Just a quick one: its really awesome how so many of you have literally read my mind at the outcomes of this particular arc (can I call it an arc?). Perhaps I'm too predictable in my plot twists? Bah! I'm an optimist, I'll peg it to all of you just being extremely perceptive. Either way, you people are amazing!
If the insane undead had been surprised by the sudden change in Gwyndolin, he didn't show it. It would be more accurate to say that Argon didn't show anything besides that wide smile and maniacal gleam in his multicoloured eyes. He had allowed himself to be peppered with a few more arrows the god shot his way, but he just kept coming back. The Darkmoon Lord pegged the resistance to such pain as adrenaline blocking the worst of his wounds but then again he had to argue that Argon was naturally resistant to pain, he had seen as much when he fought the Silver Knights dotted around the castle for the first time.
Nevertheless, if he expected Gwyndolin to seem stunned or possess a reaction, he was sorely mistaken. The time for these childish games had ended now that the god had shut out his emotions; all that remained now was the pure, unadulterated ferocity of the son of Gwyn, the Lord of the Darkmoon.
Argon changed his approach by leaping into the air at Gwyndolin, his Demon Spear pulled back to deliver a strong thrust into his unarmoured side. The god saw the stored-up lighting begin to crackle at the jagged tip of the pale spear as it lowered towards him. He raised his sceptre lazily as the undead entered his personal bubble before flicking his wrist. This time his champion showed more than that exasperating grin as he was knocked to the ground with force befitting of a Taurus Demon.
The undeads body lifted off the ground due to the force slightly before two large snakes cracked his disfigured face into the ivory tiles, sinking their fangs into him. As he gasped from the mix of pain Gwyndolin knocked another moonlight arrow against the shaft of his bow and fired. The undead, however, reacted as the arrow was released and cocked his head sideways, narrowly dodging the arrow that cut the other side of his face with another red whisker mark.
His grin was replaced with a snarl as he fought against the massive reptiles biting into him, rose to one knee, drew a throwing knife from his pouch and hurled it at his foe. Gwyndolin merely used his sceptre to knock the insignificant blade away from him whilst sweeping his other arm in a wide arc. Argon's eyes widened as his stationary form was pierced with multiple golden darts the length of his forearm before spewing out a mouthful of blood. Whilst he was temporarily immobile Gwyndolin took the opportunity to retract both of his snakes before swatting him backwards with a soul arrow. The god watched impassively as his champion careened through the air before crashing to the floor in a wet heap.
He hadn't wanted things to end up like this. If things had gone his way, he could have lived with the knowledge that the first human he placed so much trust and belief in despite not having much for himself, had saved him and the undead cursed to go die ad infinitum or until they turned hollow. If things had went his way, his niece which he had mourned like a widow for would have been freed and happily treated like the royalty she actually was. If he, the isolated child of Gwyn; the last born that was not shunned out of disdain but ignored due to the crises afflicting his father's home had been given but one chance during his genesis; there would never have been a great collapse in the first place. He would have found a better solution than sacrificing his father's life, Artorias' future and his sister's integrity. If he had had it his way from the beginning, there would be no need for an innocent undead to take the unwanted torch and risk his soul for a kingdom he had never visited.
But things hadn't gone his way, they never truly did. If anything, life seemed to play this cruel game on him time and time again; proving his worthlessness by taking another person from his life that he considered precious, ripping his heart in pieces with each new ounce of loneliness and responsibility replaced in their stead.
He had been forever damned to suffer in the silence of the castle he never wanted to rule, fight against foe's he considered friends and lie to race he never wanted to get involved. He really was as pitiful as those blasphemous cultists described him as.
Even so, he was still Gwyndolin, the Lord of the Darkmoon and the current King of Anor Londo. Fate could bash his aspirations and dreams into the cold ground all it wanted, Velka could try and continue to toy with his already exhausted mind – if she was even still alive to begin with – and the world could tell him he was the failed image of his proud father. All that didn't matter. Not when he possessed this throbbing determination to rewrite everything, change the unchangeable, overwrite the mistakes of his predecessors. He would suffer, cry, mourn and face damnation if he had to; nothing would stop him from doing what he wished deep within his heart anymore.
As twisted as Argon's words had been when he had arrived, their aim had been true when they had pierced realization within him. Those words of malicious intent had opened his eyes despite the implications they possessed. He understood now that he had been wrong to assume that he was trapped by other people's expectations. Whilst the thought was blasphemous, he entertained the idea of him being nothing more than an ordinary mortal being with immortal power and strength. Even if the idea was flawed in many ways, one thing was certain; as a being that still possessed the ability to die, he also possessed the ability to truly live.
And not just breathe as a form of existence, but exercise that which he had sought from his balcony like a rebellious heir, the freedom of choice. He had been a fool for not realizing it sooner when his people needed him to act. This aching in his chest, this determination bubbling inside of him, forcing him to fight to his full potential wasn't just some divine inspiration; it was his free will speaking. It had laid dormant in his body for so long, gathering the potential energy over the centuries waiting for him to understand that he was not a puppet controlled by this sadistic performance fate played. He had been lustful, yearning for the humanity lesser beings possessed; not realizing that he was slowly pregnating the greater willpower inside of him for the moment it was truly needed.
He was no longer the god that allowed life to take the things he worked so hard for from him. No, this time he would fight tooth and nail for what was his, putting his life on the line because he was sick of letting go when the only thing he had ever wanted was to hold on.
Likewise, he would prove to the forces that had once taunted him into submission that he was stronger, better, wiser. He would use the power birthed within him to do more than his beloved father had… more than even his sibling's combined efforts had availed! Because he was the lastborn of a great bloodline. Born at the time of a mystic moon, he would show everyone just what it meant to be the Darkmoon Lord, the personification of power.
He would show his champion, his Chosen Undead what it truly meant to be a 'mortal being with a greater soul'. He would erase that pathetic virus affecting the human he placed so much trust in and make an example of him by proving to the fractured undead just what he could do when pushed. Furthermore, he would save this suffering soul from its own destruction, not because Argon was necessary in his plan to save Lordran, but because he was another precious life the god held dear.
Argon groaned as he rose to his feet shakily, sipping more liquid flame from his flask before running towards him again. His earlier wounds healed in a matter of seconds as he drew two short swords from thin air seemingly. Gwyndolin remained stationary, observing the undead as he neared him, twisting his body abnormally from another snake bite before he stabbed the reptile in the throat, pinning it to the ground. The god's mouth twitched from the pain as another snake bit into the undeads shoulder, making him shout out and stab his other sword into its eye. When the snake didn't let up on its attack, Argon ignored it and cocked back his right hand, curling his fingers into a fist as another snake sped towards him. When it was about to sink its fangs into his head Argon delivered a lightning fast punch to its jaw. A distinct crack was heard as the reptile's bones dislocated from their sockets and a small blast of fire erupted against the animal's scales.
The god raised a curious eyebrow as he noticed the set of braces suddenly adorning his champions knuckles before he dismissed him with another strike from his sceptre. Argon saw it coming and attempted to divert the attack onto the snake biting him, but it retracted just as soon as the Darkmoon Lord raised his hand. The undead braced his arms against his side as the sceptre cracked against it, breaking newly repaired bones as Argon flew into a nearby pillar. His stare was blank as more crimson fluid decorated his ivory halls like some terrible rendition of modern art.
As the undead wheezed through bruised lungs, Gwyndolin prepared another volley of the concentrated soul spears he had cast minutes ago. He wasn't afraid to kill his champion anymore, whether his heart still broke due to his foolish actions or not. Now was the time for change, rebirth, retribution against the idle persona he had taken up when everyone had left him behind.
He reasoned that killing Argon and making him revive at a bonfire would be a quick way to pacify this bipolar rage at least. He was pushing it by placing all his trust in such a plain tactic, but it was the only solution at the moment, he needed to save the undeads mind before it was taken over by the abyss plaguing his thoughts; and fast.
He just hoped his relentless assault would be enough to at least break the undeads drive. If he lacked the initiative to fight due to understanding the differences in their power, he might be coaxed into surrendering. It was another long shot, but he had no choice but to throw his champion around like a ragdoll. He steeled himself as Argon rose, wiping the blood dribbling down his chin, his singular amber orb glowing with fury.
Or perhaps this unfavourable battle would just anger the undead further. Things were never ever set in stone when it came to his luck, was it?
The seriousness of the current situation was like the ecstasy Argon had been craving since his journey into glorious madness. It had been fun playing around with the tall sinner with snake legs that smelt like sweet oil while it had lasted, landing a cut here and uttering a taunt there. The mental warfare had become his favourite pass time and for a moment he wondered why he hadn't allowed himself to let go of that pitiful passive persona from the beginning.
Oh yes, he remembered now… after his imprisonment for who knows how long his freshly undead mind had seen it fit to 'reform' into something less him, in an effort to seal away his humanly terror. It had been a nice train of thought, he had to admit, it was just a shame that train had capsized and been ripped to shreds by the momentum it carried after he had stumbled across this desolate land of the dead.
Undead, he corrected himself. That was the term that was used nowadays. At first, the people living normal lives had called those afflicted with the curse ghouls or monsters, hiding behind ordinary city garrisons as their families that had been turned were slaughtered without remorse and sent to an asylum that would be able to hold their undying visages. He had to argue of who was the real monster at that point in time; the cursed humans damned in leathery skin or the fat citizens chucking stones at the very people they had considered their parents, lovers and lords not three days prior.
And he had seen it right to make himself reform to the same mindset of those vermin? How pathetic.
Yet he had found it hard to break the shell of that determination once it had encased his psyche in a membrane of hypocrisy. He had 'turned over a new leaf', as it were when he had spent years trapped in that small cell with only infected rats and pestilence for company. It was shame, knowing that all he stood for as a killing machine would be tamed by simple isolation.
It was so hilarious that it almost made him cry. Or he would have if the arrows passing through his body hadn't broken his thoughts with strength befitting a giant boar. Really, for that slender body, the snake-man carried some power in those manicured fingers.
Which brought him back to his main topic; administering the ideal punishment for an advent of sacrilege. He had never faced a false god before in his life. His only views towards the topic was that if was this euphoric to fight one, it must be heavenly to kill one. That alone spurred him on to fight until the exhaustion he felt from all this bodily harm was erased by his burning elation.
In truth, fighting for some reason hadn't felt as good as it did right now. He felt tired, exhausted, yet he still possessed the breath to continue standing. He wanted to collapse from being inflicted by so many wounds, but his body just screamed for him to draw more weapons and let the battle continue. What's more he also felt invincible at the same time, as if he possessed all the strength in the world. He had assumed that it was all because of his bloodlust but knew better. It had to be something else increasing his durability and physical prowess ten-fold. If it wasn't the adrenaline running through his vein's then it had to be this strange aura swirling around in his mind.
