Okay, so after a small break consisting of watching Spiderman Homecoming, munching on toasted almonds and reading DARKISH SOULS by Queen Sydon I gathered a tomb-full of inspiration accompanied by a spurt of optimism.
As such, I've been quite busy juggling a number of things from the fics (note the plural form) I am currently writing, to the next semester that offers a beautiful selection of modules, ending with the pleasant shine of the morning sun that merges nicely with the dew of last night's cold.
Ah, and before I forget, the remainder of this arc (which I still can't decide a name for as yet) will end as soon as the next two, maybe three chapters. I mentioned in the previous chapter that I don't want to spam the content with drawn out conversation or fight scenes but actively move through at least a few good events before ending the chapter entirely. This way, you guys won't be left with nearly fifty chapters that only explains thirty-three percent of the lore and story I've written out.
-hurry up and begin already.
Right, right, just warming up.
-finally. Prepare yourself.
Ahem!
-breathe out.
Haaa…
-action!
On with ze story!
Gibberish-speaking sorcerers weren't that odd of a thing to Argon. After meeting both Griggs and Logan, saving them both and gaining the opportunity to learn sorceries from them, he was fairly certain he had seen all needed to see regarding lunatic scholars of magic.
Logan had been an eccentric one. From the small crumbs of information he had gained from the man's subordinate, and tales from Rickert, he knew the silver-haired mage was probably very old to act in a manner besides sagely and annoying – like Havel, for example.
However, the undead possessed one thing in particular that Argon tended to stray away from at all costs; and that was the borderline of obsession every talented scholar gained from an inane interest in the machinations of magical essence.
Whilst the wizard had become a close friend to Argon on his way to Anor Londo, he still tended to tread carefully with the curious man. After he had discovered his crazed, infuriating – and quite frankly creepy – fixation with Seath and his experiments with crystal, Argon had decided that perhaps he had overstayed his welcome in the man's company and had left with discreet haste. When he thought about such odd folk, Argon remembered the reason why he chose to travel alone.
With regard to the blubbering fool dancing in front of him, he agreed that all sorcerers shared the same traits after they had learned their trade; and that was mild insanity with a capital 'y'.
The Chosen Undead saw another homing ball of energy seek him out and began to run to the left of his foe.
Whilst he knew just as many sorceries as the mage's themselves, he was inclined to believe that that league of madness had not taken hold of his psyche, and he doubted it ever will. After all, he was already insane, some mania about spells wouldn't change or alter that in the slightest.
The orb of azure flame burst against the wall behind him with a poof before Argon skid to a halt, crouched and leapt into the air, axe meeting the Channeler's six-eyed head covering with a satisfying crunch. He used his lager foes body as a cushion as he fell, quickly jerking it to rest on the right side of him as a crystal straight sword stabbed forward.
Argon looked up at the growling face of a crystal guard the shape and size of some small imp. It was a small fellow, made entirely of the mineral Seath seemed as fascinated with as bloody dragon scales. From the way its shoulders were hunched as it jumped back and circled him, it seemed its weapons were far too heavy for it. However, when the undead had attempted to crush the jagged-bodied guard with the body of the Channeler, he was mildly surprised to see it dash out of the way and raise its shield arm.
Argon merely scoffed. Of course it was still agile, the ugly hunk of shiny rock.
He watched it race forward after a second of hesitation, aiming to impale him with the straight sword. Argon let him come before twisting at the last minute. The blue blade grazed the hair on his stomach harmlessly as the monster's face turned from cockiness to shock, and then fear.
There was a reason Argon had decided not to use a lot of heavy weighted weaponry in his arsenal. One of the reasons was due to the unbalance it caused when swung or thrusted. He was used to light but sharper arms that enabled him to land multiple blows before backing off. Whilst the exceptions to this reason were Artorias' warped blade, his shattered demon hammer, and the black knight greataxe he was currently wielding, he preferred quick and successive strikes that would ultimately cripple his foe instead of a heavy attack that had less than a thirty percent change of hitting its mark. The reason he had the advantage against his current enemy was also due to this reason.
The crystal armament series were strong and powerful tools to use when in need of something that packed a punch. However, whilst the gemstones were made into a sword, it didn't mean it lost any of the attributes of the mineral it actually was – and in this case that attribute was weight.
The undead observed his crystal foe struggle to keep its balance after thrusting the heavy sword forward, cleverly using his slightly lighter shield as a counterweight. Whilst the fool was a monster made by Seath, it possessed no intellect or skill with regard to proper combat, and that was its major flaw.
