch from a small dagger to a sneaky polearm and gain any advantage. Even Havel, as a man of the Rock had been hard-pressed to best him in that tower when he had dropped Artorias' great sword and grew that Demon Hammer to finish him off.
The masked undead also had a terribly brutal side to him. Havel had only witnessed it for a few moments while facing those Silver Knight's in the castle barracks, but it was enough to make him change his mind on making Argon angry, ever. His hand-to-hand combat had been like a flash of lighting; quick, accurate and devastating. The ferocity in what had occurred later had been like a nightmare, however. In all Havel's time as a warrior he admitted he had never truly seen a man tear off his foe's arm and use it to beat a wounded man into a bloodstain on the floor, or use a shield to sever another person's limbs through platemail… or sever a Knight's head and use it as a project- okay, he should probably stop before that memory made him queasy again.
"He has a point, Argon." Priscilla nodded as she flicked the blood off from her scythe.
"Alright, I guess that skill of mine is pretty uni- cover your head!" Havel jumped in front of the goddess and deflected another arrow from that annoying archer they were closing in on.
"Could you please do something about him? It's hard to concentrate when someone's throwing pebbles at you with a shiny slingshot."
Argon ran for the archer, dodging another spear-length arrow with a quick roll before he delivered a kick to the Knight's chest. He drew a Silver Knight's sword from the sheathe on his hip and sliced downwards, knocking the large bow from the Knight's hand before ramming his shoulder into him, making his foe stumble for the second time.
"Head down that passageway, I'll meet up with you afterwards!" he shouted to his companions as the Knight he was fighting drew an identical sword. Priscilla noticed one of the Royal Sentinels turn its visor to him and took a large step forward. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to call out to him. The last time they had come here one of those sentinels had nearly severed the undeads body in half because of her negligence. She knew he could handle them better now that he was stronger but that didn't mean she wanted to see him hurt like that again.
"Easy there," Havel placed a gauntlet on her shoulder and she turned to him in confusion. He was going to allow Argon to face foes four times his size and height in the assumption that he would survive? "Let him have this one. Since our departure from the Burg he hasn't exactly been himself, has he?"
The goddess frowned but nodded in agreement. After Argon's restless night he hadn't seemed the same, despite the cheerful persona he had used. He didn't enjoy sharing the burden he was forced to bear, the only trait he had that she disliked fervently, so she knew Argon wasn't going to mention any doubts or worries he had. At this point it was probably best to just leave him be and allow him to let off some steam. Besides, seeing a blacksmith wasn't really a bad idea, no matter how ridiculous the masked man's reasoning was.
She dared a look back at her beloved saviour a moment before he blocked another slash from the Silver Knight in front of him. He wouldn't explain what strife he was currently enduring or even mention the toll that abyssal corruption was having on him despite all they had been through together. The reason was simply because he was Argon; and Argon may have had many friends, comrades and allies on the surface but inside he was still the same lonesome undead that escaped the Asylum. The topic of change was a difficult subject to people that spent their entire lives under one bureaucratic system. In the undeads case, the sensation of friendly company was probably the most alien feeling in the world when you had to watch that your own shadow didn't manifest into something that could kill you.
So, with her mind made up, Priscilla turned away from the masked undead and descended into the passageway with Havel. Argon was still pistanthrophobic and hesitant to even share what he had eaten for breakfast in the morning but that didn't mean she would give up on him, even if he tried to push her away. She loved him after all, so she had to try and reach the deepest part of him when no one else would. What woman wouldn't want to discover every little facet of the man she loved, after all?
Argon, meanwhile, for some odd reason felt the strangest urge to sneeze, as if someone had dangled a feather against the tip of his nose. He knew the castle of Anor Londo was centuries old and that it had basically been abandoned for most of that time, but he had never seen a speck of dust on its floor or against the large windows. As he deflected another blow from the Silver Knight before him he briefly entertained the idea that he was catching a cold before he chuckled at the image of him battling an Ancient Lord with a runny nose. How absurd, undead couldn't get sick, just afflicted with the numerous types of diseases and poisons that could kill you on the spot if you didn't watch out for your enemies' weapon. Who knew skeletons using the same scimitar's as you could make your bleed to your death with a few small bows, or that that black stuff those ugly basilisks blew out in the Depths could curse you?