After claiming his prize from the ugly reprobate in that silhouetted world he had been hearing whisperings from voices that certainly weren't his own. They had encouraged him, fuelled the hunger inside of him to rip, tear and hack at anything and everything around him that contained even a sliver of existence, the leftover blood of those shiny sentinels were enough proof.
Whilst those voices were mildly intriguing, he found it amusing that they attempted to try and lead his already broken thoughts towards a direction they saw as necessary. Their pleas for utter destruction he could entertain, when in the land of sinners, do as they do; obliterate their enemy cults and molest their young with mind-numbing torture. The need to devour everything due to some ravenous craving, however? That wasn't his style. He didn't need to devour everything, just the ne'er-do-wells that thought they actually stood a chance of ascension with their questionable faith. Argon glanced at Gwyndolin as he continued his assault.
That reminded him, this particular protestant's progression from meek defence to all-out ferocity was starting to get interesting. He had just assumed the man – or was he a lady with that cute face and rounded chest – possessed a poor arsenal with all that scrambling and spell casting. He had to admit, the fellow's magic hit hard, his darts and physical blows even more so. They hurt so bad he was beginning to get slightly aroused.
Pain was more a reward to him than a foolish mistake. Whilst his jolly personality had seen it fit to cringe and grunt at every nick and stab he received, every wound actually felt like more of a pleasantry. The blood dribbling down his body didn't matter just so long as the thrill of battle was there, the piece of knowledge that the only thing standing between you and next person was a sharpened metal tip. Every blow he had sustained so far from the fem-boy had felt like kisses on his skin. The nicks resembling chaste smooches whilst the solid hits a deep lip-lock with tongue; a connection that was absolutely divine.
Although, he had to wonder why all this pain felt so numb to him suddenly. He enjoyed a good thrashing like every same-minded masochist, but this was just odd. Even when he left himself open to receive wounds – because for all his loss of cognitive evaluation he still retained the mind to block, dodge and defend when it was necessary – he couldn't, for the life of him, experience that delicious sense of pain he wanted so much. Perhaps this grotesque black muck on his right side was to blame? Or maybe the god's blows just weren't that hard enough… that really killed his hard-on.
Speaking of arousal, Argon didn't know whether he was meant to feel anything when facing the sinner before him. Whilst the fellow retained some sort of masculinity with that loud voice, he just seemed so… feminine. Call him confused or blind but that nightgown didn't really look like something any male would wear in a hurry. Besides that, were those really breasts on the false god? He couldn't tell since he was too busy being bitten by two snakes.
He reasoned the only way to properly check was to do it the same way you checked if a cute adult grisly was male or female; good old-fashioned peeking. And so, without much hesitation due to not really possessing any morals, Argon dropped into a crouch, his two biting leeches following him as he peered under the mass of slithering serpents beneath that worn gown.
When his eyes saw nothing but more snakes he sighed in disappointment. Oh well, he would just have to dissect the fem-boy himself when all this was over; even if it would only leave him sexually confused for the remainder of the battle.
As he nodded his head in agreement with his twisted thinking, he felt his legs leave the ground and he looked up towards the blank face of Gwyndolin as he was shot once again in the stomach. More blood poured from his lips before he was throwing high into the air, those snakes from before retracting from his shoulder and bicep.
Whilst the blasphemous bigot had forced his heart to speed up by taking this seriously and actually fight back, he had to admit that the treatment he was receiving was rather poor. For one, he hadn't received a smile or snarl thus far. And secondly, after throwing a man into a pillar, injecting venom inside of him that was certainly staring to take affect now that he was kinda woozy, and turning him into a bleeding mess; shouldn't he even receive a slight reaction for all his hard work as some fleshy ragdoll? These self-proclaimed gods and their selfishness really didn't know any bounds.
A loud gasp escaped from his lips as he was struck in the back by what felt like another spell. It was a singular blast with no follow up shots but felt as concentrated as the torrent he had been hit with prior. Again, the blast hurt but not as much as he would have hoped. That is… until the burning began to start up.
In an instant, Argon felt his body light up with pure white agony, and this time it wasn't pleasant. The burn travelled around his back, inserting needles into his spine, his neck, the backs of his legs as he ascended to the glass ceiling above. Whatever this stronger attack was, it was certainly going to be trouble. If he didn't find pleasure from its touch, it was unnecessary like the sinner below him.
Still, even as more of those beautifully designed arrows of Gwyndolin's began to piece his spine and remain lodged in his muscled flesh, he couldn't help but cry out, as if the added force had been too much for his frayed pain receptors to allow. As he reached his apex in the air, time seemed to slow as the burning wrapped around his arms and torso, filling his scarred skin with new distress that rolled his eyes to the back of his head. And then, as soon as it began, it stopped, and time was resumed as he plummeted to the cracked floor with a splat.
Before his mind was consumed by the indescribable pain, he caught a fleeting glace of a distant memory, previously locked away by his reformed self while in the asylum. Without thinking, his imaginary hands reached out, closing a black-veined hand around a cold, silver spark that chilled his insides as he was hit with a burst of recollection.
Confusion. That had been his first emotion after being named and dressed in the armour he would come to call his uniform. While under his Master's tutelage in that freezing cellar he had died and been reborn in, he recalled never remembering what he had been before being seen and held down by that hunched over man with a cowards personality. He couldn't remember his memories as a babe or his adventures from before his days as a child.
When he spent nights like this one under the cover of a ruined grey-building towards the south of the Lithecore barracks he questioned whether he even had a name to begin with before Lord Stein had chosen one for him. Come to think of it, he hadn't even questioned the sudden act of good will his Master only ever showed to his oblivious villagers. With all the conflicting thoughts in his already jumbled mind, he hadn't possessed the will to argue the day he had been initiated into the League, as their Commander no less.
He had been given he title that dubbed him the honoured leader of the League, a title he honestly couldn't fathom for what reason had been gifted to a nameless entity such as himself – one that still failed to blindly obey his Master despite living under his instruction for years on end.
As the bright moon glowed against his pale face, he took a moment to inhale the fresh air and revel in the wind's monologue as he mulled over his thoughts. He would never be one to completely disobey his Master, even if Lord Stein's methods outside his home were questionable to his obvious sadism. After all that reconditioning – a word he would scoff at in favour of calling it what it really was; sick torture – one would guess that his mind would be made to be like the other 'Cores he would soon lead to battle, but they were all wrong. Personally, he had no issue with his Master's ideals and goals towards this slowly putrefying land of eternal debauchery. The thought of purging these 'Worshipers of White', 'Flames of Flann' and the occasional cultist was an admirable goal to him even if he didn't take Stein's opinions into account. He would go as far as to say that the broad-shouldered man reaffirmed his prior views.
Even so, understanding and agreeing with ones teachings was one thing, blindly walking into damnation with them without raising your own questions, deliberating your own findings and adapting your shared interpretations in accordance with something considered the proverbial gospel was another thing entirely. His Master could lock him back up in that dilapidated cellar again, cut him until there was nowhere left to cut, inflict as much pain as his already sick mind was capable of thinking up. But he would never be become like the mindless dolls of the League made to walk on hot coals due to the marionette strings attached to them.
He supposed that was one of the reasons he had been chosen for the position of Lithecore Commander, other than his extraordinary physical prowess and tactical analysis. What was intriguing was the fact that Lord Stein knew all of this, including his subordinate's own views yet he still found it appropriate to place this burden on his shoulders.
Perhaps he was just trying to limit his movement so that his wayward habits were mellowed out more? He snorted, his Master was smarter than that. If anything, the agathokakological1 ruler was probably attempting to breed some new form of discipline into him that no other member of the League would be privy to. Although the man didn't show it due his, well… odd form of communication, he had shown certain signs of – and dare he say it – care for his most disobedient shadow.
He wouldn't be foolish enough to take it at face value, however, he had been under his Lord's wing long enough to understand that the man was anything but caring for his special set of monstrosities… especially an atrocity like him of all people. Yet, the confusion of being called out, blessed with control of the League and named by a man he should want to kill but felt no hate toward was overwhelming to say the least. He just couldn't think of where to start from should his brain even consider examining these strange occurrences closer.
When he had stopped by to pick his Master's brain as to his unusual generosity, all he had received was a smile that looked more menacing than comforting, and words that were more cryptic than explanatory.
'To be my commander means to be my right hand,' his Lord had said, 'and with the gifting of a duty as the extension of my will, you shall no longer be amorphous. You came to me a worthless flesh-sack; more fitting to eat the sand under my heel, and now you are my sword – rebellious as you may be. Thus, I grant you the name Argon. For what use is an atrocity, an entity of utter calamity if those that are lucky enough to survive it cannot warn others by its name?'
He hadn't argued at the new name he suddenly possessed – frankly speaking he couldn't argue for the simple fact that he hadn't possessed a name in the first place. His Master had said his name would be the catalyst to strike fear into the sinful brave enough to revolt against his fleshless army, and he had silently agreed with him. He had agreed so much that he had felt a pleasant shiver pass down his spine at that particular moment in time.
Yet, even in all this confusion he felt, he knew such thoughts were lost to something like him. Covance had once called him and the other 'Cores weapons but when he thought about it carefully, it still didn't seem right. Lord Stein never addressed the League as anything besides the twisted malevolence of his will given corporeal form, but even that description seemed further from the truth than anything else.
If he were to think on the reason he and those he would soon lead to slaughter the masses were created, why they were unbendable blades in the shadows that possessed no ability to feel pity; he could recall his Master's wise words from long ago. As members of the League, they were taught to be apathetic towards any and all things regarding the world around them, he had said once. 'A collected persona of observing arbiters', if he remembered correctly.
They were never to show their emotions to anyone, not even themselves. To do so would feed the enemy ammunition when you were most weak, an unforgivable mistake. Still, he had gone against that ruling not a day after it had been spoken; remaining his stoic self when in the presence of his Master but displaying his curious nature in all things after he was granted the directive to depart from the base and create catastrophe.
That was one of the reasons he knew he was more than a weapon. Weapons didn't feel these gushes of interest in people's reactions. Weapons didn't feel the intense desire to please the Master that had tortured them from years on end. Weapons didn't enjoy slowly examining the dying body of a sinner, their steaming innards as they screamed at him for mercy. And of course, weapons didn't feel this intense pleasure he did when facing greater odds.
If he thought about it properly he was basically a gist. A fragment of a soul's malevolent emotions, uncontrollable even by the host of said life-form. In battle he was known for his unnatural durability, his never-ending rush of euphoria that made him a wraith on the field, fighting even when whittled down to his last dregs of consciousness. At times it was as if something else took control when he could not, turning his indifferent face into a carnal mask of massacre.
