Hello again my esteemed readers! Are you as exited as I am today?
-you mean excited. You left out the 'c'.
Really? Oh, man. I guess I was just too pumped to notice.
-or you were just too lazy to change it so you created this exchange as compensation.
Hey, don't go around spilling my secrets now.
-that isn't a secret, it's a useless bit of information. A secret would be me saying you geek out whenever you receive a rev-mmph!
There, there, just relax. Take a deep whiff of this chloroform-soaked handkerchief and forget your worries… (*watches illogical-self pass out)
That worked well… should have used that sooner. Huh. On with ze story…
He was faster than the first time he had faced Gwyndolin, stronger too. At that time, he was the first undead to receive the title of 'Chosen' and he was barely able to face the god in the armour of his father's knights. It was different story now that he was half bare, however. In truth, the god assumed the lack of protective covering would be more of a disadvantage to the undead now that he was open to receive a myriad of the Darkmoon god's powerful spells. It was just a shame Gwyndolin's logic had decreed that possibility as either stupid or impossible. The main reason being that the god's luck was never that high, as such, his odds were never that easy; they had never been easy to begin with.
Gwyndolin watched as Argon spun his body, narrowly dodging a soul spear fired his way before charging forward again, a menacing smile adorning his untamed features.
If he had to be accurate, it had probably been a few weeks since the undeads party had revisited Anor Londo. That wasn't nearly enough time to hone one's skills in battle but the god argued that when you were an undead with the ability to better yourself with the intake of souls, the possibilities were evidently endless. When he had begun watching Argon the first time he had set foot in the castle, his movements hadn't been any different to that of a trained soldier with a dirty fighting style. His movements with weaponry had been poised an elegant, however, he displayed an unarmed combat stance equivalent to a gruff brawler.
Now, he fought like some feral imp, his body lowered and only one hand on the hilt of his sword. The stance was odd and he ran as if his arms were limp. That notion would also prove to be false as he backstepped another homing spell, ran up to the snakes anchoring the god and slashing at the one nearest to himself.
Gwyndolin winced as the snake's head and side received fresh cuts from the sharp blade. Although they were but illusions he used they were still apart of his own body, the blood spilling from said snake was more than enough proof. Another snake next to the one Argon was busy hacking raised its head and hissed. It opened its mouth and attempted to take a bite out of the undead but was rewarded with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. Gwyndolin grunted as the snake's jaw was dislocated and slammed his sceptre into the undeads body, sending him skidding back. The god may have possessed magical prowess that overpowered both his siblings by leagues but he was useless at close combat, something he rued to this day.
He raised the sceptre as it began to glow azure again and watched his opponent stare at it with mild worry. The glow turned into a large orb that condensed until it was the size of his head before flying forwards. The god grumbled again as Argon waited for the orb to reach his little bubble before rolling under it casually. That had been the third time the maddened undead had dodged his most powerful attack. It was staring to get annoying.
Argon looked at him and smiled mockingly.
Their battle for the undeads mind had only begun minutes ago, and already the endgame was quite clear; Gwyndolin was going to lose. The cuts and slices adorning both his snakes and clothing were small but bled freely like a gushing well. The smith, Borgus had done a good job creating the finest weaponry for the castles knights to use, it was just a shame that they were being used to kill the very beings they were mean to protect.
Whilst Argon hadn't survived thus far without a few good hits via soul arrow and gold darts, he still seemed more than energetic to continue as if he were merely scratched on the cheek; and this was after he had been hit by Gwyndolin's strongest attack at the beginning of the battle. The Lord of the Darkmoon tensed again as Argon ran forward, arms flying behind his body as he ran close to the ground. He crouched low on the last step before leaping into the air, sword arm raised to cleanly cut through another of Gwyndolin's snake's when he was shot with a concurrent stream of darts. The undead was sent falling to the ground with a loud thud before rolling to the side to avoid getting bitten by the snake he had just cut.
It amazed Gwyndolin at how strong his champion had become in such a short space of time. He understood the aspect of reinforcing one's body with souls, it was a method many undead favoured as a way to face the challenges ahead. His own Darkmoon Knightess was fond of using souls to increase her endurance, however that worked. Yet watching Argon fight was like watching his own snakes, his movements were unorthodox and oddly flexible in combat. It was if his body wasn't even alive to begin with, just a puppet of flesh being manipulated by some invisible puppeteer.
He observed Argon as he lifted his legs from the ground he was lying on, placing his palms on either side of his head. As his knees bent inward he pushed onto his arms, effectively flipping his body from the ground and onto his feet. He picked up his sword by giving the hilt a small kick with the tip of his boot. The blade lifted off the ground and he caught it before pointing the red point to Gwyndolin. He was still grinning ominously, his corrupted right eye glowing a malevolent purple.
Whether his strength had come from an abundance of souls or due to the abyss corroding his body like acid, the god didn't know. What he did know was that he had to change his strategy before this battle actually killed him. Despite the fact that he was a god, he couldn't deny the fact that if he suffered anymore deep wounds, he would disperse into souls like his Royal Sentinels had previously. He didn't have any reservations towards killing the undead he saw before him, it needed to be done. What he did have an issue with was whether he would be able to do it or not.
Thinking rationally, there was no way he, as the god of the Darkmoon couldn't manage to slay a weaker being. The power coursing through his veins was an unstoppable flow capable of making Anor Londo a changed civilization with a simple flick of wrist if he so pleased, however; the thought of killing the one undead that had come so far as his champion made an uncomfortable weight settle in his stomach. Knowing that Argon couldn't truly die was a reassurance he gratefully accepted – even it was only because of the curse they were all trying to get rid of – but the uncertainty of whether he would change back to his passive form, remain the same or go hollow, was stopping him from acting.
That, and the guilt weighing over his crowned head. He had been the one to enforce this 'Undead Quest' onto the people exiled to the Asylum. It had been because of his crass thinking and Frampt's devious urging that he had crafted this impossible mission nobody could complete. And of course, it was his fault Argon was like this.
