…And that is why I refuse to accept that Shakespeare is the only 'pure' source of original literature schools should have the pleasure to use as a convenient set-book.
-um, we're not alone anymore.
Of course we aren't, there are thousands of things listening in on our conversation of the arts this very moment.
-that's not what I-
Particles, air, dust, and oxygen float around you and I – or rather me and myself – as I refer to you the reason other great authors should have a shot in high school. Why even the Lord himself is peering down at us with utmost interest regarding this worthwhile debate. Just open your spiritual eyes, for Pete's sake, you'll catch a glimpse of His omnipotence too!
-I mean that our dear readers are also listening – or rather reading – in on us, you fool.
Oh… what a blunder that is.
-now that we've established that, let's begin the next chapter.
No! Not until I've explained to all of them the reason great minds like Verne, Lovecraft and Peterson should be granted the opportunity to grace the young-un's as a set work! Even the Great Mr. King himself would be the prefect replacement. The morals of most of his stories and their intricacies could baffle the minds of yesteryear.
-what is it you have against William's disintegrated remains?
Why, nothing. I loved Hamlet and was blown away by Macbeth and Romeo. I just think there are plenty of other people on the same level – if not higher – than Shakespeare, which also had texts that didn't require you a Rosetta stone to read when you were but a fledgling in the world of Elizabethan literature.
-I think you're just babbling. The reason educational systems haven't changed his plays from the curriculum is due to it being the perfect challenge for up and coming intellectuals, and because people are too lazy to decipher Lovecraft's love of the mythical and maddening into something examination-worthy.
Well that was quite an in-depth answer for a form of me only good for undermining my power.
-firstly, you have no power as an amateur writer. You write stories and anonymous people judge them without any parental guidance. You are nothing but a slave to the reviews you so desperately crave.
Woah, that was dark-ish. Nice!
-thank you, I do my best when I'm not bored.
And your best shows. You're actually a tad right there, though. Either way, being judged without training wheels is the best way to make it big one day. There is no better stage to display your written work than on sites such as this, ne?
-indeed. May we begin the chapter now?
Gladly, on with ze story!
Nine. That was the number of times he had been stabbed, crushed, chomped into pulp and fried to a burnt crisp after passing through yet another infuriatingly large fog-door. Initially, he was of the mind that killing demon after demon on yet another floor that led to a smouldering Abyss was his only objective. And then… he had been chased by Taurus Demons on a stairwell, ambushed by overgrown worms the size of duchy's when pouncing on an unopened chest; and let nobody mention the cousin of that atrocious Asylum Demon holding a catalyst.
Argon had told him Chaos Fire didn't hurt that much after enduring it for as long as a few moons. Now he just thought the undead was a perverted masochist. Who else would find facing that monstrosity 'not so bad'? What was it Quelana had called it, the Demon Firesage? What was even remotely sage-like about that?!
But that wasn't the tip of the spire, no sir. What had cost him his souls, handsome beard and his patience was that damn bug on the wall! Bloody Izalith.
He had passed it by with apprehension in his chest, and worry pilling on like stones in his gut. Had he listened to that initial sense of dread, however? No sir. Did his mind calm down from his demon-slaying rampage to think about the consequences should that petrified beast awake? Again, no sir. And had he, for all his caution after nearly being eaten in a cesspool, stopped to formulate a plan in the slight chance that things could and would go horribly wrong? For flippen Gwyn's sake, he had not!
It was just his luck – or bloody damned luck in general – that his next adventure around the fat demon with the staff, would take him down a pathway of oversized tree roots and long-hollow corpses of undead, and into a vast hall fit for royalty.
Now, it had occurred to him that perhaps the route currently being blocked by said oversized roots was his way towards the Izalith City, yet the adventurous and – dare he say it – Argon-like part of him had sneakily persuaded him to traverse through the one door he would rather avoid… the fog door.
Granted, there was a cosy bonfire before it, and he didn't mind the mix of hot and cool air down there. However, his quest was the one thing to forced his tired limbs into literal suicide – aside from his newfound adoration for a certain Izalith daughter. After all, there was still a world to save, and he would be damned if he lost the chance to get his name etched onto the annals of heroes along with Argon himself, the lucky bastard.