He remembered the feeling quite well, in fact. It was one of the reasons he was so feared, even by his own monstrous kith. The ability to channel endless rage into power, turn tired muscles into steel with a change in mindset. The trigger for that was always pain. Pure, scalding white anguish that made him want to tear at his hair, bite off his own tongue, fracture his own bones and mangle his own face. That pain would awaken something deep inside of him when it ended, something so unworldly that even he was slightly weary of its presence. It was dark, darker than his own thoughts, more calculating perhaps that even Lord Stein, and hungry for something he had yet to find.
Perhaps that was the reason he had been granted a name in the first place? Perhaps his Master had seen his power, recognized his irrationality as his greatest offensive and turned it into a something the League could all gather under one banner. Something that would not only warn the many delectable protestants out there of his arrival but even save them from their self-destruction too?
He smiled sinisterly at the thought and looked up to the pearly glow of the moon descending into the horizon, his amber pools glittering under the mystic light.
It didn't matter what name he had been given or what it meant. He would use it in his shared endeavour to rid this rotting oak of its termites, devour its fleeting sense of security by popping those beliefs these poor primates possessed. For he was more than a weapon, more than just some atrocity, he was a singular anomaly; an anti-body against this disease those self-proclaimed deities had spread. He was a miasma to the world's remedy, yet the rising sun against the darkness of blasphemous faith. One that would be known for another millennium if that's how long this corrosive land had remaining on its grandfather clock.
And so, as his confusion gave way to clarity, the infallible Lithecore Commander raised the mask of his indomitability to has face, hiding the face of a rebellious assassin behind that of a fanatical nihilist, a phenomenon none could curb.
As the sun began to rise, Argon lowered his head, his warped plans for the future already playing out in his compromised imagination; unaware of the small sliver of hope still flickering weakly amidst a whirlwind of destruction.
A sliver that would soon burst into an awe-inspiring flame.
Gwyndolin let out a sigh as he dropped the arm holding his bow. Whether he liked to admit it or not – what pride he had from his father somewhat rubbing off on him – that fight had taken a lot out of him. He knew he wasn't unfit or that his magical ability had dwindled over time. As far as he knew you couldn't decrease your magical prowess if you were stretching you limits every moment you kept a grand illusion going. As for his physical strength he was confident that even if he wasn't as muscular as his father and elder brother, he was still quite capable. The mental exhaustion was the issue here because whether his abyssal-corrupted or usual idiotic self, Argon was still very much a hassle to his frayed nerves.
He had been smart to use common taunts as a way to lower the god's guard time and time again and his perfect utilisation of multiple weaponry had taken centre stage, keeping Gwyndolin on his toes – well snakes – from the beginning.
Yet, the outcome of the battle was obvious from who was still left standing. Argon may have been the Chosen Undead, supercharged by his own broken mind and the scourge afflicting his body but he was still no match for a proper god, his skills be damned. Even though there had been close calls, there was no possible way the undead would hope to defeat an opponent immensely stronger than you – and one that possessed centuries of experience no less. Thus, it had been a decided match from the start, the god just hoped he was competent enough to pull his champion back to his senses normally. All that time isolated in the Darkmoon Tomb hadn't done wonders to his people skills, after all.
With a mild whimper, his snakes took him towards Argon at a snail's pace. He was still sore from the cuts, stabs and explosions he'd had to absorb and counter against. For a brief moment he wondered just who had trained the undead to fight so well. Despite his obvious inelegance in combat his moves had been flawless in their execution, unpredictable and dangerous. By any right, he would have been killed long ago by the man if he had been anything less than a child of Gwyn.
As he approached the prone body of his champion, he caught the weak shine of something on the ground and turned to it. Besides Argon's blood painting the floor and his weapons scattered about like a child's toys, there was but a single, clean spot in the centre of the Great Hall, illuminated by a single ray of warm sunshine.
Gwyndolin gazed at the object for a moment before extending one of his serpents to grab it. He stared at it with silent appraisal in his hands. It was such an ordinary thing, possessing neither a trace of magic nor an inkling of protection. In fact, he guessed that if the Chosen Undead had ever left himself open during his travels, this innocuous little piece of him might have been shattered to pieces; similarly, to his once respected personality. With an inaudible huff, the Darkmoon Lord touched the crown covering his brow and it lifted into the air in a gust of magic. With his other hand, he brought the object close and placed his lips to the smooth porcelain of the plain mask, channelling his hope and strength through the point of contact.
The mask gave off a gentle white glow before fading quickly, as if the magic imbued into it had never been there at all. For what seemed like the first time, Gwyndolin showed a large, genuine smile towards the small face covering in his large hands before his turquoise eyes glinted in the quiet room.
His champion was the first undead before the Iron-clad one to draw such hope from him, and the only one to claim his unbroken trust with actions alone. He had watched at the masked man as he crawled, pushed and fought for that which he desired; never once giving in to his own inability but instead choosing to reform himself again and again. With that determination to save a land not his own, undead he shouldn't care for and divinity he didn't hate – or… hadn't hated previously – he deserved all the admiration the god possessed and more. He wished he hadn't asked Ornstein to be the one to judge if he was worthy enough to continue the quest. Perhaps the selfless Knight would have found a companion to fill the void Artorias had left long ago… perhaps if he hadn't forced yet another life to die for his selfish cause things would have been better.
He replaced his crown over his head, covering his teary eyes when he heard something that made his heart stop momentarily. With a cautious gaze, he regarded Argon's bloodied body before he saw his bare chest rise as the undead huffed again.
"Heh heh…"
The god's eyes widened in shock. It was just too good to be true when he had hit his champion with enough force to render him unconscious, nearly killing him so that he could deliver the final blow. To suddenly see the very same undead laughing was like a blow to his face.
He watched on in rapt attention as the undead opened his heterochromatic eyes and offered a weak grin, chuckling to himself all the while.
"Heh heh heh… ha ha- ah…"
Cautiously, the Darkmoon Lord placed the mask he was holding safely into a hidden pocket on his robes before drawing his bow again. He still felt weak, exhausted to the point of his collapse but he calmed his rapidly beating heart and rolled his shoulders. Weak or not, he couldn't back down; not when his opponent showed so much resilience. To present such fatigue before a relentless foe would be an insult to their determination.
The undead began to raise himself up slowly, his body pouring with blood from many wounds as he raised his flask once more. Gwyndolin cursed under his breath and an arrow instantly materialised into his hand, he should have destroyed that accursed bottle earlier when he had the chance. As he pulled back his bow string and took aim, his champion regarded the emerald flask for a moment in front of his face before turning it upside own with a slight frown.
The god faltered and retracted the bow slightly, easing the pressure of the arrow as a few minute drops of liquid flame fell from the large flask before it turned a dull green. The undead simply shrugged at the turn of events before chucking the item behind him, ignoring the sound of the glass shattering into many tiny pieces as he stood on shaky knees.
Again, Gwyndolin was left speechless at the absurd behaviour of an undead throwing away his only insurance against stronger foes before he shook his head and pulled the string of his bow back, all shock wiped away. There were important things to think about right now.
"Does thou intend to try my patience further? Or wilt thou perish from thine own arrogance?"
Argon seemed not to hear him as he cracked his neck with a tilt of the head. as more blood dribbled down his monochrome skin he pushed out his chest and sighed in pleasure as his spine popped in a few places before combing a hand through his ruffled hair.
Mildly annoyed at being ignored, the god tried again. "Perhaps thou mind has become placid and is ready to heed my words carefully." At this, his champion offered a half-smile in reply before dropping his upper body forward. His arms were limply swaying parallel to one another as he had done before and his long raven locks cast a shadow upon his eyes as he spoke.
"When the ashes… start to rise and the moon falls from the sky. And a thousand candles… burn into the night," he paused as he drew a thin rapier seemingly from thin air to rest in his right hand, causing Gwyndolin to freeze up slightly. That blade belonged to a Velkian pardoner and was enchanted with enough occultic power to kill any god if it hit but a single artery. Questions began to formulate in the gods mind about the weapon when Argon began to speak again. "When the angles softly cry... on the flames… below the sky, tell me then Gwyndolin…" Argon raised his head finally, his hair parting like a burnt, ripped curtain to reveal a salivating undead with crazed written across the glassiness of his heterochromatic eyes. The god tensed.
"Would a thousand souls still pray? For you and I…"
He didn't wait for an answer as he dashed forward. Gwyndolin immediately released the arrow he had been holding before pointing his sceptre at the undead and firing a few azure arrows in quick succession. In a bout of perfect skill, Argon swiped his blade in an upwards arc, splitting the arrow in half and running through the valley it made as the two halves parted. He cackled loudly as one of the spells hit him in the chest, burning his chest but doing nothing to slow his movements as he used his blade to cut through another, dodge the third and take the last in the shoulder.
Gwyndolin's eyes widened in surprise at the uselessness of his attacks but didn't relent, throwing a wave of his darts and focussing as a large spell circle looped around his body. He was nonplussed by how the venom he had injected into the man hadn't kicked in yet but formulated a strategy as his snakes and gown took on a transparent hue.
Argon merely scoffed at the darts thrown his way and swiped at them madly as if he were some crazed barbarian – which wouldn't be too far from the truth in this instance. Some of the long projectiles bit into his body, piecing his muscles and bones with unreal pain but all it did was propel his laughter even more as he approached the fading god and sliced down with a strong arm. When the blade met nothing but air and the sinner he had targeted disappeared entirely, the undead uttered a loud shout before a powerful blast of blue flames clipped his shoulder. He lurched forward a step, which again shocked the Darkmoon god since that was one of his more potent spells. Argon turned his head and glared at his foe from above his shoulder, violet and black eye glowing with malice.
"Of course, they won't be praying for you." He said and sprinted towards the god, leaping into the air like he did before. Gwyndolin sent a snake to intercept him but in a display of flexibility, he dodged the bite in mid-air, spun and drew another lengthy blade from thin air before bringing it down on the god. Gwyndolin raised his sceptre in time and nearly buckled under the gravity-added force of the unorthodox attack.
For a moment, they stayed in suspended animation, his champion burning his glare into Gwyndolin's well… crown before he hissed out a loud whisper, "It's the day of the dead ," the god raised his other hand caught the Chosen Undead with a punch against his mutated cheek. To both of their surprise, Argon went flying into another pillar and bounced onto the ground.
The god rubbed the knuckles on his left hand. He may have possessed herculean strength, but it didn't mean it hurt any less to actually throw a punch. If his father had seen this, he wondered if his terrible idea to raise him as a woman would have still held ground.
Argon growled and pushed himself up from the floor with his hands, looking exactly like a hollow with no legs as he grabbed his rapier. He settled into a sprinter's crouch before shooting off, racing towards the god yet again. Gwyndolin wasted no time and fired a hail of his moonlight arrows at him, not stopping even as the muscles in his arms began to burn. The corrupted Chosen Undead changed direction and skirted right, leaving a trail of golden poles stabbing the ground in his wake. He changed direction again and went straight for the god, jerking his head to the side when an arrow tired to impale his head. When he was a few feet away he dropped to his knees and slid under a desperate attack from a nearby snake before roughly swinging the rapier. He watched the dark energy glint over the metal before it sheared through one of the snake's thick bodies, expelling a shower of dark blood everywhere.