Although he knew he, like his father, didn't have a choice but to seek a way to save their home from the Dark; the realization that he, a being of justice, had sentenced so many innocent lives to pre-mature death was like a fist to the face. How could he even preach to be one of benevolence when his hands were stained with a sea of blood? Yet, he had to wonder whether this was Velka punishing him from beyond her exile. The goddess had been a dangerous witch no one, not even his father, could control. Her role as a deity was to judge the sinful and although it was a noble profession she found in the First Flame, she had been shunned, hated and exiled for her accusations towards the Four Lords.
She had damned all of them for eliminating the Everlasting Dragon's after all, calling it a needless slaughter towards creatures of pure neutrality. She had been partly correct, of course, there hadn't really been a need to slay every last one of the scaled beasts but… how could he have argued with his father, the Lord of Sunlight? Even though he as Gwyn's son hadn't engaged in the War that occurred before the Age of Fire, he still felt the weight of his predecessor's sins on his shoulders. As the remaining god to inhabit this once beautiful kingdom, he rightfully took ownership of the debt that went unpaid. Perhaps this very loophole was the reason his sister had eloped without a care for those she ruled over. How bittersweet it was, and yet Gwyndolin partially understood the ways of his foolish elder sister.
When he thought about it carefully, maybe the whole reason his plan backfired on him like this was because it wasn't his plan to begin with? He had called the Undead Quest his own but he really knew less than a fraction of its origins. It had only been because of Frampt that it had come to his ears, and even then the title was shrouded in fog. He had used the serpent's coaxing as an excuse to formulate this death-trap of a quest for any undead who dared to approach it. What if the idea, the rumour of an undead quest had been planted by the black-haired Witch herself millennium ago? What if the reason Argon was this way, corrupted and after his head was Velka's way of administering her punishment onto the divinity of Lordran? He wouldn't put it passed her, he had absolved any notice of her covenant by establishing his own on top of it, after all. It had been necessary after the rebellion had ensued and she was found guilty to be the perpetrator that instigated it. That was why he had decided to come out of his isolation in the first place, order his few but powerful worshipers to seek vengeance over those that sin against the god's.
Now, however, he wondered whether his quick but foolish thinking had all been his undoing in the end. Perhaps Argon, in his own delirium, was correct in assuming he was a sinner. The undead may not have known the teachings of the dark goddess's covenant, but he sure seemed to capable of identifying foul acts when they were hidden by veils of divinity. Maybe Velka had been pulling the strings all along when his champion had escaped the Undead Asylum? Maybe this was her vengeance against him and the other god's?
"Do you wonder why there aren't any birds in Lordran?"
Gwyndolin was snapped from his negative thoughts. It was no use mulling over his mistakes now, he was still in battle. He turned his head back towards his opponent.
"I've two theories that warrant some thought if you're interested." Argon said, as he pulled out a long dart from his forearm before looking at it curiously. The sinner had shot them from his large sleeve, twelve of them in total. What was more interesting was the fact that they hurt more than the soul arrows he had been hit with. It made another twisted smile pull back his cheeks. The 'god' had literal tricks up his sleeves… he was beginning to like the tall being very much.
"The first," Argon said as he put a hand into a pouch on his hip, "is that when this curse decided to urinate on the land your sparkly father cultivated, the natural wildlife found it pertinent to remove itself. Which animal wouldn't when realizing its habitat was in danger? Aside from the massive crow that brought me here, I suppose the other feathered beasts fled, lest they be equally cursed or eaten by that building-sized bird."
Gwyndolin frowned at this. So it was Velka's doing. Her relationship with crows had turned into an obsession that bled into her worshiper's devotion for her. It had been so bad at one stage that a few of her follower's had mutated into the very animals they used as a conduit to communicate with the goddess of sin. After her exile; her turned follower's, a sane cleric and the remainder of her miracles had been cast into the Painted World. Those variables were one of the reason's why he had fought to desperately free his niece from her prison. Whilst he wished for a member of his family not to suffer alone, a hidden part of him was also weary of her discovering those accursed forms of magic. Priscilla had idolised Velka since she was a child, before the Witch's exile; and besides that, she also possessed the Life-Hunt. If a cross breed with the ability to slay gods with her own strength had discovered Velka's Occultic power and found a way to utilize it… there would be no safe haven for any god alive should her mind be turned to hate the Great Lords.
Even so, he couldn't exactly rule this as an act of the goddess. Velka had gone missing after her exile. Not even his best spies had been able to find her after her most devoted followers had all been slain. It was possible that she had lost her connection after that; a lack of faith was detrimental to a god's power. But then again, Velka hadn't required her worshipers to possess an abundance of faith for her to grow in strength… she had sought out smarter followers instead.
Gwyndolin shook his head. Whether this unfavourable circumstance was her doing or not, he would mull it over later, when he had saved the Chosen Undead he placed all his trust into, the one he honestly believed would save this dying land and absolve this curse once in for all.
Argon raised an eyebrow when the god didn't reply to him. He had thought his first reason was a pretty good one. Surely that reason would deserve at least a smidge of praise from the sinner. Allowing them a few good brain-teasers was the best mercy he could afford them, after all. He shrugged nonchalantly and withdrew a grey ring from his pouch before putting it on. He felt the magic course through his veins and took a small step forward. When his boot didn't make a noise, he smiled, he loved this ring so much. It allowed him the freedom to dish out his holy smite to the oblivious blasphemers around him, how pleasant the element of surprise was.
"The second reason is that they were all mutated." The god's head followed him as he walked towards a large pillar, his hand back in his pouch in search of something. As he lifted his multi-coloured eyes to stare at the feminine-man's gold crown, he grinned wider. The excitement was just killing him. He put the second ring on as he passed behind the broad pillar, humming at the euphoria of more magic filling his body.
"Turned into the beats we undead fight till this day, their once beautiful feathers fell away to the rot their oversized bodies possessed. Now they stand as nothing but monstrous creatures, waiting with salivating beaks for fresh meat."
The Darkmoon god raised his sceptre and prepared another volley of soul energy for when the undead reappeared but stood in mild confusion when his presence had disappeared entirely from his senses. After a few moments of waiting he approached the pillar only to find nothing behind it. He grunted in annoyance and swivelled his head around the room. A few of his snakes extended from him to sense the air, flicking their long tongues out. Now he understood just how annoyed his father used to feel when he cloaked his form from him.