Then again, when he thought of it carefully, his masked friend probably wouldn't want his name or face to be remembered on any record if he could help it. That was just how the undead was, as gay as he appeared to be most of the time. Perhaps it was possible that Argon didn't even want to become Lordran's saviour, and in turn the saviour of the world. If so, then that meant the mostly satirical man was only completing this quest either out of some sense of guilt or request other than Lady Gwynevere's.
The proud pyromancer of the Great Swamp sighed out as he repaired his axe at the bonfire. When he thought about it carefully, he really didn't know much about Argon to begin with besides his personality. The man had never spoken a word of his past or his hobbies. Laurentius knew it was possible that the joker had forgotten his past after going hollow – it was a common occurrence – but he just couldn't imagine someone like him having amnesia, I just wasn't believable.
The pyromancer shook his head to refocus his thoughts and turned back towards the fog door before him. He was shoddy when it came to battle tactics, but he had tried a good few to best the oddly shaped bug-beast beyond the door. Unfortunately, just when he was able to sever one cringe-worthy limb from the thousands writhing on the demon, he would either experience being eaten alive or being squashed alive. Once, he had attempted to just shatter the ugly thing's face in with a reinforced pike, yet it had only pissed the thing off more. Besides that, he was at a gross disadvantage since he couldn't walk on lava. A good deal of help his pyromancies did him now. Argon that idiot… didn't he know that sending a pyromancer to fight in a fire-resistant kingdom was the worst move one could make? Then again, wasn't he also the idiot for agreeing to it, himself? How could he have refused, however, when Quelana had looked at him with those hopeful, large, onyx orbs that nearly sucked him into obli- okay, he needed to focus now.
Laurentius stood up and rolled his shoulders. He could worry about serenading the Izalith beauty when he returned with her mother's soul- ah bloody hell, he was doing it again. Out of a whole kingdom, why did he have to befriend the one undead that was both narcissistic, satirical and mildly cynical at the same time?
The pyromancer took another deep breath before thinking about the task in front of him. He could try using his spells to the fullest, it was the only method he could think of when facing a foe so stubborn to his attacks. He had to have enough force in his swings, so Power Within was a good idea for creating powerful blows. He also needed to be fast on his feet, and on lava, so Flash Sweat would do better than his other buff.
Lastly, he needed to find a weak spot on the damn thing. When he had attacked the head, there was little to no reaction. When he had flung an orb of flame at its torso – if he could call that armoured board a midsection – he had been smashed into a wall. So that left the legs. Those wriggling appendages were horrendous, but they seemed most vulnerable to his hacking and slashing. With a nod, Laurentius prepared himself. The legs would be his primary objective then. The secondary would be dashing over a bed of liquid flames without melting his bones off so that he could reach the secret entrance into Izalith. Quelaan had been a darling when she had allowed him to join the Chaos Servant Covenant. It had been even more of a surprise for him when she had given him her original spell and directions towards the side entrance of the City. It was better than a frontal assault and it would get him that much closer to her mother, so he was grateful. Now, if only he had the strength to kill that ugly bug with the face.
Laurentius took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming his mind and heart for the battle ahead. As he opened his eyes and began to walk forward to confront the bane of his journey, he couldn't help but notice the soft glint of something in his peripheral vision.
At first, he had thought it was nothing more than embers, lingering after death like bright spectres reminding him of the life he needed to live. But after the glow continued on its path to pique his curiosity, he just couldn't help but turn his head mid-stride to entertain that which delayed him from certain death.
He frowned, however, when he saw what seemed to be a straight, thick line of flame hovering in the corner of the door he was about to cross. He peered closer at the object. It wasn't exactly flame, he corrected himself, but runes of some kind. Bright yellow – almost golden runes.
With a huff, the pyromancer diverted his course and approached the glowing language on the floor. He had heard Argon and the unsociable lad in Firelink talk about these as summon-signs, but he had never had the chance to see one for himself. As he got closer to the indecipherable text on the floor, Laurentius noticed that the glow almost seemed to intensify upon proximity. But that was just his imagination, right?