The Knight before him raised his shield as Argon swung his sword and a loud clang rang out before the undead was forced to roll backwards from a swipe that would have slit his throat. This one seemed to be more of a hassle that the rest they had faced in the castle until now and Argon grunted. Just what he needed, another cocky dumbass in shiny tinsel.
He saw the sentinel to the right approach and sighed. They only noticed you at the worst possible time. Argon dropped into a low crouch as the Knight swung his blade in a wide arc, his cape fluttering in the wind. Seriously, what was up with the capes on every Silver Knight and Berenike Warrior? They just got in the damn way when you were in battle. Even Artorias was smart enough to think it was useless, why else had he torn off that deep blue shoulder cape fitted into his armour? Or perhaps it had torn because he was in battle so much? The undead couldn't place it, he just thought capes were dumb.
Argon spun in his current position and scored a clean cut through one of the Knight's ankles, making him drop to one knee as his balance was destroyed. The Royal Sentinel was beginning to close in fast, so Argon did the only thing that seemed logical; by kicking the Knight off the ledge and into the sentinel's helm, making both fall flat against the ground. As both fell, the undead felt the hall shake from the force and looked up at the glass ceiling. When it was clear it wasn't going to crack and fall like a shower of sharp needles, Argon turned back to the fallen sentinel as it rose, crushed the Knight on top of it by squeezing until the poor fellow burst into souls and picked up that massive halberd it carried around. Well now… who would have guessed sentinels were capable of showing emotion, and anger at that?
The borderline insane undead was about to launch himself from his perch, intent on testing if a Silver Knight's blade could pierce the things helm when something in his pouch vibrated. He frowned and allowed his eyes to move to his side. It was true that facing a Royal Sentinel was difficult but running away from one on the other hand was like challenging a man with no legs to a jumping contest.
He dug into his hip-pouch as the second sentinel finally found it pertinent to acknowledge his existence and drew a cracked orb that looked as if it had sucked up all the darkness in an unlit room. What caught the undeads attention – or eye in particular – was the large, menacing eyeball encased within the crystal orb that stared at him with unfathomed rage.
Damn, if looks could kill…
Argon remembered this item, he had picked it up along with Anastacia's bloodied clothing and soul. The item that golden-armoured bastard had left behind after killing the poor woman due to his own boredom, 'enough of her…' he had said the last time Argon had met him resting at Firelink. The Chosen Undead immediately dropped his façade and adopted the mood he had been feeling from the beginning of that day; enraged.
The eye within that orb was calling out to him somehow, beckoning that innermost part of him, he could feel it somehow. The more it vibrated, the more the small buzzing inside his head became a hornets' nest of screaming, shouting, crying, roaring, and laughing. Actions he was extremely familiar with…
A sadistic smile cracked Argon's features behind his mask as the orb transfixed him, making his body begin to vibrate according to same frequency as all sound and physical beings blended into the vanguard of his sub-conscious. For a moment, Argon felt as though he were holding onto that occultic club of Havel's except for the fact that he could still feel his emotions… deep, dark emotions dressed in in a calm cloak of madness. It stared at him from within his imagination and without thinking he stretched out a hand to grasp at it, suddenly feeling a rush of urges he didn't know he had possessed until now.
Yes… he had forgotten what it was like to feel so compelled to kill, to want to bath in red and watch as his enemies' blood congealed against his pale skin. The euphoria of murdering his victim, whether innocent or not and absorbing the mass of souls that expelled from them when their Darksign's activated.
He had missed the scent of rusted metal, the scent of old and new iron as the coppery blade dived head first into the throats of his victims. He recalled how sweet those desperate gurgles sounded to his sharp ears, or how the body he would begin to dissect piece by piece afterwards would give that cute spasm, a sign that the body was still very much alive – trying to hold onto whatever life remained – as pathetic as it looked from his point of view.
But wait, hadn't he killed all those Silver Knight's already? Hadn't had had his fun, ripping off limbs, carving in new holes where they didn't belong and hearing cries of anguish that shouldn't ever be heard? Wasn't the need to needlessly slaughter for worthless souls finished now?