"But do you know what I really think?" Gwyndolin snapped his head to the side and lashed out with a soul arrow. It exploded against the ground with a big burst of light and one of his snakes was stabbed in the eye with a throwing knife. He grit his teeth from the pain.
So, he couldn't sense Argon's presence. He knew Argon had learnt the spell of invisibility from Oolacile since he used it most of the time when creeping into the castle. What perplexed him was how the spell also allowed him to cloak his presence and life-force entirely. He couldn't even hear the undeads footsteps. To his knowledge no Oolacilean spell had the power to do so, not when the fallen kingdom's focus had been on controlling the light itself.
Unless…
Gwyndolin smiled slightly. Vinheim had surely advanced their armaments over the years. He relaxed his body and commanded his snakes to retract, pooling them around him like a hedge of fangs as he concentrated on one of his stronger spells. He waited patiently, doubts still swirling in his mind but his determination steadily rising as he formed a large ball of soul energy above his crown.
"These now flightless pigeons and hawks have all become undead like the lot of us here…" Argon's voice echoed around the room near his left but Gwyndolin didn't move. He continued to concentrate, amassing his power into one powerful blast as he left himself open, his snakes hissing in fury as another was awarded a large cut under the neck.
He closed his eyes and waited a few more moments, his spell ready to be released. When he heard someone huffing behind him, he opened his eyes wide and allowed his orb to convulse.
"They're all dead… just like you will be." Gwyndolin lowered his sceptre as the orb above his head split into a mass of hundreds of miniature balls of blue flame.
"Azur Blaze." He said as Argon's presence re-emerged. The god whipped around as the undead withdrew two rings from his fingers before dashing forward towards the homing soul energy.
It didn't matter whether he was the one in the wrong, whether Velka really was using his champion to punish him or if this was his karmic justice, he would save this undead. One way or another…
Priscilla felt anxious, or a sense of foreboding at least. She never usually felt like this after leaving her saviour to his own devices for a while but when it felt this urgent, her gut was seldom wrong. She had pegged it down to her over-exaggeration over little matters that ended up creating a turtle-shells worth of stress for her cross bred shoulders to carry like some overworked dung-beetle, comparing her present persona to the one she adopted before meeting Argon. The differences were rather vast in more ways than one and for once she entertained the thought that she may be more smitten for the unusually jolly Chosen Undead than she had originally perceived – while at the same time understanding that love made even the wisest a fool.
For one, she had never felt so compelled to empathize with people like she did now. She had felt terrible when people came into the Painted World without a way back, sure, but want to sit down with them like a gracious host and offer them beverages after their mind's had gone 'splat'? Not really, no. That had all changed after she had left the painting and Anor Londo, it was as if her womanly switch of abundant kindness and understanding had been flipped. Which wasn't a bad thing in her opinion, if anything she was glad she was a kinder person; she just hoped that kindness wouldn't disappear if a certain someone in her life did as well, whatever gods still out there forbid.
Another thing worth noting was the racing of her half-dragon heart and heating of her cool cheeks. She didn't understand why it beat with such urgency, especially when with the undead. She wasn't a fool not to sum it up to her affection for Argon but at the same time she didn't think her heart racing every time he was near was a normal thing. The redness in her face was also a problem. She had never understood what Jeremiah meant when he said that a blush was an unstoppable force. Now she did, and it was frustrating her to no end. She wasn't one to cling onto the people she saw as precious – her 'father' had at least taught her how to act noble before he dumped her in that painting – but the rate at which her cheeks were filled with blood when they were close wasn't doing wonders to her health. At times she would feel light-headed after Argon had spoken to her and she cringed every time her voice was a tone louder than what she actually meant to make it.
The last thing on her itinerary of irritation was her annoyingly large, fluffy and adorable tail – that's right, she was vain enough to admit it. She hadn't realized that it had more uses than a comfy pillow, a hand warmer and nice addition to her appearance – because even she, in all her humbleness, had to agree she was quite attractive… or at least King Jeremiah had said so. Now she had to live with the fact that Argon had been subtly using it to ascertain her moods and reactions whenever they conversed, and he had said it whilst in battle of all places! How embarrassing, how shameful! What a creep, a pervert, a stalker, a- wait, wasn't it her fault for not noticing her tail had that attribute?
Even so, despite the embarrassment it had brought her, she had gotten closer to the aloof man. He could be as distant as he wanted to at this point but there was no stopping him from the trust they had both cultivated. Whilst his deeper secrets and burdens weren't as crystal clear as his smaller ones, she could boast to having the closest relationship with the undead when it came to knowing him on a personal level, his previous companions be damned.
With that being said, she knew that this sudden feeling of uneasiness for the undead so closely kept to her heart was something to worry about, even if she and Sir Havel were only a few metres away from him. Her gut, as she mentioned before, was never wrong when it came to that unpredictable undead.
As Priscilla turned her gaze back to the ex-archbishop and giant blacksmith happily laughing at some joke, she couldn't help but take a moment to smile herself. Sir Havel had been through the same isolation that she had those many years ago. Whilst her situation had been terrible, his had just been a true nightmare from the beginning. Having the last Everlasting Dragon you didn't trust in the slightest set you up before making your best friend side with the enemy and betray your integrity was a sour patch of moss to bite down on.
Havel's hatred towards her father had grown to immeasurable heights over the many years he had gone mad in that tower, and whilst he was after the pale-drake's head, he surely hadn't forgotten about the Lord of Sunlight either. She had once mentioned to him that Gwyn wasn't to blame for listening to the lies of his Duke since he was a trusted confidant; however, that had just blown up in her face when the armoured man had countered that being the Sunlight Lord's ally for so many years meant more than the advice to some traitor that had sentenced his own kin to their deaths over petty jealousy. It had been difficult to argue with his solid logic; if that had been her, she would have sided with Havel. There was less of a chance of being lied to since the man's record was basically squeaky clean as compared to the devious dragons.