It screeched as Argon planted his boot into its temple, sending it flying backward. He casually walked up to it as it struggled to get to its feet, desperately trying to lift the heavy blade from the floor, shield forgotten as it noticed the Chosen Undead draw near.
With a frantic stumble it launched at him from the floor, jagged hands seeking out his softer flesh. Argon sniffed as the thing soared towards him, it was almost like a hollow with those red eyes, ugly snarl and idiotic fighting style. He swung his axe and hummed in satisfaction as the crystalline foe broke into a mass of shattered rock before his feet. The momentum forced the great mass of twisted metal to veer around him, his elbow bending. Seems he had used too much force this time around.
A snarl from behind caught Argon's attention and he twisted with his axe. The quick motion shocked the crystal compatriot that was about to spear him through the chest, allowing the undead the pleasure of clipping its cheek. It didn't get the chance to even screech before Argon's boot smashed into its head, shattering more crystal onto the polished floor.
Another reason why the black knight series was an exception was due to its versatile use and quick but powerful chain of attacks. Whilst the greataxe he wielded didn't possess that last trait, it was useful in carrying wasted momentum into kinetic power strong enough to cleave off the head of a Taurus Demon. Besides that, the light but study shaft of the weapon made for an ideal brace whenever incoming attacks couldn't be dodged.
The undead turned to Priscilla to see her finishing off a golem with a twirl of her scythe. He still felt bad for drawing their enemies toward their location but at the same time, he way silently grateful that he did – seeing her fight was the most beautiful sight, the first being herself, he had ever seen in all honesty.
Even though her table manners were atrocious, her fighting-style was anything but. The way in which she danced around her attackers was something that transfixed him. With his abyssal right eye – he scoffed at how delusional that sounded – he saw the ethereal power of her Lifehunt arc around her slim body like smooth tendrils of some spectral being before it cascaded around her scythe, the blade gleaming like the crescent moon before tearing out the life essence of the golem couched in front of her.
Argon observed as she diverted that stolen power within her body, spinning it in a maelstrom of deadly power as two crystal hollows intercepted her. Her hair flew around her pale face like an elegant veil as she twisted, lowered herself into a crouch and unleashed that coil of energy. He blinked and suddenly Priscilla's foes were nothing but shattered shards of mineral before her high-heeled boots.
The goddess tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as he stared at her. She never looked more radiant.
"Reinforcements will arrive soon." Argon blinked and noticed her gaze on him. What had he been doing again?
"Uh, yeah. We should get going."
Priscilla nodded as her tail slapped against the floor making the undeads attention turn to it. With how big and noticeable that alluring appendage of hers was, it was a surprise that she had taken out more of Seath's minions than he had – and without even a scratch to boot.
Remembering his own wounds, Argon rested his axe against his shoulder as he reached for an item behind his back. Finding nothing, he frowned in confusion until he remembered that he didn't have an Estus flask anymore.
Right, I smashed it while I went berserk on Gwyndolin.
The masked undead uttered out a silent curse as he and Priscilla walked on, climbing up a set of white stairs after finding a trail of crystal shards that was undoubtedly left as breadcrumbs for them to follow.
He would have to be more careful from now on. Getting hit when he had the chance to avoid it would only disadvantage him further. He knew he could always substitute sprites of humanity for the healing ambrosia he lacked but even then, it was overkill and extremely wasteful. In the past he had utilized the black sprites he found on corpses to replenish his vitality and heal his wounds since he felt that using his Estus was better suited for when he faced more dangerous opponents. However, after he had been attacked by hordes of phantoms for possessing such an abundance of humanity and having more than a few of his ally's stress just how precious the substance was, he had been inclined to switch to his flask.
It wasn't his fault he was just unnaturally lucky at finding those sprites, it just happened when he least expected it. And to be fair, if Griggs or even Solaire had warned him about the consequences of consuming so many of them, maybe he wouldn't have had to die nearly twenty-one times by phantom invasion; especially that time when a Giantdad had strolled into the Undead Burg and stared him down for nearly five minutes before killing him with a single slice – seriously, those otherworldly undead were scary. Although, on the matter of those mask-wearing juggernauts, he had figured out the perfect defense: gear up in the heaviest equipment, fat roll into an inconspicuous corner and cast Chameleon until his magical power was depleted or until the phantoms time limit elapsed. Argon hadn't gotten a chance to try it out yet, and when he thought about how strong he had become after regaining some unwanted memories and an abyssal boost he didn't think he would really need to cower and hide, but the idea of fooling those lumberjacks in old-men masks with a simple illusion was too good to pass up.