Nevertheless, he neared the sign until he was but a foot away from it and was startled to see the glowing form of someone else appear before his eyes. He prepared himself to strike in case the thing was hostile, but when it merely stared passed him, he was convinced there was nothing sinister about this person dressed in a soldiers attire; even though the man – or phantom as it was called – seem rather peculiar to him. His helm was decorated with a tall feather and the crest he wore was so perplexing, he could only compare it to Argon's own enigmatic persona.
There was a sun on his chest, that much was clear. But why did it have a face… and why was it smiling? However odd the image seemed, Laurentius figured he might as well just entertain his curiosity while he could, before reaching down and touching the sign gently.
As he rose to his feet again the phantom disappeared from view as the sign brightened. The pyromancer gave it some space and watched in fascination as a person – or phantom, whatever it was bloody called – rose from the ground itself, hands raised as if stretching to greet the sky. Laurentius bowed his head in reply, not wanting to be rude, before the phantom disengaged from the strange gesture and stared at him.
"Why, hello there."
Laurentius nearly jumped in shock from the mellow voice it spoke with. Though that helm muffled it a bit.
"Wait… you can talk?"
"Yes, indeed. I wouldn't be a very good aide to you in battle if I couldn't, now could I?" the phantom chuckled to himself softly before bowing in an extravagant manner.
"Good day, or is it night? I'm not quite sure given this particular setting. Ah, well… I am Solaire of Astora, pleasure to meet you…"
"Laurentius…. Uh, of the Great Swamp, that is."
"Ah, like the great Salaman?" the phantom asked in excitement, clutching at his helm like a maiden in love. The sight wasn't unpleasant just… enthusiastically jolly?
Just then, a revelation seemed to strike the pyromancer with such force that he had to take a few steps back in shock. "Wait a minute mate, did you just mention something about helping me in battle against that thing on the other side of the fog?"
The phantom – he was Solaire now – looked down as if in though before nodding merrily at him. "Of course, that is why my sign was placed here; to engage in jolly co-operation with a fellow undead!" Laurentius almost felt like his jaw was about to crash to the floor. He had spent Gwyn knows how long slaughtering hordes of demons only to be covered in black blood when he could have just summoned Solaire, or another phantom, to aide him in getting to the City?
"Dreadful piece of work, that centipede of a Demon is. I must say I didn't find my odd's too great, so I just ran straight passed the thing when I came here."
The swamp-dweller looked at the man with wide eyes, earning him what seemed like a confused tilt of the head.
"Whatever is the matter? You look as though you've seen Lord Gwyn himself." He chuckled again at his own joke, even going as far as to raise a hand to his covered mouth.
"You… ran past it?"
"Straight past it, I'm afraid. I was in no mood to get my arms melted." That statement just made the now half-bearded man facepalm himself as he regarded the strange, golden phantom in front of him.
"So, you ran across boiling lava to escape that thing because you didn't want to melt your armour?"
Solaire nodded firmly before resting a glowing hand on his shoulder. "Indeed, I did. My, you are quite a slow one, try to keep up, Laurentius."
The pyromancer could only stutter out a response whilst Solaire walked towards the fog door and drew a straight sword from his hip, along with a rounded shield decorated with the same smiling sun.
Laurentius, for his part, couldn't get over this guy. He knew there were some oddballs out there – he pointed his finger directly at a certain masked undead – but this guy was just weird from the get-go. He didn't dislike the guy – Solaire, it was good manners to use his given name – he just found him perplexing and unusually confident for some odd reason. And whilst he was on the subject of perplexing…
"Wait, if you've already passed this area, then you must be inside the City of Izalith already."
Solaire gave yet another happy nod. "I am, but unfortunately, my path is blocked by more lava and dragon legs. However, I did find what looks like an alternative pathway towards my destination. Perhaps I'll find my sun by taking it."
"Your kin are also in Izalith?" Laurentius asked, utterly confused.
"Hm? Oh! Heavens no, I have no children. I became undead when I had reached my twenty-third summer." This time he laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world. The sound was actually calming to the stressed pyromancer.
"I see, but what were you- never mind. Just tell me how you're here with me when you must have reached the outer gates of the City days ago?"