Seeing the otherwise grouchy ex-bishop allow himself the chance to sit down and laugh his current worries away with an old friend had been a nice sight, though. When they had climbed down yet another agonizing flight of ivory steps, they had come face to kneecap with a hulking mass of a giant smith in charcoal armour. The sight hadn't been that surprising to her since she had been taller than the being at one stage, however, the tools this deep-voiced giant was using to craft such weapons like the blades of the Silver Knights had been quite a curiosity.
But before her mind had even given her a chance to assess what her eyes saw and effectively come up with a question regarding the strange sight, her companion had seen it fit to audibly gasp before greeting the massive life-form with a shout worthy of the usual arguments he had with Argon.
From the introduction she had received from both Sir Havel and the smith known as Borgus, the two had been friends from the beginning of the Age of Fire, when the giant race had partnered with the Great Lords to overthrow the Everlasting Dragons. That was undoubtedly a long friendship if she added the numbers correctly, a very long friendship. It made her realize just how old the ex-bishop was and he wasn't even a god; merely a being on a higher plane of existence than humans.
"Ahahahaha…" the man seemed to be out of breath with how much he had been laughing thus far. It was strangely enjoyable coming from a man that was otherwise mostly grumpy. "So there walks in Artorias, a wolf cub the size of a chest in his gauntlets as little Ciaran gives his dirty armour and torn cape a once over. He looks at her through that hood of his and they keep a steady gaze although neither can see the other's eyes before he asks: 'Ciaran, can I keep this puppy?' The Lord's Blade, bless her soul, was so overcome with emotion for the cute furry rascal that she could barely speak!" Havel exclaimed, throwing his hands wide as he told another story of his past. He had removed his helm so that he could get a proper look at his old friend before diving head-first into tales and jokes that would probably go on for eons if Priscilla didn't stop him soon.
Borgus, for his part, was just as animated in their conversation; nodding his head in agreement here, laughing along there before offering his input in at a later stage. It was like the two had been away on their respective travels and had just reunited after so very long – which wasn't far from the truth. The goddess watched the ex-bishop's eyes sparkle for the first time since he had been given his first sprite of humanity by a muttering Argon. As much as her mind screamed at her to interrupt them in favour of her worry for their third companion's health, she was finding it really difficult to say anything at the moment; Sir Havel's storytelling was almost as mesmerising as Argon's. the ex-bishop really played the 'old-man' role well.
"What happened then?" Borgus said in anticipation, excitement obviously present in his booming voice. He had stopped his dutiful smithing to listen intently to his good friend speak of another hilarious joke. For once in the giant's long life, Havel was the first person he didn't have a problem stopping his work to openly speak to. Whilst Ornstein and that undead with the mask had done their respective best to make him open up more to a conversation, he had remained stubborn to their pleas; opting to listen rather than comment. He didn't despise company in the slightest, it was just that he was more of the quiet type in comparison to other giants like his leader, Hawkeye Gough. However, when it was a question in regard to a certain club-swinging Archbishop he would always be down to contribute to a conversation. It was his only exception.
"The lass looked at him, barely holding in her desire to pet young Sif before reminding him that animals weren't especially permitted in Anor Londo. Needless to say, it took the Knight less than a split-second to counter her words. He said to her, and I quote, saying: 'But we kept Ornstein.'
The lion-helmed Spearman just happened to be walking passed to hear those exact words before he turned to them with mild irritation when he had discovered what the two had been talking about." Havel and Borgus began to chuckle uncontrollably again as they imagined the situation play out in their minds.
"The grand talisman on top was when Ciaran uncharacteristically laughed back, further annoying the golden Knight before she simply said: 'fair point'. Fair point? Ornstein had spent the remainder of the day chasing them and the innocent little Sif around the city before Gough had decided to 'gently' calm down the red-head with a choke hold. Bahahaha!"
Even the cross breed had to share a small giggle with the two loud beings. It was just too infectious to refuse.
After a moment, both of them came down from their high before the smith began to speak. "Shame all are gone now."
Havel looked up at him. "All four, you say? When?"
"Artorias departed for Oolacile on the same night as Lord Gwyn. The Lord's Blade and Master Gough followed their comrade shortly after. No one returned and now no one is home anymore except the Lion. He fought the friend with the mask but fell with the Executioner. All gone now, no one left." The smith said, shaking his head sadly. It was truly a mournful moment when everyone you knew died or fled before your eyes, leaving you all alone to mull over the 'what ifs'. Either way, Borgus was just glad his old friend was still well after the dragon had tricked them all. It had been a sad day when Havel had been forced to leave as well that day.
"Friend in the mask?" Havel repeated with a hand to his beard and Priscilla's eyes flashed to the smith, her tail wagging in anticipation. "Do you mean Argon? Undead fellow, black hair, doesn't shut up."
Borgus nodded solemnly. "Same one. Friend of yours?"
"More like nuisance." the bishop muttered before his brow furrowed even deeper, making dark lines appear above the bridge of his nose. If the nagging undead had been able to slay Ornstein and that gluttonous Smough it meant he was more powerful than the man gave him credit for. If he were to understand what his gigantic friend was saying carefully, Argon possessed the power to slay a god of he had the drive or motive for it; meaning that when he and Priscilla had opened the door to his tower… Havel shivered slightly. He was glad the undead had been his usual stupid-self that day. He wouldn't admit it but the thought of thinking of Argon as a deadly killer was both nonsense and terrifying, especially when he possessed the skills of the most hardened war veteran he had ever seen. "Speaking of which, why hasn't the foolish imp made it down here already? Surely it doesn't take that long to dispose of a pair of Royal Sentinels"
The goddess nodded in agreement with his sentiments. Argon was known for being as efficient and quick on the battlefield, despite his childish disposition. When thinking about how strong he had become since their first visit to the main hall of the castle, there had been considerable growth on both their parts but especially Argon's. Thinking logically for a second, it shouldn't have taken him more than a few minutes to defeat those Sentinels that had previously given them trouble before. The worry pooling in her gut increased as she looked at Havel to calm her nerves.