The Darkmoon god gasped as the pain hit him, choking on the shout he would have uttered when a malevolent essence crept into the open wound, burning and chilling his body all at the same time whilst he felt his soul being pierced by a foul magic. So this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of those blasphemous blades enchanted with the Witch's power.
It was rancid, so much so that the god curled his lip in disgust as Argon appeared behind him before being slapped against the ground with four of his snakes. Argon tried to use the sword to stab one of his snakes, so Gwyndolin pinned the arm to the tiles below with two of his arrows. The undead screamed in rage and began pulling his hand up, through the shaft of the arrows. The god attempted to stop him but was caught off guard by the stray firebomb thrown into his line of sight by the undeads other arm.
Argon used this time to rip his forearm away from the ground, uncaring of the pouring blood or larger wound he had created, before pulling his Dragonbow from his bottomless box. He planted it into the ground and was about to knock an arrow of his own into it when a massive ball of energy appeared from the smokescreen he created, hitting him at point blank and rupturing the metal of his bow to warped pieces. He offered another shout of rage and pain as he flew back, leaving a trail of crimson liquid behind and he hit the stairs leading towards the Throne Room.
Gwyndolin appeared from the explosion not harmed in the slightest as he waved his large hand to clear the excess gunpowder before looking at Argon with a plain stare. His champion, for his part, merely snarled back like some animal in the wild. The god breathed out a sigh. The damage to his mind was too far gone to heal by normal means. He needed to be killed now before he worsened or turned hollow, and it needed to be done fast.
In a flash, the god drew another arrow and fired. In a bout of surprising speed, the undead snatched the projectile from the air as he spun from the momentum. His black bow materialised in his left hand and he knocked the arrow, pulled back the drawstring, stopped spinning as he aimed for the god's head and fired in less than three seconds.
The Darkmoon Lord was almost stunned to silence again, almost being the key word. He had seen the undeads capabilities for himself and knew he was prone to react to battle stimulus 'on the fly', as Ornstein had once said. Foe's like Argon were seldom found but dangerous when engaged, it was one of the reasons he needed to keep a cool head. He blocked the arrow with a flick of his sceptre and his champion roared maniacally.
"Enough Argon!" Gwyndolin bellowed, making the room shake. "Cease this foolish endeavour, or thou shalt find naught but death from thine actions."
"Go to hell, sinner!" the Chosen Undead replied and rose, albeit like a quivering leaf in a storm. He had lost too much blood and he was injured beyond his physical means. Which is why the god couldn't understand why the undead refused to surrender. He had to give his stubbornness credit, however, such integrity was seldom found. When he had made his champion come to his senses, perhaps that same perseverance would be the saving grace of the entire kingdom.
"Remember that I warned thou."
Argon breathed heavily, limping towards him as his bow vanished with a sparkle of fine dust and a halberd replaced it. "Your end is near." He took a death breath before rushing towards Gwyndolin for what seemed like the umpteenth time. The halberd made to carve a wicked smile into one of his snakes, but the god fired a single dart at it, and the undead reeled backwards. He stabled himself and jumped as Gwyndolin swung his sceptre, the two weapons collided, and a shrill ring rang out before Argon used the momentum to flip his body up and send a kick to the god's face. The boot connected with Gwyndolin's face and he grinned madly before he was punched to the ground for the second time.
With a quick backwards roll, the undead rested on his feet in a low crouch, his halberd two-handed and ready. Unfortunately, his eyes didn't pick up on the arrow racing towards him the moment he was roughly thrown to the ground. He could only watch in shock as the elegantly made projectile sailed towards him in slow motion before the spiralled tip dug deep into the centre of his forehead; a direct hit.
SHNACK!
Gwyndolin observed in bittersweet revelry as his champion, his valued human and comfort slowly dissipated in a crumbling of millions of tiny white specks of light before his body suddenly burst into a harmless explosion of pure light. It faded just as soon as it appeared leaving the Great Hall in a calm silence, blood and weapons still littering the area like debris amidst the broken ivory tiles.
(A/N: Was going to let it end here but there's too much content for this arc)
He was dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. It wasn't unusual since he had died hundreds, if not thousands of times but that wasn't the point. The fact that he, after so much scrapes after the Painted World, had actually succumbed to an eventual end was just… well, it was just outlandish!
He had done his best, used every possible strategy to avoid falling into that chasm of nothingness and now he was in the very same oblivion he had promised never to fall into…
And it was all that fem-boy's fault!
Fem… boy? Wait, did he mean Lord Gwyndolin?
Don't you dare address that sinner as 'Lord'. He'll pay for putting his putrid hands on me, I'll TEAR THAT SMIRK OFF HIS FACE!
Wha- sinner? What are you talking about… and what do you mean by that threat? I know he's never done much for me personally but he is still a God you kno-
Blasphemy! His kind cannot be called 'gods', he cannot be called divine. They are but self-proclaimed bigots upon a throne of lies! For you to assume such filth as something omnipotent is profane.
What makes you so sure? I don't believe in the gods any more than you do but to call them 'filth'? That's going too far.
They lied to you, brainwashed you, made you kill innocent lives and you call that FINE?!
B-But they had th-their reasons. Gwyndolin had his reasons, surely. That was why I… why I decided to return to the castle, to ask him of his motives.
And did he explain anything to you?
No, he… he didn't.
Exactly. That is why he shall be judged for his actions, torn to pIeCeS like the trash he is!
But it was because of you that he didn't explain himself… It was… because of you that I died, that I lost control in the first place!
And your point?
Wh-Who are you? What are you doing in my head? Why do you have such beef with the-
CRACK
What was that?
How should I know? It's probably just your imagination.
No, that can't be right. YOU are a part of my imagination!
Oh? Is that right?
Y-Yeah!
Then what do you call those memories you saw?
That's- I… I don't know- AH!
Something wrong?
My-My head! It hurts. Oh, its hurts so bad!
I guess that was the cracking we heard earlier.
Then that means-
Yes, yet another piece of yourself torn away by the curse. All because of that damned protestant…
S-Stop! I won't let you near Gwyndolin!
Like you could stop me! BAHAHAHA!
Who are you anyway? Why are you in my head? Go away already, stay away from-
It's time for me to take over, now. Go to sleep.
No! I won't. I'll stop y-
SLEEEEP!
It was honestly a disappointment to see such futility in Lithecore's opinion. He couldn't understand the problem Argon had killing a simple nobody when he had the corruption flowing through his veins, the spark of rage that was required for him to adopt the persona he had conveniently parked in some isolated corner in his mind, and let's not forget the overabundant armoury of weapons he had stashed away somewhere on his body. When the wraith had seen the efficient use and quick-draw capability such magic possessed, he had begun thinking that he needed one too. His twin just made it look so appealing.
His defeat, however, had been both unexpected and pathetic. To think that his Yin-half could be so weak was just an impossible thought. He had defeated Kirk many times with humorous tactics and unconventional manoeuvres. Although calling that love-bird a challenge was like saying Kaathe was a puppy; a complete lie. But whilst the Thorned Darkwraith was a weakling in his eyes, he was considered one of the strongest undead the land itself possessed. If Argon had had the potential to best a man dressed as a thicket over four times, kill an Izalith sister and convince a behemoth in rock to join his small party then he couldn't understand why a mere Darkmoon recluse would be even a remote issue; he had a cross breed with him for pity sake.
Perhaps it was because he hadn't truly awoken yet? He felt the rush of mixed emotions when Argon had been fighting the currently panting god but maybe they weren't strong enough to bring out those latent memories that would lock his mind into a state of unhinged dystopia. It would be necessary to destroy this resentful happy-go-lucky persona he seemed to possess. He would need to kill that dumb dragon-girl if she became the spanner in his works, making his other half believe this fantasy that he was some knight in shining armour.
With a sigh, Lithecore made his way around the pillar he had been standing behind and descended the flight of stairs in front of him. If Argon couldn't finish some simple-minded trash, then he would have to do so himself; perhaps then Kaathe would finally accept his request to be named the new Darkwraith Commander after he brought the greedy snake the soul of his nemesis. At least then he wouldn't have to be badgered by some bucket-helmed tsundere – although he enjoyed the amusement the man brought with him.
Despite his Black Knight armour weighing quite a lot his foot steps were silent as he approached the stationary god from behind. If all went well, he could probably end this quickly with a poisoned blade to the neck of taller adversary before being off. Then again with all those snakes that had minds of their own he doubted he'd be so lucky, and besides… it would be a terrible downer for the son of Gwyn to fall to a simple assassination of all things. That would just purge all the fun and who wanted that?
As the wraith touched the last step with his boot and reached down to lift the discard giant halberd sitting in a pool of blood, he heard the god stir like a guardian in Darkroot Wood awakened by a lifeform's proximity.
"Who goes there?" his voice was commanding and cold for someone that had just had to kill their only chance of survival. Ah well, a strong spirit was the sweetest to break when the time came anyways.
With a twirl, the blood staining the polearm was sent flying as he ran for the god that looked as if he had seen a ghost.
Gwyndolin stared at the leftover bloodstain his champion had left behind. It had been a long, sad battle leaving no victors… only losers. It was as if all fight had expelled from the god after sending the final arrow into Argon's head, a thought he still didn't wish to revisit for fear of it making him sick to his core; his colourful eyes dulling slightly under his crown.
He had finally done it, however; regretfully killed the only undead he truly trusted to stave off the corruption ravaging his body and the insanity poisoning his soul. While that had nearly torn a bountiful hole into his large heart, he had also somewhat gained something from the crazed undead; a revelation.
He hadn't realized the freedom, the ability to choose that he had possessed from the start. He would have blamed his blindness on his father and siblings' burdens and expectations being thrown on top of his shoulders, but he knew it was purely his fault alone. For never thinking he could amount to anything special as the isolated last born of Gwyn, for surrendering his opinions in favour of his elders that had always been wrong, and of course, for failing to speak up when, one by one, his family completely dwindled until it was only him and his unwanted niece trapped in canvas.
He truly owed it all to his champion, if not for his sudden aggressiveness and blind rage he would have lived for another millennium – that's if he had that much time left – as little more than a shell of what he truly was. He owed Argon more than he could fathom, the undead with unknown origin was about to save his kingdom after all.
Or he was considering it at least, Gwyndolin corrected himself. He still needed to explain the reason for this quest to the undead before anything moved on further. He was shocked at just how the undead had even seen through his plan in the first place, but he reasoned that after travelling with Priscilla; someone that certainly wouldn't reserve any respect for the gods save for himself and, unfortunately, Velka; and the betrayed Archbishop Havel that were both somewhere near Borgus; it was only about time he figured out all this was a ruse.