The vibration of his body increased, and a small ring of the ancient language sprung to life around his body as he dropped to one knee, still smiling so widely the ends of his mouth began to split open.
No.
Of course, it wasn't enough. Not when he heard the names of the next batch of sinners being called out in the world beyond the orb he held. Not when the need for revenge festered inside of his cold heart like maggots to an infected wound – something so putrid even crystal-clear water couldn't wash it clean. He wasn't finished yet, not by a long shot.
How many more Knight's were there patrolling the castle eve now, he wondered. How many of them had he left inside that joined room a few floors above him? Four? Five? Possibly six? He didn't know for sure, but he wanted to go back there and finish them off. They were nothing but wasted space, anyways, what harm would there be if a few more of the so called 'powerful' Knight's of Gwyn departed from this already twisted land they assumed they were protecting? At least Lordran's population would be small enough to manage a ruined economy! But he hadn't decided to let those Knight's live, did he? No, it had been his companions, his comrades, his… friends?
Yes, those people. The woman with the tail and the man with the club, they had agreed to let them go, not him. Why did he allow them to make that decision for him? Why had he not said anything then when they were at that wooden door?
Was it because he wasn't the man he once was? The tortured man with scars deeply imbedded into his soul like stitches on a doll. He hadn't said anything because he didn't want to kill anymore, just avoid conflict. That's right, he wasn't merciless anymore to his enemies but filled with integrity… filled with honour, that's why he had spared the old man with the club. That's why he had stopped using that set of armour and the mask that came with it… because he was a good person now. He was whole again, the woman with the tail… pris… prisck… prince- no Priscilla. She had made him whole again, she had repaired his fractures. He was the nicer him because of her. He shouldn't be thinking about killing anymore, not when he had a mission – a goal! Yes, he had a goal. To… collect the soap stones in Lordran, was it?
No, that wasn't it! It was important, necessary, vital, paramount and any other fancy word that meant he needed to do it immediately. Because, if he didn't… if he failed, the world would suffer. The world… was that his goal, to save the world? Yes! That was it! He had to save the world, he had to help the helpless, cure the diseased! He had to…
Kill those Silver Knight's.
They had escaped him, taunted him with those quiet helms of theirs, laughed at him when their blades touched his exposed skin, smiled when he had died over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
That woman was to blame. So was that man. THEY had stopped him, why did they stop him?! He wanted to kill, to hurt, to maim, to wound, to be hurt in return… it was their fault. They needed to pay. They need to suffer for stopping him, for not noticing his burning wrath against the sinners, against the Knight's! Oh, he knew! He would just kill them.
Crunch in the man's face, snap his bones, pull out his spine and use it to impale him. He would crunch her too – no – he would do more than that, he would break her… she didn't need her hands, did she, or her legs? What about those pretty little eyes of hers and snow-white hair? He had wanted them from the time he saw her, he could borrow them, couldn't he? They were friends after all…
What? No… I can't do that…
Why couldn't he?! She was his to begin with, he found her, so he kept her!
But she's not a toy… I was the one that gave her a toy. She's not a sinner, not a Knight, not even a human! She was to be protected.
But she's a goddess.
That… doesn't matter. She's not like them, neither is Havel.
Who was Havel again? Was it that tree with the pronged leaves? The red and yellow ones!
Not 'maple', Havel. He's my… my friend. I can't hurt him, I won't hurt him. I won't hurt anyone! I'm not the same anymore, I'm not-
Not what? A Lithecore?
Argon's hands began to shake uncontrollably as his mind was taken by the cracked red-eye orb he stared almost longingly at. His teeth began to clatter and a foreign chuckle – too twisted to be normal – escaped from his smiling face. He couldn't see in front of him anymore as wispy lines of white fog began to surround him, deafening his now bleeding eardrums from the loud thundering steps of the sentinel that raced after his prone form, its comrade close behind.
With a final step it raised the hulking halberd in its hand, ready to cleave the undead before it in half. As more fog enclosed Argon in an orb of his own the Royal Sentinel brought his weapon down, the air whistling before it met the white marble platform with enough force to break it into two rough halves. The sentinel retrieved its weapon and backed up. It saw no undead or blood-smear and turned its visor round to survey the main hall. When its shadowed eyes found nothing out of place and no Chosen Undead in sight, it turned back around with its comrade and returned to its position guarding all from entering the Throne Room and Princesses Chamber.