"This must be your first time summoning someone," Solaire mused before turning around, "time in Lordran is convoluted. As such, I've found that encountering things both new and old are both frequent and commonplace nowadays, including the reason for our meeting today- night, or is it evening?" he scratched the edge of his helm in thought as Laurentius tried to make sense of it all. Things were just more confusing after the merry fellow had explained everything to him. Furthermore, he was beginning to think the phantom was just mad. Dragon legs? Finding his son, or did he mean an actual sun? And what was that first bit about jotted- no, jolly co-operation?
"Even if that's true, it doesn't explain one thing." The pyromancer replied. As he drew his axe and shield and stood beside Solaire.
"And that is?" the phantom asked politely.
"How did you run past this thing if the floor was also covered in lava?"
"No clue, now let's kill us a Demon."
Laurentius groaned as he and his new companion entered through the fog. And here he was thinking that there was no one crazier than Argon. Well, at least he had someone to accompany him on his journey to kill the Deity of Life and claim her soul. How fun that would be to explain once all this was over.
"He isn't ready yet."
Those words were beginning to tick Kirk off immensely. Usually he wouldn't care what his second in command blabbered on about due to the fact that he didn't care what anyone blabbered on about. He was too busy scowling in disgust at the Darkwraith's that thought they were doing something good for the world at large.
Granted, he was their Commander, and should be disgusted at himself for making that smiling snake his master, but that was old news; and he wasn't bound by rage and depravity like the rest were. That being said, after Quelaan had been healed, he had only possessed one last objective as the Knight of Thorns.
The eradication of Argon.
The singular thorn in his side – no pun intended. The reason his perfect streak of claimed souls had been tainted and the cause of his spontaneous bouts of frustration for no apparent reason. He held no sense of revenge for the undead, of course; but the sight of that cocky, masked undead just pissed him off. It pissed him off more than the continuous pacing and chanting of his grouchy-voiced lieutenant.
But perhaps the only reason Argon angered the Darkwraith so much was due to Lithecore being the spitting image of him, if not the same person. He wasn't a fool; he knew something was off when the wannabe in Black Knight armour found this perverse fascination over the undead Kirk wanted eternally dead. It was a dead giveaway when he had seen Argon's face for the first time.
That pale face, almost sickly white, those dark circles where amber irises dwelled, and that annoying voice. It didn't matter if it was Argon speaking or Lithecore; he could link them as one entity in a heartbeat. What was even more infuriating was the fact that both men were better than him in combat.
Now, he was by no means a petty man, he just prided himself in his skills. After all, one did not become the nightmare of all undead for no reason. Yet whenever he had faced off against that chattery undead he could almost envision how far below he was in true swordsmanship. And it wasn't just that, his own creativity seemed to also be lacking in some way or another. Perhaps all those years spent at the top of the food-chain had made him sloppy.
Nevertheless, what mattered at the moment was the idiot in front of him. Usually he considered Lithecore a man, undead – or whatever he was – someone worthy of his respect, something that was most difficult to come by. Now, he just thought the wraith was a crazed animal chasing his tail due to being rabid. And he wasn't exaggerating, the Darkwraith honestly looked like he was chasing his own behind with his eyes and mouth.
"Could you stop doing that and explain yourself?"
Lithecore paused momentarily and glanced up at Kirk with wide, unseeing eyes before his muttering began anew and his pacing increased in speed. The Darkwraith Commander's eye twitched beneath his helm. Was Lithecore trying to piss him off? Because if he wanted a fight, he would certainly receive one!
Kirk sighed out and slumped his shoulders. It was no use trying to get through to his lieutenant once that incessant chanting had begun, he would just have to continue the conversation with himself.
"Well now that we know where Argon is, and who his company is; we can plan a proper strategy." Kirk glanced at Lithecore, but the man was still pacing a trench into the soaked floor of New Londo. At least he had managed to glean the particulars from his wayward subordinate if nothing else.
"Master desires the souls of the Archbishop and the cross breed if we can't obtain the targets. Since we know where that sow will be going, the wraith's will be prepared to invade the Archive's at a moment's notice. Now that Gwyn's will has been lifted, we have the availability of travel to the other three locations of the Lord Souls."
The Knight of Thorns placed his arms behind his back as he thought of a strategy. All the while, Lithecore remained oblivious.
"You will take charge in leading the other wraiths to the trio in a series of waves. The Archives possess a near infinite number of floors before it reaches the paledrake. In that time, we can station companies of our pawns on each floor. They can deal with the pesky mutations Seath has in his abode while we wait on the top floor for their tired, weakened selves."