Argon's thoughts shifted from invasions to a different juggernaut dressed up like a walking turd when he and Priscilla came upon the lingering traces of Havel's scent resting upon the crushed corpse of a downed Mimic.
They stared at the monster with its limbs stuck at peculiar angles before turning their gaze to the adjacent turn off.
"This is Havel's work alright."
The crossbreed nodded, bending over to prod the Mimic with the shaft of her weapon. "The scent is fresher than the others. I would hazard a guess to say that it was less than three hours since he was here."
"Which means he couldn't have gone too far within the vast labyrinth we appear to be stuck in." Argon punched his fist into his open palm. It was possible that the older undead was still walking around smashing things to smithereens, which meant there was still a chance that they could prevent him from facing the paledrake alone. However, if the undead were to allow himself to be pessimistic for once and assume that the Bishop had already reached Seath, it meant that they were either going to appear as his reinforcements in a losing battle; or the second wave after the first had been purged.
"Still though, would a few prism stones and a message on the floor be too much to ask?"
Priscilla smiled at the thought. They both knew that the armored giant wasn't one to fill his belt with any trinkets besides his old and unused talisman. He had even refused Argon's offer to find him a new Estus flask, stating that it would just hinder him by making him rely on it too much. Even so, his quick thinking of using the broken bodies of the crystalline foes he had bested as a bread-crumb trail was creative – if not a little twisted when you thought about where said crystal shards came from.
"We should be glad all the same." The crossbreed stated with a soft sigh. She was beginning to worry about the man that behaved almost like her grandfather.
"That I agree with," Argon replied. He neared the end of the narrow hallway they were following before he held up a hand. Priscilla stopped obediently behind him as he poked his masked face into the slightly darker room.
They remained in silence as he scouted their way and she found herself staring at the burn mark centered between his shoulder blades. Whilst it had been his fault that they had attracted attention, he had still shielded her from the blast that should have hit her. She knew it wouldn't have left much of a scratch on her after she had killed and absorbed the life-force of her foes, but the thought was still enough to make heat rush to the surface of her skin. She had read about maidens being saved from such attacks in many fairy tales, she was just astonished that he had decided to make her imagination a reality.
She was glad that the undead had shifted back to his usual persona of jolliness and foolish antics. In all honesty, she had feared that he wouldn't have calmed down after what had happened to him in the Great Hall. However, even though he behaved normally when they had encountered those boars, and his pointless stop at that particular part of the Archives was without a doubt, an Argon-thing to do; Priscilla still held a tiny dreg of reservation within herself when regarding her companion.
She had observed his personality and behaviors long enough to know when he was being truthful or not, and even she had to admit that although Argon wasn't that grim, menacing person he had appeared as with her uncle, it seemed like this returning aloofness was a little too forced.
It was obvious that he was conflicted about something, that distant look on his monochrome face the previous night before her eyes had closed was proof enough. Besides that, he was avoiding her gaze as if he were guilty of doing something scandalous. That rose a red flag in her mind since Argon never chose to look away from her, even when he had done something wrong. He was the type of person to hold his head up high during his rising and falling, after all.
His raised hand changed from a fist to two raised fingers beckoning her forward; the gesture meaning 'follow'. She padded on behind him without a sound as they ducked into a stairway leading to a lower level. They stopped midway as a Channeler lumbered through the hallway they had just exited and the axe in Argons right hand poofed out of existence before he drew his catalyst. He turned to her and she understood his meaning, drawing closer to him. He threw his arm around her and waved the ash-colored catalyst above them. She blinked and before the Channeler reached the bend of the stairwell, they became invisible to all but one another. She tapped his bare shoulder and they began to move again.
Whatever was the case with him, she would find out and help him. Whether it meant hindering their current mission or abandoning it entirely, she wouldn't hesitate if it meant his or Sir Havel's lives. It didn't matter if he hated her for it or not because they were too important to her to lose. She may indeed feel a stronger bond than friendship with Argon, but she would prioritize him no matter the circumstance. And it wasn't because of her attraction to him but because he was her friend before he was her savior. She had never had friends, never been able to share something, or anything with anyone since the time she was very little. Now that she had such bonds, however, she would fight both fang and claw until those she cared for were safe – even if it meant she had to save them from themselves.
Priscilla's thoughts broke when Argon tugged at the hem of her bodice. She turned her head to him as he nodded towards something at the opposite end of the segment of the Archive they stood in. Her eyes shone like jade in the shadows as she followed his gaze.