With another sigh, he dropped his head as he thought of the Bishop with a troubled frown. He would also have to deal with that moody old man when he eventually encountered him and stood on the receiving end of his legendary berating. That would be a headache for another day, however. After he explained things to Argon, he would recuperate in his chambers whilst he figured out a different problem that required change immediately; Ringed City.
As the Darkmoon Lord reached out with his magic, he noticed something that he had been too busy to notice, and his frown deepened. It seemed he had an invader on his hands, and said invader was either a revolting Darkwraith that was seeking his souls, or some lucky interloper from another land like the one in yellow armour that had managed to use his lowered wards to their advantage. Either way, they were fools for two reasons; one, they had dared to invade his home now that he was quite royally frustrated, and he had just 'grown some balls', as Ornstein had also said once before. And two, they believed they could sneak up behind a being that was well known for his mastery of the stealth arts.
Still though, he smirked slightly. There was always one fool that thought they were too special compared to the rest. But what was slightly odd was the fact that the magical signature of the phantom behind him felt eerily similar to that of the Chosen Undead himself. Either way he needed to find and eliminate this interloper, he was already too annoyed to bother forcing his Knights to take care of it when he was right here. Besides, he needed to let off some steam of his own.
"Who goes there?" Gwyndolin shouted as the room reverberated, bouncing back on the walls before reaching him again before he turned around.
As if life couldn't be crueller to him at that very moment, his eyes widened to the size of gargoyle shields as he saw what looked like the darker version – far more sinister than the one he had just killed – of Argon himself approaching him, donned in Black Knight armour no less.
"What trickery is this!" the god bellowed in utter shock and disbelief before the phantom began to chuckle darkly, the sound sending minute tremors down his spine. The invader before him was almost the mirror-image of Argon himself; long dark hair, pale skin half covered by thin black-veins and deep amber eyes – well, one of his eyes were amber at least. What was fascinating was the fact that this version of his champion seemed to possess the abyssal scourge on the left side of his body instead of the right.
"Trickery? Oh, no, no, no. I am definitely real." The phantom said in a hoarse voice, sounding more like an unpleasant scraping of claws against stone walls with each word he enunciated. It was thoroughly confusing to the Darkmoon God for how similar he seemed to Argon, yet how different he seemed to speak, act and appear in terms of his aura.
Gwyndolin was no expert on every aspect of the magic he had flawless control over. When thinking generally, it was impossible for him to find, observe and learn every spell and incantation ever created until this day, it was just too tall an order. However, when it came to a person's aura – or emotional presence – he could boast to being fairly well versed in understanding and analysing them efficiently.
That was why when he said that something seemed completely different about this invader despite him possessing most of the same attributes as his champion, he knew what he was talking about. While Argon's aura had been warm, inviting as an average bonfire and injected with the pleasantness of an orange glow; this person that had the exact same face as the Chosen Undead was a completely different case. His presence wasn't inviting, warm, kind or filled to the brim with that pleasantness Argon did.
When Argon had fought him, Gwyndolin had caught the brief flickers of a darkening colour beginning to erode the undeads orange aura and had felt a mild tinge of malevolence despite his resilient innocent emotions in the background, but that was nothing compared to the utter despair he was currently looking at. It seemed almost as if all the life, all the light and all the faith had been sucked out of this phantom completely. He felt cold, as icy as snow yet as hot as flame at the same time, a confusing feeling to accompany the man's apparent lack of emotions. It was as if the god was staring into something void of all joy and life; as if there was only malice, violence and unrivalled anger. Other than that, Gwyndolin could practically smell the putrid scent of something extremely foul on the man's soul; dark essence. Something that could only come from something equally revolting… a Darkwraith.
"Begone from this place, wraith or thou shalt feel the smite of the gods."
The wraith simply smiled at him wickedly with a raised eyebrow, as if what he had said was funny to him. The wraith absently twirled the large halberd in his hands before dropping into a low stance. Gwyndolin narrowed his eyes, it seemed he would need to crush more than just his wayward champion today, how interesting it was all becoming, and the sun had yet to crest over the mountains.
"Of course, but not before I've acquired what needs to be collected."
"And that is?"
The Darkwraith smiled wider as he began to walk forward. "Your soul."
Gwyndolin wasted no time in sending as many of his snakes after the phantom as he could before he began to throw his golden darts and fire consecutive moonlight arrows at his new foe. The Darkwraith reached him in record time, twirling his borrowed polearm to deflect dart and arrow alike whilst he punched, booted and impaled his snakes with terrible accuracy.
The god flinched as more wounds were added to his tally before he prepared a concentrated blast from his sceptre. Unfortunately, as he was about to release the spell, the wraith had already cocked back the halberd and thrown it in an impeccable measure of strength; knocking the weapon out of his hand.
Before Gwyndolin had a chance to react, the phantasmic form of the wraith crossed the distance and drew a great sword only heavyweight Black Knights could wield. The god's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets when he saw the wraith twirl the blade around him as if it weighed nothing but paper before cleaving three of his snakes apart in one smooth motion.
The Darkmoon Lord gasped in pain and reeled back as the wraith took the opportunity to leap into the air, black blade ready to impale his head as a sinister grin grew on his pale features. The god only smiled back in response, suddenly raising himself up and catching the phantom in a powerful uppercut, sending his blade clattering to one side as he rolled against the ground a few times, the black and red shadows around his body becoming disturbed before they reconvened into the shape of a human.
For the second time that day, Gwyndolin rubbed his left hand and muttered under his breath. Phantom or regular being in the flesh, punching them both still hurt like hell. Besides the pain in his body and fist, however, he was really starting to get pissed off that the people attacking him thought he was incapable of defending himself at close range without any weapons. He knew he was inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat, but he did know to throw a punch. Damned stereotypes, he should had taken his brother's advice to buff himself up when he had the chance.
"My, my, you're still this strong after all that fighting? Impressive." The god raised a curious eyebrow. So the look-alike had watched his duel with Argon, had he? It explained his ability to read his moves like a book. "Even so, I'm afraid not even your power can save you this time, Gwyndolin."
Without waiting for a response – not that the god would find it pertinent to answer scum – the wraith dived back into battle, his arms flailing behind him in the same manner Argon had. The Darkmoon Lord ignored that for now and his snakes rushed toward their foe as fast as they could, intent on devouring the big snack in black armour whole when he came close.
Before either of the two could reach each other, they were surprised when an arrow the size of a gargantuan spear impaled the Darkwraith mid-step, pinning his abdomen to a nearby pillar with a resounding clang. Gwyndolin turned around in confusion to see the fresh-looking form of Argon in all his angered glory, a brand new Dragonbow in his black and white hands as he glared at the phantom he had just hit.
"No wraith's stealing my prey." He growled, violet and amber eyes glowing faintly at the top of the stairway he was standing on.
He almost looked like a brave hero standing there, still shirtless as ever, a monstrous bow in his hands. Gwyndolin sweat-dropped despite the situation.
If only that were so.
Argon merely released the ragged breath he had been holding since his arrival at the Great Hall. He had nearly been too late to kill that swine in white and gold if the severed snake heads and panting deity was anything to go by. As he stood there with a sneer, waiting for the false god to retrieve his sceptre and join him in the Throne Room for whatever round they were onto now, he couldn't help but remember the race he had had to go through just to arrive at this annoying area again… It wasn't entirely pleasant. Not especially since the sinner had managed to kill him for the first time in weeks. And now that some pilfering pest had arrived to steal his hard-earned kill, it pissed him off even more.
"I see thou art still bemused by thy folly." Gwyndolin said calmly, gazing from the haggard undead to the look-alike wraith pinned to the wall like a marionette without its strings. If he had an ounce of the interest he usually did, he would have postponed their vexing duel to question the black and crimson phantom. It was a shame he had neither the patience or strength left to even care.
"And I see you missed me so much you became a masochist in my absence," Argon replied with a half grin. He may want to rip this bastard to pieces, but he had to admit that the fem-boy was staring to grow on him. He jutted his chin out towards the phantom in question.
"Who's the pest?"
"Is it not one of thine own?"
"You think I carry cockroaches in my pouches?"
Gwyndolin smiled. He was nowhere near his normal self, but he was coming around at least, it was a thing to be glad about. Seeing the undead offer a crumb of regular humour was better than his twisted amused taunts.
"Then the wraith is of no consequence." Argon nodded, his sneer still fixed on his cheeks like red finger-marks after a strong slap. He spared a quick glance at the impaled Darkwraith and momentarily raised an eyebrow at him. He looked mildly familiar. Then the undead shrugged and turned his narrowed eye back to the god. Then again, all invaders, phantoms and wraiths looked alike to him, it didn't matter if he did know one at the end of the day.
"Good. Now get your ass over here. Its about time…" he rolled his shoulders as Gwyndolin retrieved his sceptre, cast his spell and faded from view. As the Chosen Undead turned around, drew his Demon Hammer and cracked his neck; his foe materialised before him in the centre of the second largest room in the castle. The breeze up here was cooler, like fresh dew on the tip of his tongue if he opened his mouth and the light beaming through the stained windows sending warm caresses against his bare skin. Argon opened his eyes wider as he zeroed in in the blasphemer, heterochromatic orbs glowing with equal ferocity.
"…Time to get shredded."
(*Queue 'Congratulations' by Sleeping With Sirens*)
Gwyndolin initiated the fight for once, summoning balls of blue fire to burn above his head. Argon prepared for it to smash into him when the growing basin of azure flame extended its reach, sending a massive, circular ring around both fighters. The undead turned to the god in question before he had to twist around a soul arrow cast his way.
He managed to take two steps forward before he had to force his body to bend over backwards to avoid another magical arrow. His spine clicked and cracked as the vertebrae were forced to prove their flexibility before he flipped his body, spinning like a ballet dancer in mid-air to bypass two more blazing arrows. He landed in a three-point stance, his hammer resting on his shoulder as he stared at Gwyndolin who seemed nonchalant. Argon's scowl morphed into a wide grin. At least his tired foe was keeping things interesting, it wouldn't do to stick to the same routine when you were fighting a killing machine with unparalleled battle prowess. Or at least… that's just how he thought about it.
As the god ended his turn, three burning balls of magic diverted from the circle around them, speeding toward the undead. Argon sniffed before raising his hammer and spinning like he was throwing a weighted disk. The orbs of soul energy hit their mark with ping before exploding in a shower of light blue, like some falling curtain of neon rain; obscuring his champion for a moment.
When the haze cleared, it revealed a standing Argon, untouched by the attack save for his monstrous hammer possessing darkened burn marks on the petrified wood. Gwyndolin received a smirk before being rushed. The undead leapt into the air and smashed his weapon against his sceptre, the surprising size and gravitational advantage of the undead forcing him back before his snakes' bit into Argon's shoulders. The mad man grunted before he was thrown into the air similar to last time.