"What of the Channeller's guarding each floor? They will make securing ambushes a nuisance."
Kirk turned his gaze to his pale lieutenant. So, he was listening to him whilst muttering that useless drawl of jargon? Figures.
"If they create a problem for us, we will cut them down. Magic or not, they are but mere scholars holding tridents as their tomes."
"An interesting plan… but it falls short."
The Commander raised a curious eyebrow. "What would you propose as a main tactic, then?"
Lithecore tapped an armoured finger to his cheek before he began to walk in a circle around Kirk. "We have access to all locations of the Lord Souls, now. New Londo is our base, so the current garrison of ghost and wraith needn't change. However, instead of a frontal assault, perhaps a pincer attack is more intriguing…"
"Explain."
"After killing off the nude lizard – which they will accomplish without a doubt – they will return to Anor Londo's bonfire by the Lordvessel's power. Why not plant a false task force in their midst whilst that god is at his weakest? It will gain us the purchase we need to bait them into fleeing towards the Gravelord."
"The Catacombs? What of Izalith?"
"Didn't you learn anything after your foxtrot in the Spider-woman's resting place? They've already sent an operative into its boiling midst."
Kirk blinked at Lithecore's words. It hadn't even occurred to him after he had been sent back into his physical body a bleeding mess. He hadn't even thought it would be remotely possible for anyone save for the Chosen Undead to brave the lairs of the Great Lords. As much as he hated Argon with a passion, he had to admit that that had been quite a clever move on his part.
"Anyway, we'll plant our real strike team on the darkest part of that skeletal cemetery whilst the bluff pays off. We'll leave the trio to best the supposed dungeon whilst we lie in wait like the snake that leads us."
"And catch them by surprise while in the dark," the Darkwraith Commander added, "which will effectively break their focus. The last thing they'll be suspecting is an army of Darkwraith's waiting for them."
"Exactly." Lithecore grinned as he cupped his chin. "If all goes well, it will finally awaken him; completing the reason for this hunt."
"If he's already insufferable, he'll be even worse insane like you." Kirk grunted, the last thing he wanted was another Lithecore in his face; especially since Kaathe had wanted him alive – not that he was really going to follow that order.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that."
"And why the hell not?"
"Because you have me. Let me worry about controlling my contorted twin."
The Knight of Thorns peered at his lieutenant with a sceptical expression before shrugging in defeat. It wasn't like he had a better idea to best such a dramatic strategy.
"When can this plan be enacted then?"
"Why, immediately, my Commander."
Kirk sniffed and turned back towards the empty streets of waterlogged New Londo.
"Assemble the wraiths."
He should have known that his expectations would be cut short. After all, if even the great Artorias couldn't live up to his moniker as the most skilled knight in possibly the world, then of course his own expectations would prove futile in the face of the current reality. He didn't shun the wolf knight for his failure – nobody did or would – but was depressed at the fact that all he come to know when he was alive was almost as fantastical as a fairy tale.
Although, what depressed him more than his shot down perception was the state of the place he had once called home. Empty halls, echoing corridors and whistling winds that spoke more of departing salutation than open welcome. They had all said it would never come to this day so long as the sun still stood in the sky.
They had all lied.
The Black Knight looked down at another member of his slain Silver brethren before sheathing his greatsword. It felt odd killing his own kind, if they could be called after his ascension to a dark spectre in charcoal armour. He couldn't recall feeling remorse after he had impaled the smaller servant of Gwyn – ex-servant in his case – but a fleeting fascination that from the ones he had impaled and heard wail, they hadn't broken apart into white soulmass. Perhaps it was because they were still very much alive, or maybe his form had been so corrupted by the First Flame that slaughtering his brethren prevented their souls from releasing from their bodily shells? He didn't know, what he did know was that they all saw him as an intruder; how odd.
He hadn't known what he would do once he reached the Shinning City; his only motivation had just been to arrive here. However, after he had been forced to kill the sector's sentinels and peer over a citadel that lacked its garrison, his mind had begun to seek answers.