Just down the next flight of stairs, towards the ground level, sat another lever on the right wing. Next to it, a balcony that covered the open hall from one end to next sat a similar lift system from the one the pair had previously used. The goddess traced the thin lines ascending the wall from above the contraption. It looked as if it went passed the multiple floors they were currently navigating, and if her intuition was right – which it usually was – then that meant that this lift would most likely lead to another facet of the castle.
From what she remembered as a child; her father's study had also possessed a similar way to reach it. Further evidence that the object they stared at was a possible lead was that it was built larger than the first lift they had taken – much, much larger. Although that was a poor exhibit, she took into account that besides the Channeler's and the golems, only the paledrake was the largest being that resided in the castle. With that in mind, she couldn't think of any other reason why this lift was built that spacious.
The thought that it was made for large groups to move within the castle was also a point that was rendered moot as the only large groups they had seen so far were a quartet of crystal hollows accompanied by a single blue golem – and a party of five was barely enough to fill a corner of the lift, never mind the entire thing.
So, with both herself and Argon at an accord, they got up and crept towards the descending staircase, weapons drawn. She would have preferred it if they could enter the lift stealthily. That way they would be full of energy to face her father, however; that idea was shot down by more than one arrow of reason.
The first was the issue of the lift system itself. Whilst they were capable of reaching the lever by not attracting much attention, the noise of a multitude of gears turning and varnished wood creaking would echo throughout the hall, which would garner them more company than they would like.
The second was their magic. Whilst she was a goddess and he was the Chosen Undead, they had been using spells and incantations from the moment they had reached the first floor of the Archive. And even though her uncle was leagues ahead of Lord Gwyn in terms of magical prowess, she was not. They would both run out of magic by the time they reached the bridge between the wings. Besides that, if they decided to cast another spell of invisibility they would be detected during mid-run when the incantation decided to peter out prematurely. The option of simply shanking a nearby enemy and draining his life to refuel her reserves was also out of the question. The idea was to get to the lift undetected, so killing a crystalline foe whilst invisible in front of an open hall of Channelers, golems and more hollows would just echo out and indicate their position – which was counter-intuitive and would ruin the original objective.
Any other reasons were directed toward chance, luck and fate. The crossbreed didn't require any logic to know that all three of those elements were detestably unfavorable to both herself and Argon, so in all frankness, stealth was not an option they could utilize this time around.
With those thoughts in mind, Argon drew a black bow from his inventory and took aim from in between the circular beams supporting the railing. With a soft exhale, he allowed the flame-tipped arrow to fly.
After some silent discussion, Priscilla and Argon had agreed that a distraction would be their best bet if they wanted to reach that lever sooner.
The arrow illuminated the hazy light in the room before it struck against the forehead of a sentry standing stop one of the bookshelves. The crystal hollow squawked as the flame burst against its face, alerting the Channeler's stationed on opposite sides of the open hall who muttered in their gibberish tongue before readying spells and nearby guards.
Argon chose that exact moment to cast aural decoy. Priscilla watched as the bright, circular mass of magical essence shot forward from his catalyst before attaching itself to one of the astronomy instruments resting against the length of the room with resounding noise. The guards seemed to take the bait as one of the Dragon's scholars fired off a soul arrow toward the area as a trio of crystal hollows dashed towards it in a frenzy of snarls.
She had never understood why Argon insisted on carrying that spell around with him everywhere he went. Even when he had given her the synopsis of what it could do, her mind had still found it difficult to understand why he kept that low-level spell around with him, nonetheless. To her, the spell itself seemed useless to him since the undead was known to draw as much attention as possible when fighting; and even if he was trying to be stealthy, he could do so without the use of charms or spells.
But after witnessing the way in which he was causing their enemies to amble around like headless poultry when all he had done was stand still, her perception regarding the innocuous scroll from Vinheim had surely been swayed.
She watched on while the Channeler's banged their tridents against the ground in frustration, seeking out a foe that was there and yet unseen even by their gazes. Argon decided to annoy them more by sending another noisy ball of magic towards the moving staircase above them. Instantly, both six-eyed mage's scrambled to reach the next floor, their crystal allies in toe as the wounded sentry and a single golem was left to guard the ground floor.
Their ploy had worked.
The only thing left was to sneak toward the right wing and pull down that device and it would be smooth sailing from there. Well, that was if they made it to Havel before he reached Seath's chambers, at least. For now, their foe's attention was divided. Even if they were caught running for the lift, it would take too much time for the scholars and minions to reach them before they ascended to the top floor.