The sensation of falling wasn't uncommon to Argon. If he could have it his way, he would choose to jump over a bottomless pit just to revel in the rush such an action offered. It was like a shock to the brain, a ward from the burden he carried from holding the title of Chosen Undead. A fluffy cloud that reminded him of his companion's lovely tail. When he fell he let go of all the pain he had ever felt, ignored all the tasks on his mental itinerary to just become one with the air that pressed against his cheeks.
Falling made him forget the scars decorating his body, and oh were there many. He couldn't recall ever keeping an accurate tally of them but they all marked a memory for him. Some memories he could remember, and others he drew a blank. They were as fickle as the black separation crystals he used when summoning phantoms.
Falling was more of a pleasure than a pain to Argon, a way to relax, unwind, breath. Yet for some odd reason, as he fell into the nothingness around him all he felt was pain. Not the sharp white daggers that would peel his skin when injured but a deep, untouchable pain that no Estus could heal, no scripture could cure and no prayer to Velka could help ease. As he fell, the noise in his head fought for dominance – the rational against the insane – as his mouth again contorted into a smile he didn't want to wear, utter a laugh he didn't want to even hear.
He gasped as the orb in his hand shattered to pieces, plastering his open hand with a thousand shards of black as the eye within it turned to powder. It wasn't that he could feel the pain in his hand, it was that the blackness around him began to penetrate his soul, fill his undead heart with emptiness as cold as ice as he continued to fall in this bottomless void. Perhaps this was how his weapons and armour felt trapped inside of his inventory? Granted, they couldn't feel due to being inanimate, but it was still a scary thought.
And then, as if things couldn't get any worse than they already were, Argon was greeted by a shadowy figure he thought would have died with the many decades he had spent in the Asylum or purged when ventured into that accursed land to release Artorias; a human memory.
As the sun began its glorious descent into the high mountains surrounding Lordran, Lithecore lifted his head up from the waterlogged tome he had been trying to decipher. There had been a change in the wind, he felt it. The Darkwraith turned pulled down his cowl and walked passed one of his subordinates dressed in full attire, a hand against the hilt of his sword. The wind he had felt had blown to the west, cooing to the birds as it relayed news of what it had witnessed.
Lithecore quickened his pace from pacing to a stride as he approached the opened floodgates of New Londo, ignoring the ghost in front of him as he walked right through it and into the last rays of sunlight for the day. His bright eyes glowed like embers under the shade of the Valley of Drakes as he looked skyward, ears listening to the whistling wind before it left the vicinity entirely. He had heard something, something he had been waiting for patiently. There was no way he could have imagined it either, not when it had been so clear that it was as if someone had whispered right into his ear.
"What are you doing outside?" Kirk asked as pissed off as ever, a frown on his helmed features as he observed his second in command. "You were told to ready the wraiths."
The commander of the Darkwraith's stared at Lithecore in mild worry. It was a first for him to disobey an order so casually – and ignore him in the process as if he were some pigeon that had landed on his boot. He wasn't acting any strangely than normal – usually he was bloody insufferable – but his expression seemed like something the Knight of Thorns had truly never seen before; uncharacteristically perturbed. Or was befuddled the right word? He couldn't put a name to it properly.
Just as he was about to say something to the wraith, Kirk noticed a particular smile appear on his face that he had only ever seen a few times before, one that thoroughly freaked him out every time it appeared.
And then, as if a switch was spontaneously flicked inside of the human-sized pillar of insanity before him, Lithecore began to laugh. It started out as a soft giggle before transforming into that weird chuckle he liked to use.
But it didn't stop there.
As soon as the wraith began to laugh louder, his shoulders started to shake violently, his arms trembled, making his armour clatter noisily in the open space and Kirk frowned as the edges of Lithecore's mouth began to split and bleed, as if they couldn't hold the smile he was using. The Commander heard him take a few gasps of air in between chuckles that sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue before a sound so unearthly escaped from his open mouth that the birds began to scatter in disarray.
It was almost as if an abyssal creature from the whatever pit Kaathe was born from had awoken in his fellow Darkwraith. The noise that was supposed to be a laugh grated against the Commanders ears so loudly that they began to bleed themselves.