He knew everyone, save for the army of Knights, had left long ago – including that pathetic excuse for a goddess – however he had been determined to find something, anything to explain what exactly was going on here. The Church – now named the Painting Hall – had still possessed its guardians but he had found them to be congregating in the structure instead of guarding it. He hadn't stopped by for an explanation, he wouldn't be able to enquire without a mouth in the first place, so he had ventured into the castle; utilising the old passageway known only to selective knights who possessed Gwyn's trust. He had not been expecting the place to look as it did currently.
Granted, there were less knights in the castle as there were around the ramparts, however, they had all been lacklustre in their time to allow winged demons and a Titanite beast into various facets of the structure. If he or any of the other knights of old had been present, they would have seen to these pests immediately.
But he hadn't been there, thus the reason for this intrusion. Besides, what need was it to scoff at their incompetence as soldiers? It wasn't like he was one of them anymore – the loyal, blindfolded mutts.
As such, he had thought that the answers he required would come from those that still remained in Anor Londo. Whilst he had been but a mindless husk in the Parish, he had caught fragments of conversation from fallen undead that Knight Ornstein was still present in the castle, running the show as it were. How they had come across the information was meaningless, what mattered was the fact that they knew it; he just hoped the Commander of the Silver Knights was still here.
Of course, the stained Knight possessed a contingency plan if the former were to fail. Despite Lordran withering away day by day, the crowned city abandoned to age to dust and the King of Lighting nothing more than ash, there would still be one person that remained to pick up the pieces again – for that was his responsibility as the last member of a lost bloodline. Everyone living in Lordran before its fall had know that if Gwyn died, the grand orb of flame in the sky would too. Now that just that had come to pass, was it not strange that the burning sun still blazed in the blue sea above the clouds? There could be only one person capable of such a feat.
Gwyndolin.
As much as the Knight refused to stay loyal to the past King, his youngest son was a different matter entirely. The Lord of the Darkmoon was wiser than his siblings and father put together, his potential was greater than the exiled God of War; and he would be the only one with a mind capable of keeping an open mind. He would also know what to do with a lone Black Knight that had lost more than his reason for living. That was why he had crushed every Silver counterpart that had tried to halt his way towards the Throne Room, leaving a trail of glinting bodies in his wake.
However, when he had finally come upon the youngest Lord, the Knight had had to delay his objective. After he had encountered a bloodied visage of the Great Hall, and a phantasmic body of man in Black Knight armour attached to a grand pillar, he had known that Ornstein was no longer stationed in the castle, let alone Lordran itself any longer. It was foolish to think that the nebulous form of the Darkwraith he had fought in the Parish was capable of slaying the head Knight of Lordran. It could only have been the undead battling head-to-head with the god of the moon.
The battle had been intense and would have made him raise an eyebrow if he had a face under his helm. Although the undead that seemed mildly familiar had put up a decent fight, he couldn't hold a candle to Gwyndolin – the being was a god after all. Even so, the undead with the strange black side had been relentless in the face of his inevitability. That was something the Black Knight could respect, if nothing else.
But what had garnered him the grandest inquisitiveness was when two figures had chosen to enter the Throne Room after said battle had completed. The sight of them had forced his mind into overdrive, suddenly the possibilities and eventualities he had theorised in his lack of a skull seemed positive for the future of this dying world. What's more, it seemed that the undead fighting Gwyndolin just happened to be the Chosen Undead of legend, no wonder he seemed familiar. The best part was that this undead seemed to know how his miserable quest would end. How unexpected, the tide had just changed – and for the better it seemed.
The Knight waited until the party had left the Darkmoon Lord, exiting through the entrance of the Great Hall. It was only then that he observed the last born of Gwyn. It wasn't a pretty sight either, the god was a tired, bleeding mess. Those snakes that served as his heels were half maimed or severed, his clothing was decorated with new gashes and tears, and his royal blood stained the floor like a small pond of rich red wine.
He thought about how easy it would have been to walk into that room and cleave the gods head from his shoulders, to exact his revenge on Gwyn by slaying his son.
But his hand had not reached for his blade.