Simultaneously, both men drew their respective black and golden bows before firing arrows at the distance of a few feet. The god's aim was as flawless as his skin tone as they punctured his champion's thigh, left bicep and clipped his ear; sending him spinning like a children's toy. Likewise, most of Argon's arrows seemed to find their mark in a bout of excellent motor skills as the poison-tipped heads plunged into the retracting snakes and Gwyndolin's shoulder, making him grunt in pain. The arrow punctured his smooth skin, staining his clothes crimson before he pulled the object out with a wince. It was a good thing he was somewhat resistant to poison.
Unfortunately, the undead didn't account for the orbs still hanging in the air like chandeliers as they struck his body at second intervals.
BOOM!
The first orb crashed into his stomach, a wheeze leaving his lips as he flew higher.
BOOM!
The second orb burned his right shoulder blade, making him change direction and fly west.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Gwyndolin watched in rapt attention as the undead danced in mid-air, bouncing off his many homing spells in bursts of bright blue. It was so amusing that he had stifle the small snigger that left his mouth. It was rude to laugh at your foe's predicament, whether it was your cause or not.
The last spell made Argon flying into the ground face-first, his nose cracking under the impact before he groaned. He rose to his knees rather slowly before staring at the god.
Screw cheap shots, that was freaking cheating!
The undead raised both hands as twin crossbows appeared in his grip before he pulled the trigger, the bolts diving for a headshot. Gwyndolin backed up as both projectiles found themselves nipping at both of his ears, breaking his focus at the attack to sensitive appendages.
He raised a hand to feel the damage but felt no blood. He heard the undead growl before he turned and found nothing there but his blood. With a start he realized the ruse he had fallen for and looked up to see Argon coming down to him with a staff those Titanite Demons were famed for using. Before the polearm could wrap around his thin neck, the Darkmoon Lord aimed his bow and fired at point blank range, impaling the undead but all it did was nudge his body and studder his momentum.
Without thinking, he called upon the orbs surrounding them as he raised his sceptre to block the attack. The U-shaped metal of the polearm clanged against his sceptre and Argon launched a swift kick to his wrist, weakening his grip on the weapon. As the shaft of the catalyst began to fall from his hand, they were both hit by a barrage of blue, sending both of them flying back a fair distance away.
"Ahhh-GAH!" Argon shouted as he bounced against the warm floor. With a flip of his legs, he rolled to his feet, summoned hammer once again before running for the open protestant. It was now or never, and he would much rather prefer a false god with his head bashed in than a living one holding his head on his sceptre.
As for the Darkmoon God, he was reeling from being hit by his own spell. In actuality, he had only cast that many homing soulmass to act as a distraction for the undead when necessary. He would have never expected that he would need it to wound both his champion and him out of desperation. As the blue mist cleared the god noticed his shoulder still aflame with the spell and patted it out with a huff. At least he knew he could take a direct hit from his own attacks, even if said attack had left him a few feet away from joining his father in whatever afterlife Nito had created.
Just then he noticed movement in front of him and his eye twitched in annoyance as the undead came back running at full force, a bleeding mess with that petrified tree ready to bust his teeth in. With a grumble about stubbornness, Gwyndolin coated his sceptre in a blue haze and swung it like a club against Argon's enormous tree. As the two weapons connected, Argon was startled to see his Demon Hammer – something he had begun to call the Club of Judgement during their fight – splinter into a thousand tiny pieces before his multi-coloured eyes.
Gwyndolin used that moment to his advantage, spinning his catalyst around before slamming it against Argon's right shoulder. A loud crack sounded in the Throne Room as the undead screamed and reeled back. He dropped the broken, jagged stump of the tree in his hands and tried to reach for his Estus only to realise he had broken it in his blind rage.
He was about to utter out a curse when the god's snakes' bit into him again, making the air in his lungs leave him as the snake's fangs punctured said lungs. Another clamped onto his broken arm and he growled through the pain, drawing the spare Silver Knight sword in his storage to hack at them both when he felt his right arm being tugged.
He froze and turned to stare at the reptile. He saw a wicked gleam in the thing's dull slitted eyes – if that were even possible – before the snake used its incredible jaw strength to rip his arm from his body. He cried out in anguish as he felt the layers of skin tear away first before the tendons and muscle gave up as the limb was ripped violently from his fragmented shoulder, expelling a waterfall of blood. For a brief moment, Argon subconsciously looked at the turn of evens and scoffed. How was that for poetic justice?
"AHHHHHHHHH!"
Gwyndolin held back a wave of nausea at the sight as his snakes retracted, one of them throwing the black veined arm across the room as if it held some great offense to the illusionary serpent. As Argon fell onto his stomach screeching in pain, the god cancelled the illusion his body held as he grew slightly shorter, the snakes retracting under his gown in a soft wash of light as his bare feet touched the warm, tiled floor.
(*Fight song ends*)
"Is that enough for thou?" Gwyndolin asked the undead who was still trying to crawl with one arm towards his sword, a grimace on his face as blood poured from his wound like a fountain.
"I'll kill you. I kill you!"
The god sighed and rested his bow against his back, simultaneously opening his hand as his sceptre was transported to his chamber. Now that he had incapacitated the undead, he would be sure there would be no further resistance when his champion was bleeding out. What worried him was the fact that the first death hadn't stopped this pervasive obsession he had with these 'sinners'. While it could be argued that his earlier assessment of Velka turning the undeads mind was true, he didn't feel as sure when staring at his unadulterated rage directed towards him. This looked like something more personal than a fanatical endeavour, although he could be wrong.
Still, it was pitiful to see his champion like this. It was even mournful to think that if he had failed to act sooner and pacify the undead, he would have probably shown the same aggression towards Priscilla. As far as he could tell, Argon had called his status of being a deity blasphemous. If his assumption was correct – and it was rarely wrong – that would mean Argon's split persona was directed towards hating the Great Lords and possibly all divinity in general. He would have to find a way to fix this agathokakological behaviour before Havel and Priscilla found them.
At the moment, the two were still stuck in the smith's workshop. Whilst Argon had impaled that Darkwraith, it was clear he wasn't entirely banished from this world if those fog gates keeping the undeads companions and his Knights at bay were still up. He sighed tiredly at the headache he had to deal with, it never rained but poured for him.
"Y-You… think this i-is over?!" the undead managed to mutter through gritted teeth and droopy eyes. He had lost a lot of blood. "I'm just getting… getting started! Wait for me to get up, you'll s-s-see…"
The god silently cursed himself for not acting to fix the undeads affliction sooner. Perhaps this could have all been avoided if he had just figured out a way to delay the spread of this abyssal scourge when it showed its baby teeth to them all.
With a soft voice, Gwyndolin began to speak. "Enough now Argon, thou hath suffered too much."
"To hell with your opinions, sinner," he spat and glared at the Darkmoon Lord. "you can't kill me and think it's over. I'll keep coming back, I won't stop just because you took my dominant side. You hear me?!"
"When would thou stop then?"
"When you die. Die like the filth you are. You're all carrion, waste, garbage, a bloated corpse for the crows to pick at." Spittle began to fly from his lips as he spoke. "One day all of your retched kind with feel the judgement you so rightly deserve."
"Including Priscilla?"
The remaining amber orb of Argon's swirled with a hint of clarity as his words got stuck in his throat. The god may have been indecisive in his decisions, but he was no fool when it came to the person's he kept close to his heart. Whether he was a god or a human, these emotions were something he could share with any race; as such, he didn't need to be the powerful intellectual he was to know that the Chosen Undead harboured strong feelings for his niece.
Using that bond would be the pinnacle to right his mind and possibly upturn the scourge if only slightly. Again, it wasn't a fool-proof plan, but the god believed and trusted in his champion's ability to break out from this shell of negativity and depravity. The undead had sparked a fire in him to finally act with the unknown trait he had been too adamant to admit he possessed, if anyone could come through a hurdle so big not even Artorias' will could overcome, it was Argon.
For a moment, the undeads face softened as he allowed the name to bounce around his brain. His mouth opened finally as he tried to speak the word himself. "Pri… Pris-Priscilla?"
"Yes," Gwyndolin said softly, "from the Painted World thou freed her. A feat not even I could achieve."
Argon looked up at him as he spoke, some sense of recollection crossing his features.
"From her exodus, she has remained by thine side. A companion and friend when thine authority wilted before thine eyes."
"Yes…"
"Does thou understand now?" Gwyndolin asked quickly, his exhilaration that this was actually working spurring him on. "Can thou truly remain as thou art knowing she and Havel art there for thineself?"
"The protestants."
Gwyndolin frowned. Had he heard right? He decided to ask.
"Argon, what di-"
"Snuff out the unwanted, snuff out the unnecessary. The Bishop, the cross breed, the god… the false prophet, the seductress and the sinner…" his breathing began to quicken as he stared with glassy, unseeing eyes at Gwyndolin.
"They must all die."
The god opened his mouth in both shock and confusion as his champion began to cackle insanely, repeatedly smacking his head against the floor like some deranged lunatic in the asylum he had escaped from. Gwyndolin just couldn't find it within himself to reply. He was shocked that the steady progress he had been making to revert the undead to his former self had just failed so unpredictably. And he was mortified at the prospect that his champions mind was so far gone that he even wished to murder his closest comrades like they were nothing but dead weight.
He knew thinking that he would change with just a few simple words was just ignorance but to understand that Argon seemed to retain no visible trace of remembrance whatsoever was just bone-chilling. This was truly his biggest blunder that he could have fixed but chose not to.
"I know," Argon said just as he stopped his mad cackling, "let's start with you."
The Darkmoon Lord frowned in confusion when he noticed the undeads left hand wearing a particular red glove that emitted a small glow. With a start, he saw the magic pooling under his palm and his eyes snapped to his feet just in time to see circular rings of red collate themselves around the god as one of the circles turned a dangerous red.
Gwyndolin shouted out as pillar of chaos flame rose from the ground like snakes from their den, snagging his gown, burning his skin and trapping him in a circle of angry flame. Argon began to laugh loudly again as a circle of fire appeared beneath his unclothed belly. The god tried to call out to him but was too late as the pillar of fire punched him into the air with a mighty fist.
He gasped as the flames burnt his monochrome body as he collapsed on his face again, groaning whilst a few small sniggers left his upturned lips. It seemed that had satisfied his fleeting sense of accomplishment.
Gwyndolin waited until the flames extinguished themselves, the magic from Argon cutting off after he was hit by his own attack. While the god was happy he hadn't perished in an attack that would have definitely killed him if it weren't any stronger, he was more shocked by the fact that the undead had managed to master a pyromancy thought extinct after all Chaos sisters had supposedly perished in the ruins of Izalith.