"Lithecore! What are yo-"
"FINALLY!" the wraith screeched and gripped his breastplate. His eyes were wide and filled with bloodshot veins that turned his amber irises an odd violet, which was strange to the Darkwraith Commander. Weren't amber and red supposed to make some type of ugly brown or darker shade of amber?
Lithecore fell to his knees as the sensation of pure bloodshed and malice entered his mind, blocking his thoughts and filling him with pure ecstasy as he cackled madly, a hand still gripping the space above his heart as it beat faster than it ever had. That was right, he hadn't been wrong after all. This feeling, the calm before the storm, the flashes of lightning before his eyes as the world around him went white with noise, the need to devour something despite the fact that he wasn't hungry. The pure urge to shred, tear, rip, break, pull apart and crush everything in his path was euphoric, stupendous!
Finally, it was time. He was ready to remember, the return to what they once were. The pain and pleasure began to mix into one clear stream of understanding as Lithecore drew an orb from a pouch on his hip, his smile growing again as blood ran freely in a small stream at the ends of his mouth. Kirk noticed was he holding and step forward quickly.
"What are you doing with that? Do not abscond from my ord-"
"Something of great importance just came up. I need to stir the waters a bit."
Kirk placed a firm hand on the wraiths armoured shoulder. This attitude was annoying him for two reasons. One – his subordinate had been given an order, Lithecore had never disobeyed a direct order before, not even stepped out of line despite his obvious lack of obedience; and two – the wraith in Black Knight armour didn't even have enough of a life to attend to something of 'great importance'.
Whatever he had come to Darkstalker Kaathe for, it was obvious that his desire wasn't to purge all humanity. It didn't take a Dragon Scholar to point out some of the most notable traits about the cackling fool either. That pale skin of his almost resembling royalty of Carim had never experienced the sensation of intense wrinkles and malnutrition when half-hollowed since he arrived in Lordran. If the Darkwraith Commander remembered correctly, Lithecore had never really been killed in battle to begin with, he was just that good at combat. At first Kirk had just assumed his subordinate was a human hiding under the guise of an undead but after watching him closely as he fought, slept and spoke it was clear his second in command was anything but. What human could manage to continuously warp in and out between abyssal portals and wield those heavy great swords so casually?
The other issue was souls. Every Darkwraith, irrespective of what species they all were underneath those skull-face masks had joined under his master's banner for one purpose; greed. They were all minions of the talking serpent, yes, but they also possessed a will of their own and acted according to what that will dictated, whether it be a lust for power, humanity, souls, slaughter and so forth. Lithecore, in that regard, had been the odd one out. Besides the fact that he acted like he had humanity for days, Kirk had honestly never seen him actually absorb a single soul before. He had seen the various moments whereby Lithecore had used Life-Drain on a person and crushed the empty husk under his heel but had never seen the translucent swirl of soul's dive into him as it did for Kirk.
Perhaps the wraith was simply storing them in soul capsules like one did with a multitude of humanity? He didn't know but one thing was clear about the man with black-veins; he was just using the Darkwraith's as a resting place, a bookmark until he found what he was looking for. It was a smart move in his opinion, using a covenant that availed you the benefit of travelling to anywhere in the kingdom while in search for something or someone. It didn't matter how many undead you needed to slay, murder and drain of life; just so long as your agenda would be fulfilled, the lengths you have go through were barely noteworthy. Kirk knew this too well, it had been his plan when he had first arrived in Lordran too.
"Alright then," he said to the smiling wraith. If he had found what he had been looking for, there was no use stopping him and Kirk wouldn't risk it. After all, if anyone had tried to separate him and Quelaan they would leave using their severed limbs as crutches.
"But make it quick. If Master comes to know, I won't be the one to provide a suitable alibi."
If possible, the wraith's smile grew wider and he crushed the orb in his hand. The Knight of Thorns took a few steps back to avoid the enchantment of ancient runes that circled his subordinate, it would be a hassle if the wraith teleported with on of the Commander's legs inside the spell's circle. Thick, white fog covered him like a blanket as the Darkwraith cackled ominously, the sound growing fainter and fainter as more fog covered him, obscuring any view of the prone man before the circle convulsed once and pulled his second in command into another dimension, leaving nothing but wet earth behind.