He was a Black Knight. He had been torched by the First Flame and robbed of his life. His King had sought to preserve a line only capable of fence-sitting hypocrites and undermine the humans like ants under his heel; using his very knights as fodder to fuel his fleeting ideals. He had lost his mind, his home, his brethren and his existence after Gwyn had bolstered that fire. Yet he had also gained his independence. With his body turned to ash and his 'Lord' a sliver of memory, he had been unshackled from the chains of service, of forced loyalty. His mind had become his own, not commanded to blindly follow beings that asserted their superiority. Though he had been born from Gwyn's will, he had not needed to adhere to its demands after death. And since he was able to think for himself, he was also able to decide what path he chose to take, what conclusions he chose to draw.
He had come to this cursed castle for answers and direction where his own mind could not conjure up an answer. Therefore, killing Gwyn's son as revenge was not his duty; he had already claimed his revenge when he had claimed his individuality. Besides, if he had been given the choice – and he certainly had as of this very moment – he would have chosen to be loyal to the Lord of the Darkmoon. At least he would have used foresight when deciding what to do during the waning of the Flame.
As the Knight prepared himself to confront said Lord, he noticed Gwyndolin stand to his full height. Though he was weak and in no position to fight he was stubborn to his injuries. It was something he could admire about the god. Before he could finish ascending the stairs leading to the Throne Room, the gods crowned face turned his way, as if seeing through the architecture itself.
"Who goes there?" He bellowed, stopping the Knight in his tracks. He should have known he would be spotted; this was Gwyndolin he was talking about.
"Show thineself, interloper! I am Gwyndolin, Lord of the Darkmoon, son of Gwyn. If thou seek' eth audience with me, they may come forth."
With determination in his armour, the Black Knight continued his climb up the blood-stained incline. It was time his silent questions were answered, and if possible, his new reason for living realized. He hoped that through Gwyndolin, these things could be placed into perspective for him.
And so, as he stood before Gwyndolin, who placed a hand under his chin in what seemed like curiosity, he prepared himself for what would definitely be the catalyst for his next move.
For his sake, he hoped that move would help him find his purpose for regaining that which he had lost.
This chapter was about 2k less than the normal length but please excuse me, it's just so bloody cold here that my brain decided to freeze. Make no mistake, I love the cold (being born in Autumn) but for some reason it just isn't helping my hands and teeth from shaking less.
Just a few things to note today. I made Laurentius say 'Demon Firesage' on purpose in case you all thought I was unaware of the things actual name.
I was really, really, REALLY apprehensive with regard to introducing Solaire into this fic. Since he's literally the most loved character in SoulsBorne, I didn't want to mess up his character and dialogue. I did my best to bring out his jolly-ness (hope I pleased you all) and make his unpredictability funny. That being said, he's still going to die after he puts the sunlight maggot on his head a few chapters from now.
-yeah right, you are. You literally planned out five chapters in advance interlinking Argon's trio and Laurentius' duo as they journey to their respective Lord Souls, AND you also wrote out a draft for Argon and Solaire's encounter.
You damned spoiler! Why did you have to go and tell them that?
-if I didn't this fic would have been called the worst DS story in history because you like to open yourself up for getting needlessly flamed.
I was just kidding around though.
-there's a difference between joking around and stupidly thinking a damaging sentence is a joke.
Fair point. I am sorry for the scare dear readers.
-I doubt they'll even care. Nobody reads your dumb authors notes.
Ha! That's what you think. Nice try but I'm too positive to be put down by your monotonous methods. That reminds me, why are you so pessimistic when I'm optimistic?
-…
What?
-you're the one writing these annoying dialogues, you should know, you idiot.
Ohh, right. Good point. Anyhow, my illogical self is correct, my plan is to interlink Argon and Laurentius' journey to Seath and Queen Izalith, respectively. I had planned on making Solaire appear after our pyromancer had died a couple of times against the Bed of Chaos, but this seemed like a better idea.
In other news, things are heating up at the Darkwraith HQ. What could they be planning?
-stop being a tease (*slaps Mihairu7)
Ow! Okay, I hope the Gwyndolin Cliffhanger was enjoyable. As much as I agree that I should have held it back a few chapters, it was necessary for the next arc to continue. I think I'll name this one the J-
-don't ruin it for the readers, dammit (*covers Mihairu7's mouth)
Mmm-mhhm-mmmmh!
-ignore him. Please read and review, flames are permitted since he's an idiot and please stay safe at home everyone.