He watched with blooming depression as Argon continued to crawl away from him, his mind still in dystopia as he rushed toward whatever hallucination the blood loss had caused him. His eyes caught the glint of the discarded Silver Knight sword and reached down to pick it up with a wince. His body had been badly burnt along with the other wounds he had sustained. It was a miracle he was still alive in the first place, although he owed it to the undead before him that he hadn't just given into his own worthless persona and allowed himself to be beheaded.
As he approached Argon, he ran a hand over the beautiful blade, admiring its craftmanship whilst also narrowing his eyes as he enchanted it with a spell he hoped to never use for the remainder of his life time. His crown was illuminated a bright yellow as a multitude of lightning sparks began to coat the blade, creating a soft crackling as the blade glowed with the powerful magic poured into it.
Gwyndolin stared at the lightning blade as it chirped and crackled relentlessly in his grasp. It was more of a shame of what he was about to do with the blade compared to the spell he had been forced to use but it was only fitting. His champion deserved to receive and noble end, even if he would reincarnate. This was just a way to honour his death as a warrior that fought until the end, it was the least he could do.
As the god entered the sunlight shining through the window he plunged the blade into Argon's spine, pushing down until the hilt touched his back and closed his eyes as the undead screeched at the top of his lungs.
For Argon, it was the most indescribable pain he had ever felt before. He had known that being nicked with a blade coated in gold pine resin was a peach of an experience, tearing through more than just his skin when a hit actually landed, but this was on a different level entirely. It felt like his very soul was being electrocuted, turned into a supernova of aguish as he was pinned to the floor like some crawling lizard. The sparks from the blade ripped through his body like heated metal touching water, evaporating his flesh into nothing but misty red vapour. His bones, muscles and innards weren't spared either. Oh no; they were just obliterated, torn asunder like the rest of him, leaving a jagged oval hole where his intestines used to be.
A single tear made its way down the god's cheek as he watched the scene unfold. It was that of carnage, ferocity and power. He knew he had failed to help his Chosen Undead, and this was the first fruits of his lethargic labour. He had been too late once again, fallen short of the mark and missed the opportunity to right the wrongs he had made from the start. What use was his free will now when he was too late to utilize it effectively? He gave a grim looked towards the Great Hall. Priscilla would be the most disappointed in him besides himself after he told her that the one to save her was now but a broken shell of his former self. He was truly despicable, perhaps Argon was right to call him a sinner… all he had ever done was make the wrong choices after all.
Even so, he steeled himself. He would still have to fight this corrupted undead again and again until he lost his will and turned hollow, leaving him to lie in the bed of depression and failure he had made for himself.
He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword buried in Argon's back with dull eyes as the undeads screams turned into strained cries. How odd, even when his champion knew he was outmatched, he still continued to fight. Even now, when he was about to die again, he still remained stubborn to the core. Gwyndolin wondered if he could only day be like that as well.
With a flick of his wrist, the blade tore through the tiled floor below as he dragged it forward. The enchanted blade was so strong it moved through Argon's body as if it were paper, and with another flick, Gwyndolin severed the undeads body in half, crying softly as the screams of his champion abruptly ended as his head was cut in two.
Immediately his corpse broke into white particles before bursting into thin air, leaving nothing but a puddle of blood to stain this area as well. Gwyndolin gasped suddenly as his body was filled with an influx of souls, healing his wounds at a rapid pace as the lightning on the blade he was holding finally faded, its job complete.
The god snapped his head towards the Great Hall, frowning when he saw the bloodstain from earlier gone from sight, as if it had been cleaned by someone. Gwyndolin shook his head as he recalled the number of souls he had absorbed and was shocked to realize that the number was close to one-hundred thousand. He gazed mournfully at the bloodstain at his feet. That had been Argon's accumulation; he didn't know how he knew but something just told him it was. He briefly wondered how many foes he must have slaughtered before coming to the castle and shivered. If he had been in the right mindset with the same endeavour to claim his soul, he would have been able to slay him in no time.
But that was a worry he wouldn't have to bother with anymore, his champion was lost, gone with the blowing wind. And there was no getting him back.
Gwyndolin looked up towards the bonfire crackling in front of his sister's deserted bedchamber and focused on it, wishing to warp there without the use of his sceptre, the poor catalyst needed to rest a bit for now. While casting magic without something to funnel his power through was slightly more difficult, he could still do it with enough focus, even if it did take more magical power from him that usual.
He faded from sight on the ground level before a large spell circle formed next to the coiled sword. Soon his tall body re-emerged inside the circle before the dim light faded, leaving him alone and in front of a room he thought he would never need to approach again.
He stared at the opened doors of the room and at the illusion of his sister stretched out on a large mattress before the bonfire next to him roared to life; spitting out an undead with long black hair, a bare chest and black veins covering the right side of his body with heterochromatic eyes.
With a deep breath, Gwyndolin prepared himself. "Argon, art thou…"
Vile, retched, untamed, filthy, bigotry scum!
So I take it you failed, huh?
Shut up.
I don't know what's worse; being pushed back into a small pocket of space since your ego is so large or being you and actually failing when you talk so big.
I said: Shut. Up.
I know your problem. Well… I don't really know your problem. I have no idea what you are exactly-
SHUT UP, ARGON!
Ah. So, you do know my name then. Very good, I was beginning to think you didn't which is why you were just referring to me as 'you'. It's comforting to know that this sinister, somewhat fanatical side of my mind is semi-cognitive when it comes to topic other than 'this sinner and that'.
Are you trying to piss me off?
On the contrary, I'm trying piss you out of my system. You're a loud, empty vessel with no snooze-button, you preach like you're the goddamn Archbishop of a religious country of nihilists, your imaginary breath stinks from all that bullcrap you've been spouting and DAMN you're an asshole when people try to talk to you. Tell me, have you ever been told to keep your fetishes to yourself because you are kinky as f-
And how does it feel to know that all the things you hate about me are actually apart of you?
Well… pretty dark.
That's it?
Hmm… yeah. All I can really say is that I am one messed up mother f-
Futile.
'Mother futile'? That doesn't sound right at all. Why would I call myself a 'mother futile'? Whatever that is.
I meant this conversation you arrogant knave!
What, really? I thought we were getting along quite well for a psychopath and an amnesic patient. Hmph, I guess Priscilla was right when she said I had personality disorder! Hahaha!
Why are you so brave all of a sudden? You were a weak-willed sow when I put you to sleep, so why do you vex me like all the other sinners out there?
Simply because I know you're not real.
Balderdash! I am the immortalization of holy judgement, the arbiter to feeble-minded simpletons following a sacrilegious idol that possesses no shred of divinity. With my right hand I shall snuff out the unwanted, whilst my left purges the unnecessary. Under my banner heretical nations shall fall and sea's overflow at the forthcoming of my magnificence!
And yet, you've allowed yourself to pass away with the very Great Lords themselves.
What would a pompous ingrate like yourself know of it?! You let our proud history melt while in that prison. You committed the greatest sin than the remainder of these self-important 'gods' when you forgot who you truly were.
Indeed, and that is why you lost to Gwyndolin.
What blasphemy are you spouting now you weak twit?
The truth. You couldn't kill the Darkmoon Lord; not because your tactics failed or because you weren't strong enough, you were plenty strong with my power. You failed because a part of you – me – couldn't commit a 'sin' greater than your precious blasphemy; murder.
Preposterous! I am you, I embody the rage, the hate, the ideals of the League-
Things that are behind me. Things that can never and will never continue. I agree, you are a part of me; but you were me as a human. Now I am undead. I won't be shackled by petty ideals that carry no weight in a land that defies reality.
Impossible. These ideals are as much a part of my as they are to you. The only reason you are alive today is because of those teachings. To say you will simply forget me is like walking without legs, eating without a mouth, breathing without-
Which is why I'm not going to forget you. You're my past after all. You may appear now and again when I least expect it but I'm fractured deep inside, I can't help but let you show sometimes. Even if you do try and force your way to the surface of my mind, you won't survive long. You're still just a remnant of something I was long ago. I won't need to forget you, you'll fade away with time. All I need to do is ignore you.
Why you dishonourable-
I think it's time for you to sleep now. Sleep and never wake up. Because if you don't, you'll just disappear like you never existed to begin with. Now, where did I put that extra stash of humanity?
You won't get away with this! I will come back! I am inevitable, the apocalypse to this already foaming-at-the-mouth world. You'll just be snuffed out like the remainder of the sinner's out there-
Rest in peace, pale me.
Argon looked up at the god before him, humanity restored, strength renewed and, of course, his mind repaired – albeit somewhat with his inner monologue. As he stared through his right eye, he could make out hazy colours in a mixture of blues, greens and whites. It almost looked like he was seeing mist everywhere, even around himself.
What was strange was that his own mist had two clashing colours. The left side of his body held this warm, orange flow about him, as if it was like yellow sand all mellow and comfy under the sun. The other side was a mess of thick, greasy violet. Usually that colour wasn't so bad, but this just looked as if some shmuck had taken a cauldron, thrown in a boatload of ingredients ranging from herbs and spices to a basilisk's eye and a rat's genitalia before they poured in some mucus-like substance into the haphazard pot to add 'ambiance'.
Still, he admitted it was pretty cool to see this stuff, now he had his own little display of what his opponents were packing. Like it had the possibility of warning him of any foe's magical power and strength or something like that. Like a warning or a heads-up. He froze as he thought about it.
A 'heads-up display'? Pfft, nah. What would really be grand is if I could see a bar of how much stamina and health I had currently. Speaking of which, what's with this nifty gold ring on my finger?
As he was busy staring at the ring adorning his finger he was broken from his thoughts when Gwyndolin decided to speak up.
"Argon, art thou…"
He stared at the god for a moment before realization hit home and his aloof behaviour shifted to something more serious, his heterochromatic eyes glowing brighter in the shadows the crackling bonfire cast around the two of them. Gwyndolin was a bit apprehensive as he spoke, his larger hands nearing the shaft of his bow as he appraised the undead. Argon set his mouth into a thin line and raised a thick eyebrow. Good, he was anxious. He deserved it after lying to him for so long.
He took a firm step forward and watched the god's hand twitch over his bow and for the first time after waking up as he himself noticed the god didn't have snakes for legs this time. Instead, there were these long, slender, white legs that seemed as if they could go on for day-
Wait. Hold on… Gwyndolin was male. And he was straight. He should not be thinking about the son of Gwyn like he was feminine.
Then again, the god did seem oddly more like a lass that he gave him credit for, and why did he have boobs?! Or where they boob's in the first place or just like… armour? Abs? stashed snacks? He didn't know. Perhaps he should ask.
"Those fun-bags real?" he swore he saw the god's shoulders deflate as if he was filled with the wind. He frowned, shouldn't he get a glare if it was false or a soul arrow to the face if it was true?
"What? It's a valid question. You're sexually frustrating for a guy, you know that?"
"Argon!"