Just relax, everything should be fine, nothing to worry about… Look at Sir Havel, he's calmer than a rock, well… if a rock could be anything but inanimate, he would certainly be calmer than it. Let's take a breath. Argon is just fine, there's nothing to worry abo-
"He's not here because of fog door." Borgus answered their unanswered question nonchalantly as he began to tap the sword resting on his tiny anvil back into shape.
Priscilla froze as she and Havel immediately turned their eyes to the door they had entered through a few long minutes ago. Whilst Havel hadn't had much of a chance to experience what those fog doors meant, she did. The same door had been present outside of the dome she had once lived in when in the Painted World; what's more, when she had been invaded by interloping undead and Darkwraith's that very fog had trapped her in more than a few buildings many times before.
"Borgus," Havel started, "How long has that fog been there?" He wasn't that knowledgeable when it came to these partitions due to never experiencing them beforehand. If he took the advice of both his companions, however, the reason of that fog blocking their way back up could only spell trouble. His friend's next words would determine just how severe their situation would become.
Borgus shrugged, not looking at him as he replied. "Since you took the last step on the stairwell."
Without waiting for Havel, Priscilla darted up the stairs, her claws digging into the varnished wood railing, scoring deep scratches into it as she desperately raced towards the fog door. Having that blinding vapour obscure a door not previously blocked could only mean one of two things; there was either a strong entity on the other side that Argon was currently battling, or something had just invaded the warded castle of Anor Londo. Either reason was a problem for her as the worry settled in her stomach like a sack of coins exploded into a flurry of burning metal. With desperation on her heart, she began clawing at the fog, trying to force herself through.
She should have ignored Sir Havel's request to let Argon blow off steam, she should have remained by his side. Now because of both their negligence their comrade was facing battle against something terrible all alone. She didn't doubt his ability to handle things himself – he had braved most of Lordran on his own after all – but something inside her just didn't feel right. Call it her intuition or a blind guess but it felt like he wasn't managing too well on the other side of that door, like he was facing something far greater than a mere enemy.
Her mind immediately flashed to the previous night when Argon had been writhing in pain due to the abyss corrupting his body and her eye's widened. As Havel finally reached her at the foot of the stairs, she drew her scythe from behind her back and hacked at the fog with greater urgency.
He had looked paler than usual after than night and he hadn't acted like himself despite his perfect façade. She worried that he would be weaker now that he had been forced to endure such pain already; but what worried her more was the possibility of that corruption spreading as he was engaged in battle. She had seen it feed off his negative emotions before and hadn't liked the persona he had assumed afterwards. If it began to spread as he fought, he would not only be at a disadvantage due to the pain, but he could also change to the primal instincts he possessed when he had faced all those painting guardians.
Of course, she wasn't definite that it would happen at all, she understood the strength of her closest friend more than anything else, so she knew he would find a way to come out on top. She just hoped with all her heart that he wasn't a changed man when the fog on this door cleared. But she trusted Argon whole-heartedly, he had fought many difficult battles before and the abyss hadn't spread at all.
She slowly lowered her scythe from the door when she realized slicing at it with her Life-Hunt wasn't doing a thing to help.
Maybe she was just over-thinking things as usual. She always did that when there were odd occurrences that seemed unfavourable, Argon was probably just fine on the other side and she was worrying for nothing. Yes, that was right, it was just her imagination.
Priscilla sighed as Havel placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, doing his best to calm her down despite his own sense of worry. For undeads sake, she hoped her over-reaction was all it was; another procrastinated figment of her imagination.
Please be safe, Argon…
Hearing the wind speak had just been one of the Darkwraith's connections to nature. In fact, this had been the first time he had had the chance to communicate with the cool breeze. Of course, if anyone would bother to stop and listen to his nonsensical ramblings, they would call him a mad man, insane; a complete nut-job. Honestly… they wouldn't be very far from the truth.
Whether they believed him or not, his ability to commune with Mother Nature was second to none. What most people would mistake for leaves falling off a tree, he would take it as a sign that death would begin to crowd an area. Where the water rippled outward suddenly despite there being no rain, most would think it to be some fish bobbing near a lakes surface. He would come to understand that the butterfly effect would begin with some nobody's stupid mishap. And of course, when the wind began to whistle spontaneously, and people would think the higher altitude of the mountain was the cause; he would link it to the understanding that what he had been waiting for had finally arrived.
It was an odd skill for an odder person, he agreed. Yet, it was something no hunter could attest to wielding, no ranger of the forests could compare to understanding; and certainly, no half-dressed Deprived man or woman could comprehend. These skills had been breathed into him long ago, before the descent into his ouroboros1 had begun.
Thinking illogically, after seeing his significant other and analysing the extent of the corruption slowly eating his body, Lithecore had expected this sooner than expected turn of events. Although the spread of the abyss on a person's body usually took less than a full minute to completely overtake them, this strain of putrid mutation had decided to take its sweet time. Not that he was complaining, if anything he wanted to remain as… situationally normal as he could. It wouldn't do to become like the failed Knight in that coliseum, now would it? Not that it really mattered, he knew his mind would be affected in the slightest should the corruption grow any further; Lithecore was already insane after all. What more could some purple muck possibly do to infect an already rotten consciousness? If he were to think about the black veins covering the left side of his body, however, he had to say that their so-called 'negative effects' certainly helped him to attain a clearer psyche when it was needed, and the occasional boost to his strength should he feel like exercising some primeval curse that was too old to stand on its own liquidy feet.
Even so, the time had come to finally meet with his Yin-half. It didn't matter if he had to disobey his commander that went googly-eyes for a crippled half-spider, or if it required him to kill the tall snake with smashed meaty peckers for a moustache; nothing would stop him from witnessing the sprouting of the seeds he had unconsciously planted way back. He could care less what Kirk thought, the man was just as guilty as he was for joining the Darkwraith's because of the perks the covenant availed. Besides… he wasn't going to be considered as an absconder if he was just surveying the merchandise they all sought after.