And in an instant, Lithecore began to fall into nothingness, reaching his hand out to grasp at the hallucination before him dressed in shinning white, wearing a porcelain mask.
I completely forgot to give you guys a word bank in the previous chapter, please forgive me.
Word bank:
Pistanthrophobia/Pistanthrophobic – (n.) Fear of trusting people due to negative past experiences.
Now, I will admit, this chapter didn't feel that grand to me. I had been doing bits and pieces of it throughout the week and I was getting kinda frustrated that I couldn't form anything concrete except for the awakening of the Black Knight in the beginning. After a few snorkel-dives into other fanfics both related and unrelated to Dark Souls, I finally did receive the inspiration I had been needing to finish this chapter, so thank you to SevenRenny, Alan Blaster and MungoJerry for taking my mind off of being quarantined, the fact that my college keeps changing the bloody due dates for my assignments and the stress of no damn business until COVID-19 has been stabilized.
Now, the gang will be splitting up as you've probably already guessed, so it'll allow you guys the chance to see the individual stories of Havel, Laurentius, Argon/Priscilla and various other characters that will be coming soon.
Argon's little personality problem was caused by his need for revenge against a certain fellow in gold armour. He breaks down like this due to the Cracked Black-Eye Orb blurring the lines between undead and human emotions/thoughts which force his to relive a few memories as a human before death. Now, I understand that this doesn't happen in canon and I'm bending the lore quite ridiculously, but I'll remind you that this is still fanfiction. So such absurd theories can be accepted in most cases. The next chapter will feature Argon's past that I mentioned in earlier chapters as well as the reason him and Lithecore are so closely connected (since they share the same face and stuff, 'ya know?).
I mention the Black Knight talking about a Sliver Knight named 'Arkon'. If you read the Dark Souls comics by Ryan O'Sullivan dubbed 'The Age of Fire', that character is given audience. If you were wondering if I got Argon's name from that Knight, it's a solid 'no'. Argon – or St. Argon at the time – was the name of my avatar when I first played Dark Souls. Besides, I only found these comics recently.
Also, I'd like to apologise for something I wrote about in this chapter. I only did it because I was relaying the fractured thoughts of Argon, but after reading over it and realizing just how dark it sounds, I really feel bad. As to what I'm referring to, it's the part where Argon looks at Havel and Priscilla as enemies.
The whole explanation of what he'd do to their bodies was… (*shudders) I hope I don't have to write about the idea of tearing my favourite cross breed to pieces ever again, mad Argon is bad Argon that gives me nightmares! Please forgive me Priscilla, I promise that nothing like that will happen. EVER!
On a MUCH lighter note, how many of you have seen that heart-warming symphony in Italy? Seeing the entire country sing merrily despite the terrible conditions is what true humanity and humility is. What a beautiful country and what beautiful people…
Lastly, a quick question: are p.m.'s on the Fanfiction app even going through to people? I've sent quite a few myself but I honestly don't know if they even reached the people I attempted to communicate with. If they are going through, then of course the simple answer is that people don't want to reply to a plethora of words conjured by yours truly. I kinda have a problem regarding word count when I praise a person's work…
Anyhow, please do R R (come on ampersand, stay with me!), I'd love to hear your thoughts, ideas and opinions. Flames are always welcome as I love to improve at everything I do! (ooh! That kinda rhymed, I'm on a role here).
P.S. – don't bother flaming if you've got nothing useful to add to this fandom. Useless ranting is called slander, do that to someone who'll be offended by your meagre attempts to verbally annoy people. With that being said, have a lollipop and keep on skippin' mah boy! (*hands reader a Fizzpop) Be like that fellow... whatzhisname
- GrandapJesse
Yes, him! Why I say, I get the goosebumps when he offers his much needed opinions, I do.
-now I just feel bad for the guy.
And why's that? (*raised eyebrow)
-well it's because... never mind.
Aw, come on, why do have to make me seem like such a weirdo?! (*sulks in a dark corner)
-(*turns to readers) you get what I have to deal with every day?
Stay safe, take precautions, wear a mask, and cover your bloody mouth when you cough or sneeze! I'm looking at you, Havel.