The undead turned his head towards the floor beneath him as Priscilla and Havel rushed into the Throne Room, being cautious not to step in the blood and discarded weaponry around the room. Argon was about to ask why his Demon Hammer was nothing but a petrified tree stump on the floor and why his Silver Knight sword was currently in the god's larger hand when everything clicked, and his mood turned sombre.
With a drawn-out sigh, signalling his position to his companions and waking Gwyndolin from his trance he locked his gaze to the god's covered eyes and narrowed his brows.
"Explain everything. Starting from the beginning. No lies this time."
Lord Almighty!!!!!!!! Thank You that I've FINALLY finished this Arc. For lack of a better name, let's just call it the Arc of 'Truth'. If you guys find a better name (I'm certain you will since right now, my brain is mush) please do go ahead and use it.
I'd like to firstly apologize for two things; One, the botched ending for this chapter. I had a REALLY nice one that wasn't too fugly after Argon noted his findings through his abyssal eye (no, he doesn't get superpowers from it). Unfortunately, when I had the idea and was about to write it out, an episode of Masher Chef started, and I ran for the lounge… really sorry for that one.
The second reason I'm fully prostrating on the ground with my head against the floor as if I'm in a mosque is due to the dark themes I placed on Argon, Lithecore and the story in general for this Arc. I'm extremely capable of writing out these bits of horror and gore and stuff but twisting an otherwise rosy character like Argon just makes me curl up in a ball at the evil I've written life into, 'ya know. So, I am sorry for that.
Ah, please do forgive the author's note I placed DIRECTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STORY. I guess I'll edit that out when my brain has the energy again. Right now, I'm spent after studying for Finals and finishing this emotional rollercoaster of a chapter, same goes for any grammar and punctuation. Also, was the song I used for final battle appropriate? I wanted to turn it to something that felt very… rock, I suppose. Although, if you guys thought it was a terrible insert, tell me and I'll happily remove it. I was only planning on inserting song prompts in my spin-off anyways.
Now, onto the word bank before… ze explanation!
Word Bank:
Agathokakological – (adj.) composed of both good and evil.
Ze Explanation : Gwyndolin
· Let me just say this: I did NOT make Gwyndolin OP to win this fight. The Lord of the Darkmoon is already OP. All I did was use his abilities IG (this stands for IN-GAME and not Instagram, FYI) as well as some common-sense attributes. Let me elaborate:
1. His use of soul arrows and those golden darts are commonplace; arifureta. Since he's basically the strongest magic caster in well, the entire series (which I will still strongly believe even if you prove me wrong) I made him concentrate on forming stronger spells with more cast time, similar to the 'Heavy Soul Arrow' and the like. In his wiki description he's described to use 'darts' instead of moonlight arrows, so I made him use both. The darts are golden and the length of the forearm. He fires them from his large sleeve in successive shots of about 10 or 15 as if he were Gambit firing cards. The arrows and his bow are like the advancement of his darts and, as mentioned, are fired with perfect aim and devastating power.
2. His sceptre. I'm not certain how durable the Tin Banishment Catalyst is IG but I acted as if the thing was damn impervious (unlike my blunder with Havel's Dragontooth. Thanks for the rectification Mr. Jesse), however, it isn't. He just used it to block certain direct attacks and smash kakuja Argon to the floor (heh, kakuja… see what I did there?).
3. His strength. Gwyndolin may be a slender son of Gwyn that doesn't fight with his fists and a sword but he's still a god/deity/whatever. Being's with souls that powerful aren't slouches when it comes to physical strength. Besides… the guy is two and a half times the size of the CU (Chosen Undead, not Caren Underhill) so I would expect such force from a fist that size.
4. His snakes. Now, I've always been interested about these little guys bundled under his gown. We can already speculate that they aren't his real feet because, let's face it, that's bloody cruel of FromSoftware to do. Anyways, since the sun is an illusion that has traits so real its bloody frightening, the same should be so for his serpent slop's (ooh, nice name!). I also wanted to seem like they were a living extension of Gwyndolin's own lifeforce which is why they have a shared mental link with the Darkmoon Lord and they're able to fight independent of his commands. And they also possess venom… because duh, they're large ass snakes.
· His 'Awakening', if you could call it that, comes from his inability to act from a young age due to his isolation as the last born of his father. Think about it like this: Feminine-looking son is born at the time of the Moon. His father thinks that's wrong and not 'manly' enough, so he puts son in care of handmaidens to be raised as a girl because of the 'signs'. Son grows up an introvert since everybody thinks he's a wiredo when really, he's just a genius of his time that saves the entire damn kingdom when the chips fall. Due to him taking the 'back-seat' throughout his life and watching as each member of his family either dies or leaves, he gains this mindset that he's a caged bird with the heavy weight of those before him to carry besides his own (which is basically true). Thus, he see's undead and their freedom, along with humanity that he imagines as this revolutionary force he needs to live his way and make the choices he wanted to make from the beginning.
NOW! (*gasp) Dammit that was a long explanation. When he fights abyssal Argon and gains what little wisdom he can from a maniac that loves BDSM suddenly, he realizes he's actually been free this entire time. His thinking was just shackled to believing that he was a caged bird. He then gains the determination to best Argon and bring him back to his senses because he's like, the first human besides Tarkus to gain his respect and trust (even though the Iron Tank didn't make it passed the painting).
Ze Explanation: Argon
· The flashbacks that send our hero into his corrupted rage comes from two points.
1. By this point, you all know that Lithecore is Argon. Whilst Argon displays this aloof and jolly outlook on life, his Darkwraith counterpart is the opposite; resembling this collected persona of a deadly killer with a twisted sense of humour. The memories Argon receives of his past life are like a jumpstart to the brain, making him take on this wild, wrathful body of rage that you would find in a subordinate of Lord Stein.
2. Due to Argon's already messed up head after fighting Lautrec, he's also influenced by the Abyss. What the flashbacks did was turn that mental instability into an advantage by flooding his mind with red. So basically, here he was like Artorias – albeit, without the purple goo and dark aura.
· To clarify some things about Argon while Abyssal (Thank you for bringing this up Raven):
1. When you face Artorias IG he's a bloody difficult enemy to kill if you're a mage, thus the possible problem some of you may have thought there would be in this fight. However, also note that when we face the Abysswalker, he's in full armour, has a hell of a lot of HP and is unhinged since he's basically insane. Argon, on the other hand isn't entirely like that. He's also gone mad and possesses a masochistic side that enjoys pain, I've mentioned it somewhere, and he's abyssal so he has some resistance to magic, not complete resistance.
2. Also, he fights half nude that aids him in his mobility and increased agility, so no physical buffs against magic and physical attacks, he's just berserk.
3. Since he's still an undead, by game standards he also has a low HP gauge very much like Gwyndolin, so they're square on that.
4. The only reason he was seemingly unstoppable was because he was insane, he possessed a mild abyssal buff and he was using the fighting style of the Lithecore's, which I didn't really explain properly. Sorry again.
· As for any outside help, that's a negative due to Lithecore invading the Great Hall. Lithecore was only there to observe the battle at first. Whatever his 'plans' involve, require the undead to come to his 'awakening'. His interruption after Argon was killed the first time was due to him realizing that his 'twin' wasn't ready yet, so he went to claim the wounded Gwyndolin's soul since it would have been a plus for him whether the god was dead anyways.
The relation between Argon, Stein's influence and Faith:
· First of all, I'd like to congratulate Mr. Jesse for pointing that tid-bit out from the get-go.
· As he's said before, Stein's ideals seem to have been hammered into him thoroughly, the proof is that he was under the maniac's 'reconditioning' for years instead of the usual few nights or a month. Tops.
· Now, if you were to look at three things, you would see something very interesting about Argon.
1. As normal happy-go-lucky undead, he shows a dislike to the gods from the beginning. His reasoning is that they 'haven't done a thing to help him' so he doesn't choose to trust or believe in them at all.
2. As younger, Lithecore Commander Argon, even though he was hard-wired to have all gods beheaded and kill their followers, he's also rebellious compared to the others in the League. Despite this, Lord Stein still makes him the Commander without a second thought, not even considering that this refusal to obey blindly might be his undoing.
3. This is the interesting one. If you count Argon's spells over the story, he has about five to six slots. The Oolacile invisibility, the Great Fireball, the Great Firestorm, the Soul Spear, Great Magic Barrier and one or two more I may have forgotten (don't judge me, I've been overthinking, so I'm allowed to forget). If you think of the level of faith he needs to possess than many slots (or am I confusing that with intelligence?) and the Faith he needs to use some of those spells, don't you think that for an extremist trying to kill all gods and act like an atheist, his stats contradict that? The only question therein, is what is he faithful to that we don't know and why does he show such hypocritical levels of it? You'd think that a person like him – Lithecore mindset or not – he would have like, what, level 10-11 Faith? Curious, is it not?
Aaaand lastly a few short things:
The magical ring system – In DS 1, we're only allowed to wear two rings at a time, which is ludacris when you see just how many there are. I took this annoying lore and turned it into something believable. Since the undead body in general is a warehouse to store a ton of souls, deck itself out like the feared Giantdad we all know and love and take on the form of a makeshift Lord Soul itself after claiming all 4 and Gwyn's, the human body is still that; human. While its able to carry strong souls, it's not the best built 'vessel' for an overload of magic, potential aside.
I'll add the rest of this explanation in another chapter, possibly the next one if I can.
Yes, I used a Hollywood Undead reference as one of Argon's monologues and irrational rants. Got the inspiration from a rather… darker part of my teenage years – bloody peer pressure.
As for the pm-system it better stray far, far, far away from me or else it'll find a worm devouring its shabby coding. For those of you trying to get a hold of me via that blasted system, I regret to inform you that I really have not received anything in my inbox yet and I'm truly sorry that you have to share this frustration with me.
As for those of you who've offered other platforms for me to explain parts of my story and whatnot, I thank you and will definitely make use of it when time avails itself to me.
For now, I need your advice, faithful readers. I've got two avenues I can take the next chapter into: one where Argon and gang head to slay Seath so the whole prison break scenario can begin. And the other is one whereby Argon goes his separate way for now whilst Havel and Priscilla head for Seath. His 'unhinged' state of mind needs to develop, and self-introspection might help with that. Or perhaps what he needs is some TLC from a certain cross breed and a fatherly, if not grouchy, Havel so that Argon's identity crisis can end on a good note?
So, if you have any ideas or you want to choose an avenue I've listed above, please send me a review (and I mean everyone able to reply to this request please)
This author's note is officially the longest one I've ever written to date and I really do hope I'll never have to do it again. I know I can't shut up, but this story is about the content, not my explanations, 'ya know?
SO! I might have messed up the Arc here and there but for the most part, I feel like I did pretty well. Hope you all enjoyed!
Oyasumi! (*collapses from exhaustion)