Lithecore walked around the upper floor of the main hall in his phantasmic body as he thought about the first day he had joined up with Kaathe. It had been an amusing situation seeing a serpent with humanoid teeth and a velvety voice that could charm the leggings off a stoic Knight of Gwyn. The amusement had only grown when he had been asked to duel the human thicket as his initiation. Seeing the legendary Knight of Thorns surrender to his sword had been mildly satisfying.
What interested the wraith more than anything else, thought, was Kaathe's obsession with an undead that had evaded capture by Commander Kirk not once, but frequently. At first, Lithecore had just guessed that the undead was a crafty sorcerer of sorts but after receiving a proper description of him by a one of his subordinates, he had laughed like it was the funniest joke he had ever been told.
Who would have guessed that the target of both Kaathe and himself would intersect?
Still, the snake's perception of the masked undead was quite poor. He had first seen the bigger picture by looking at Argon as a candidate to be inducted into the wraiths. That avenue would have ensured a steady flow of humanity for the greedy serpent that smelt like bloated-corpse in an arid desert and would have made Lithecore's mission easier by over three-hundred and four steps of his plan – he had taken the time to count. However, after his gorgeous body double had created a humorous stir in the drenched city of rot and no sunlight by putting Kaathe's 'best soldier' to shame, his mind had turned to killing him instead. It was truly disappointing of the cunning creature. Really, for all the thing's grand planning to wipe out all humanity in the world – Lithecore had earned the right to be privy to that bit of information – he couldn't understand the value certain souls possessed if left in their flesh-suites.
Lithecore supposed the snake didn't understand the major flaw in his agonized plan. It wasn't like it was easy to see but as the creator of such a devastating move on the Great Lords and life itself, that was just pathetic. For one, there wasn't nearly enough manpower to get the job done before the Flame faded. Even if Kaathe worked his wraiths to their hollowed forms he would never see proper results, his followers were just too weak to get anything done right. The second part was that trying to sway the mind of the Chosen Undead yourself when he came to New Londo was a wasted affair. It didn't matter whether the Chosen One was Lithecore's identical twin or another nobody, the window to influence the mighty undeads decision had already been claimed by the gods of Lordran. They had managed to do so even before the Chosen Undead was undead to begin with, anyone could see that. That was the authority these worthless and deceased 'gods' possessed.
Still, if the serpent and his many brethren had decided to put their collective pea-brains together and think outside of the abyssal encapsulation, the idea to slowly use their greatest weapon to change the undeads mind would have come up as an idea. And what was their greatest weapon, one might ask? Simple, the abyss these Great Lords were so damned afraid of it was hilarious.
Unfortunately, his 'master', as Kirk put it, didn't manage to come to that conclusion. That was why you couldn't send a snake to do a human's job, the filthy beasts had no hands for starters; how would they be able to shove their opinions down the Chosen One's open gullet? Poor giant primordial snakes and their lack of knowledge on the human mind. Reptilians were really the worst species to dominate the world, now he understood why the Lord's killed the Everlasting Dragons… once they initiated change everything would lose its lustre and turn neutral. Who wanted that monochrome existence? Then again, it was a good thing the snake was the progenitor of this scheme to create the 'Age of Man'. However stupid their myopic thinking was, it wouldn't get in the way of Lithecore's own plans.
"Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!"
Another smiled broke Lithecore's pale features as he crouched down to gaze at the battle before him. It had started off pretty well too. The questions that the fem-boy couldn't answer, the rage coming from so much absurdity against his maddened twin's existence that he found no other route than to create a wrathful catharsis2; and let's not forget the trash-talk to rile up the Darkmoon god. That always raised the stakes of any battle no matter how noble or honourable it seemed.
The wraith had been extremely pleased to see the undeads true colours shine through. The wind hadn't been mistaken and he was glad he had the opportunity to see what the man possessed when in this uncontrollable inferno. He had watched patiently from the wings of the hall, observing as Argon absorbed every hit, soul spear, golden dart and occasional snake bite in his path of carnage. The man was almost identical to Artorias in the way in which he fought, uncaring of the wounds he received. It was interesting to see him fight with such reckless abandon without armour, that was the way of the League after all. Whether Argon didn't know and was doing it subconsciously or the memories that must have flooded his negative thoughts after the abyssal curse had spread had showed it to him; one thing was clear to Lithecore, his Yin-half had finally awoken.
Of course, this sudden surge of uncharacteristic behaviour had its flaws. The undead was going on and on about this sinner and that. While it wasn't a problem, he resembled a certain someone a bit too much. He would go as far as to say Argon was acting like some crazed fanatic. He needed to chill a bit and be more like him. The wraith also had the same ideals, every Lithecore did, however, what separated them from the others back then had been the deep-seated rebellion etched into their very hearts.
The need to be like the crowd was over-rated, stale tradition. Lithecore was more blasé, calm and calculating rather than loud and commanding. There was nothing wrong with following an order you truly believed in like some cultist infested with fleas. But following blindly was just the mistake the majority made on a daily basis out of a need to belong. For one to truly emerge from student to master, they needed to possess their own perspectives on life while still keeping the ideals instilled into their minds like commandments. That was the reason he and the undead battling Gwyndolin were apart from the crowd. They possessed something everyone else didn't; the common sense to evolve an ideal into a part of society.
As he looked at the Chosen Undead, that common sense wasn't present in the slightest. But he needn't worry about that, this expulsion of rage were mere fumes anyways. Argon's grand awakening wouldn't be enough to jump-start his memories, Lithecore knew that. What he was seeing right now was just a sample of the man's potential as he revelled in the euphoria of being awake for the first time.
The toe-curling epiphany that broke his mind from being shrouded by the lies these false gods raised.
For now, he would watch as his right side stewed in the reality of the situation, utilized the teachings burned into his mind with a hot poker and slay this worthless child of illusions. Only then would he be ready to reclaim his seat on the throne. Only then would Argon be ready to face his true destiny; to actualise the League's goal.
Lithecore would simply watch this fight play out. If he could survive this far being infamous amongst the Darkwraith's then he was strong enough to kill one broken-minded deity. A simple task for the Lord of the Lithecore.