Argon wasted no time in using that opportunity. With a practiced hand, he reached behind him toward the quiver resting diagonally across the back of his belt and withdrew a thin, silver arrow with impeccable detail on the head. With a minute nod at the craftsmanship of the projectile, he placed it against the smooth wood of his bow and pulled back the drawstring before releasing it with a swift exhale. This time, it took less than a second for the arrow to hit its mark; and this time it did more than wound its target.
He smiled in satisfaction as the sentry holding a longbow screeched in pain, its right arm shattered into splinters of shiny rock as the moonlight arrow continued to burrow into its side, jerking its body sideways and off the bookshelf. Priscilla didn't need to wait for the sound of shattering crystal to be heard, her feet rushed into motion as soon as Argon let go of the arrow.
The crystal golem thudded around the bookshelf as it sought for the cause of the sudden noise, whilst the group on the upper floor jittered in uncertainty as the different noises clouded their judgement. As the crossbreed reached the right wing and meandered around the safety rail of the lift Argon sped off.
After being pummeled and skewered like a pincushion by Gwyndolin in the Throne Room, he had taken note of how much more efficient the gods arrows were. When Borgus had first offered him the set of projectiles when they had met, Argon had quickly refused, stating that they looked to pretty to be lethal – that and he had been forced to find an excuse since the price for just fifteen was bloody expensive for freaking arrows. However, now he saw the beauty of it. Gwyndolin's arrows were much different compared to the more reliable feathered ones he used for sniping.
Since it was made of the light Lordrian metal that the swords were also crafted from, they flew farther than the average arrow whilst also packing the strong punch every good archer was known for. Besides the weight, it was shorter than the usual arrow, allowing increased accuracy; and the head was shaped in a hollow spiral that connected at an extremely sharp point. With those attributes, they flew at their targets faster, and with a stronger bite. He was glad he had decided to swipe some of those discarded shafts of metal when he was leaving the Throne Room.
His feet were nimble as they ran over the marble floors, only making as much noise a sparrow's chirp. With this strategy, they would reach their destination in record time to find Havel, he knew. All that needed to be done was for him to reach the goddess' side and their mission would be half-complete.
Priscilla yanked down the lever as she entered the larger lift platform, seeing Argon grab onto the upper railing of the stairway and vault over it with a display of superb acrobatics and strength. Her heartbeat quickened as the adrenaline in her system slowed everything down to a snail's pace. She watched as the golem on the ground floor turned its faceless head toward her at the sound of the many gears and mechanical parts inside the lift whirring to life. She saw the Channeler's and crystal hollows above them on the moving staircase jerk to a halt as they realized they had been duped. And she observed Argon, sprinting towards her as the platform lifted a few inches off the balcony. She noticed how he was taking longer strides, and how low his body was to the ground, his arms flung out on either side of him.
He would make it.
And make it, he did. As the lift began to pick up speed, he launched his body toward it like a coiled spring let loose. His form flew towards the safety rail like a panther after its prey and his hands slapped against the beams before squeezing tightly. He sighed out in relief and she smiled in delight. She never doubted him, not even for a second.
However, even if skill was on their side, luck was anything but. That fact was displayed rather well when a sudden mass of crystal stalagmites grew from nothing against the railing and speared him with enough force to break the skull of a Taurus Demon. The air left his lungs as he was knocked into the air, the corner of his mask chipping as it skidded onto the platform Priscilla stood on.
"No, Argon!" she screamed as the lift picked up speed and shot towards the top floor. Argon became smaller and smaller in her eyes until the dark shadows of the walls obscured her sight entirely, leaving her to stare at nothing but the tunnel she was ascending.
She knew she shouldn't worry. She knew that even though his head was a mess, he was still capable of surviving without her help. Yet, even as she lifted his mask from the floor with shaky fingers and hugged it to her chest with dread, she couldn't help but make a small prayer to anyone that would listen to her. For what she feared wasn't the foes Argon had to face, but the undead himself after he was allowed to derange his passive exterior with something much more gruesome.
There had been many reasons why she was so inclined to cling to him like some lovestruck maiden. One of those reasons were for the fact that above all else, she worried for his safety on a daily basis; prayed for his deliverance from insanity almost constantly. She knew she was leagues above him in power and all she would need to do if he acted up was simply cut him down. It wouldn't be easy to catch him if he went into a frenzy, but she would manage it. The only problem with that was that it wouldn't change anything after he revived; and besides that… how could she openly kill the man she loved? Although it was stated that people would kill for love and even die for it, she argued that she wasn't people, but just herself. If she could help it, she would rather nobody died for the sake of love, otherwise what was the point of loving at all.