Despite his previous attack possessing more than its usual amount of concentrated power, the undead had run into it without a care in the world. He had watched as that wicked smile of his grew, splitting the edges of his mouth, before he had lifted a small talisman and channelled his magic through it. To say the Darkmoon Lord had been surprised when a shockwave of magic had rebounded a few dozen soul spears from ripping Argon apart had been an understatement. He hadn't expected such magic to do that well against regular opponents due to its non-lethal capabilities, never mind blocking against actual magic in return.
The shock didn't last long, however, and the god recovered in time to see the undead sprinting towards another pillar for cover. The remaining balls of soul energy were potent in their capacity, he had made sure of that. If more than two struck him, this fight would be over… and perhaps then Argon would be more docile so that he could understand the gods point of view – even if it didn't justify his actions. Although, Gwyndolin wasn't holding his breath. If this crazed undead was even half the champion he had known, he might just survive this assault. It was a thought he sighed at yet cursed at the same time.
Argon dived behind the pillar just as another torrent of blaming blue balls hit the area he was just standing in, ripping apart the ornate tiles like uprooting a tall tree. As the undead regained his breath, he lifted the same talisman and kneeled as the remaining homing missiles struck the other end of the pillar. There were surges of azure energy flaring on either side of the pillar, licking Argon's bare shoulders as he concentrated. He heard the monolithic piece of architecture crack under the barrage of such a mighty force as a glowing white enveloped his tainted body, making his pale skin shimmer as he rose once again, a maniacal cackle leaving his lips.
He turned as the pillars durability was compromised and dashed to the side, his sword to his side as he ran low towards Gwyndolin. The last few orbs of the gods spell that were still drifting through the air like lazy clouds caught sight of the undead before speeding to meet him. As he neared the god he did the most surprising thing by swiping at one of the balls of energy with his sword.
Gwyndolin widened his eyes in shock. Not because the mentally shattered undead had chosen to openly kill himself but because he had intentionally opted to strike that ball whilst standing no more than a foot away from the god himself. The Darkmoon Lord watched, almost in slow motion as Argon's blade cut through the blue orb, breaking its protective shell before it exploded outward, catching both the undead and Gwyndolin in the blast.
The snakes at the god's feet hissed madly as magical shrapnel stabbed into them like burning glass. The god uttered a shout as he used his sceptre to swat away the sparks speeding towards his upper body. He gazed back at Argon and saw the undeads right side bleeding freely, a sadistic smile on his face that his plan had worked. Unfortunately, he forgot to account for the other remaining balls of energy as they struck his chest, shoulder and waist in rapid succession.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Gwyndolin covered his face as the glare of that much soul energy blinded him. That had been a spell he had never used before since he had never had the need to create many offensive spells. Now that he was in an actual battle after so many centuries, he realized two things; the need to expand his arsenal with spells, and the focus he required not to make them so lethal. He had destroyed an entire section of the Great Hall just with that one attack. He knew he could always repair it but the point was that spell had been reckless.
"Ha… that packed a punch."
Gwyndolin snapped his head back to the spot his magic had just hit to see the source of his current pain still alive and kicking, albeit limping, as Argon offered a lopsided grin with more blood pouring down his body into a small puddle. He had assumed that attack would have ripped the undead to pieces after what it had done to the hall itself. the god narrowed his covered eyes on the Chosen Undead and saw a faint sheen of white across his skin. With a huff, Gwyndolin raised his sceptre yet again.
Such tenacity encapsulated inside a form of contradiction… It's almost humorous.
Argon raised his good arm to grab at his belt. He lifted an emerald flask swirling with an amber liquid to lips and took a long sip. Almost immediately, his wounds, bruises and broken bones began to reset, knitting together the ripped skin of his mouth before he sighed out in bliss. The Lord of the Darkmoon merely grunted in annoyance, he should have taken a few of those talismans Allfather Lloyd had created when he had the chance. He had forgotten just how annoying it was to fight an intelligent undead in a duel.
"That was fun…" Argon mused as he put away the flask and looked at the god. His smile wasn't present anymore like it all the other times. Instead his mouth formed a thin line, his face passive as he continued to stare at Gwyndolin with cold, multi-coloured eyes. The atmosphere in the room shifted and suddenly Gwyndolin felt like what was to come was the real battle.
He straightened his spine and drew a small, golden bow resting across his back. If Argon wanted to finally take this seriously, it was only fair that he did too. This game of hide and seek had gone on for too long anyway.
Gwyndolin's right hand let go of the sceptre he was holding, and it began to float in mid-air as he pulled back the silken bowstring of his new weapon. In what seemed like another illusion, a long, elegant arrow coloured golden with a spiralled head appeared against the bow, prompting the god to gently grasp it and place the end against the shinning string.
Argon, likewise, discarded his sword against the floor. The blade made a loud clatter against the ruptured floor, as if complaining to being thrown away so unceremoniously. The undead took no notice of it, however, as he lifted up his arms, fingers splayed outwards; before a bone-white spear, smeared with blood at its grotesque tip flashed into his awaiting hands. He grasped the light spear and twirled it before grabbing the end with his right hand and crouching as low as he could, cocking back the arm and levelling a calm gaze at Gwyndolin.
"How about I kill you for real now?"
This time, it was the Darkmoon Lord that smiled, tensing his right arm ever so slightly as the drawstring quivered. "Thou may attempt it."
Time seemed to still as the two squared off, waiting for the other to even twitch the wrong way. The wind that usually whistled through the empty corridors was quiet as of late, and the rays of sunlight falling upon them from the glass ceiling above felt neither cold nor warm on their shoulders. Not even Gwyndolin's snakes made a sound as he and his champion kept a stiff gaze.
There was only silence…
And then there was movement.
With a great show of strength and agility, Argon launched himself forward like the Dragonslayer arrows he used so much, feet off the ground as the tip of his spear speeding towards its target like a javelin. Simultaneously, Gwyndolin released the hold on his moonlight arrow and watched it cut through the thick air, spinning wildly as it approached the forehead of the Chosen Undead.
Argon chose leaned his head to the side as he neared the god and felt the arrow draw a line across his cheek as it sailed by. He grinned in triumph but was unprepared for the arrow's brethren following close behind. Before the undeads Demon Spear could even touch a scale of the snakes below Gwyndolin, he was sent hurling back, four arrows piercing through him like a hot knife through butter. As Argon hit the floor with a loud gasp, he noticed circular holes dotting his bare upper half and looked back to see four bloodied arrows clattering against the floor, their momentum disrupted after striking him.
With a grim look, Argon stood back up. The sinner's strength was more than he originally bargained for; for one they had all gone through him instead of staying inside his skin like clingy leeches. He readied his spear again as his foe pulled back the drawstring of that bow again, a fresh arrow set against the glinting gold.
So he fires those arrows just like his darts, eh? Interesting…
Gwyndolin stared back at the undead indifferently. It was the first time he had been forced to resort to using his bow in battle. He admitted he hadn't really been in many battles and those he had hadn't required him to use more than a simple soul arrow; but this would be the first that honestly challenged him to exert himself.
Despite the fact that he had been wounded multiple times by his champion due to his own insecurities and because Argon was just a slippery foe when in this corrupted rage; the god actually found himself a little bit exerted from the use of consecutive spell-casts. Usually using that much magical energy was child's play for him, but after he had been forced to drop the invasion wards he possessed over the castle due to his haywire emotions, endure both physical and mental warfare with his own champion and understand that he had to tell him the truth about his plans, he admitted to feeling quite worn out.
Even so, with his snakes bleeding as they may be, he wouldn't back down, he couldn't. This was the one chance he had to fix his mistake, to prevent the loss of the first and only undead to ever make it this far to be called the Chosen Undead. But more so, because he wished to save the life of a soul suffering because of his actions. His father didn't have a choice but to link the Flame himself, causing temporary peace for Lordran yet also damning humanity to this curse of madness. It was only to save his kingdom after all.
Likewise, Gwyndolin hadn't had a choice but to create this 'Undead Quest', formulate lies to keep the undead on the path of the gods, use his power to disillusion the Chosen Undead into thinking that the Shinning City and its glorious sun still inspired hope. He hadn't had the choice but to take over Velka's covenant, blurring the truth so that further rebellions against divinity would cease.
He knew the choices he made were inhumane – part of the reason he sought to possess the free will of those tiny sprites – but he hadn't had the choice but to be merciless as his role of the current rule of Lordran demanded it. It didn't matter whether his heart was shattered again and again at every false move, bias action and blasphemous word he spoke, what mattered was what the works of his hands had done. And they were covered in sins that were darker than Nito's resting place. He could never undo them, he would always remember them… always mourn for the lack of personal choice he possessed.
But that didn't mean he wasn't sick of it.
He had lived in the shadow of his father and siblings; carrying each of the weighty burdens they left behind on his slender shoulders, the last god that most people didn't even care about. He had been forced to make decisions that weren't of his own opinion, swayed by a snake that called itself the throne's trusted advisor but secretly saw him as little more than scraps compared to his father. And of course, he had been forced to watch his family be imprisoned as he stood by helplessly. It was a pitiful sight indeed; the strongest god of magic unable to save even one member of his lost family to an accursed painting.
But it would all end here. He would stop allowing his life to be used like some puppet, prevent these unseen forces from toying with his emotions. So what if he didn't possess free will? He would just have to create it, it wouldn't difficult compared to his reconstruction of Anor Londo. Who cared if he was the failed son of his mighty father? He would shatter those expectations and find his own path. His father and siblings were gone now anyways, what use was old tradition now that there was no one but him left to even remember it? He was tired of this asphyxiation3 that clouded his thoughts with 'what-ifs' and 'what would so and so do'. Whether Frampt, Velka or whatever force was out there to deny him liked it, he was the current ruler of Lordran, and he would do things his way.
This feeling of pain whenever he looked at the mistake he maid was unbearable now. He couldn't stand to see the people around him suffer; he wouldn't allow innocent lives like the undead in the lower levels, Priscilla, members of his covenant, the remaining Knights of his father, the painting guardians, or Argon suffer anymore.
As Gwyndolin refocused on the wild undead before him, a sad look cross his features. It was going to hurt killing the person he believed in the most to save this damned world, but he was prepared to do it. He was the King of Lordran after all.
For once in the god's long life, a scintillant4 trace of hope settled in the pit of his churning stomach, somewhat easing the pressure of what he had to do. It was almost as if he possessed that sliver of humanity he craved so much.
And so the Lord of the Darkmoon fired his arrows at his champion, determined to reclaimed that which he had allowed himself to lose.
Lovely Ladies and Gregarious Gents, please hold all reviews for this battle until the end of Chapter 17. What's the reason you say? Well, I'm glad you asked. This fight was only meant to be one chapter in length, however, I've broken it up into a trio of chapters (i.e. Chapter 15-17). After witnessing the word count and climbing climax, you can understand why I chose to break it up, yes?
But never fear, for I have posted not one but TWO gloriously long chapters for you to devour with your eyes today! (or is it night time by you? Time zones can really mess up certain goodbye's, huh?)
Word Bank:
1. Ouroboros – (n.) an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon devouring its own tail. The action demonstrates an endless cycle or Infinity.
A Greek word translated as: "tail-devouring snake".
2. Catharsis – (n.) the purging or release of emotional tensions [via types of art, music, etc].
Pronounced as: "kuh-thar-sis".
3. Asphyxiation/Asphyxia – (n.) a condition caused by interference with respiration, or due to lack of O2 (i.e. suffocation).
A Greek word literally meaning: "pulse-less-ness or absence of pulsation".
4. Scintillant/Scintilla – (n.) a tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; barely visible trace.
I used a few theories involving Velka, tied them up with a notched whip and placed prism stones at the base to add effect. Hope they sound believable for vague speculations.
I may have rushed the 'great epiphany' Gwyndolin would soon acquire but I'll leave that for all of you to decide.
As for the question about the eventuality of this epic battle, Argon's abyssal buff and other stuff… I'll explain that in the a/u of Chapter 17 after the content itself covers some of your concerns.
Get ready, you don't have to wait for the next chapter this time. Yay! :D
Now, please turn over…