When it came down to it, the only reason she had taken this gentle approach towards him was because even though she had the power to kill gods and rule the kingdom that had exiled her, it was useless in saving the one thing she did care for. No amount of energy from her Lifehunt would fix his decaying mind, none of her magic could slow the spread of the abyss latched onto his right side. As a goddess – she didn't even know what goddess she was meant to be – her gift was anything but an aide to him. Thus, the only way she could truly save him was as Priscilla, and not as a crossbreed.
As the gears of the platform ground to a halt and yet another dim corridor was laid before her emerald eyes, she steeled herself with a shallow breath and placed a hand onto her scythe. Argon would be fine, she assured herself. Whilst he made his way back to her, she would clear the path for him to follow behind. Besides, she still needed to find Sir Havel. Their reuniting wouldn't be the same without every member of their party together.
She turned his mask over and stared at it. What she needed now was courage, and only one person was able to give her the push she needed for that. She just hoped a part of him was enough to clear her unease and spur on her determination. Without a second thought, she lifted the mask to her own face. She didn't have anywhere to place such an object anyway, and her pouches were too small – although secretly she was elated that she could wear such a personal part of the undead.
At first, she had thought that it was a dumb idea since the mask needed clips to latch onto. However, she was surprised when she placed the porcelain carving on only to feel the sensation of magic touch her skin. It seemed there was more to such a simple object that she gave it credit for.
Priscilla shook her head and took a deep breath, though blushing at the thought that Argon's face and mouth had been on the face covering just moments ago. Her thoughts about his mask – as well as how strong his delicious scent was on said item – could wait. She withdrew a small stone from one of the pouches on her hip and dropped it in front of the lift system. She observed it glow in four different colors before stalking off, focused and determined to make it out of her with both her friends by her side.
The word ironic came to mind as Argon fell on his ass. Yet again. By all right, he should have expected that his plan would fail. Not because he was the one who created the plan though, his plans were always brilliant. No, it was due to the fact that he was also participating in said plan. That was why it had failed. He didn't know if Lordran just wanted him to suffer or if he just really had the worst luck in the bloody world, but he knew that things really never went his way. When he thought about it, he wondered if perhaps that was the reason he rushed into everything blindly. After all, if his plan was bound to fail because he carried the biggest debuff known to man then what was the point in wasting time on a strategy?
Either way, he was glad that Priscilla was safely on that lift. All his machinations may indeed fail where he was around, but he would do his damn best to ensure those he cared for would remain alive and well.
At least, that was what he was going to say… until his mask had been knocked off his face.
He couldn't understand it really. One moment he was fine, calm and collected – his usual idiotic self. The next he felt cold fingers reach down his throat and grab ahold of his heart before some noxious vapor corroded his lungs and clouded his judgement. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and Argon was no longer there. It was as if his mind had just turned abysmal.
With a loud groan he got up from the floor, his hand rubbing the sore spot on his head as the crystal golem took lethargic steps toward him. He raised his gaze at the hulking mass of rock and sighed, they had picked a terrible day to piss him off.
The undead rose to his feet, equipping twin blades as the golem dropped into a crouch and leapt into the air like some fat frog. He huffed and jumped back as the fingerless fist slammed against the tiles, causing spiderweb cracks to form from the point of impact. It took its time to rise once again so he dashed forward and swung at the exposed neck.
The undeads blade struck with enough force to break chunks off the noiseless beast before he twisted and speared it from behind with his other blade. He watched boredly as the golem's 'neck' shattered with a show of sparkling crystal before it collapsed with a loud bang.
Seath was the smartest being in Anor Londo next to fem-boy and all he could come up with were suits of crystal that abducted women? He was beginning to question the need for such an archive if the paledrake couldn't even install proper lights into his manor. Then again, perhaps the blue golems served more than one purpose? They did reflect the dim lights around the room pretty well, and if you shot one with a soul spear they lit up like a firework.
Maybe they were just for show?
He shook his head. It didn't matter, he wasn't up for hypothesizing today, just violence.
At the mention of the word he liked to refer to as physical sport, Argon found a torrent of new foes flood the right and left wings, armed with crystal straight swords, shields and those ridiculous tridents. He grinned as a chorus of gibberish was chanted by the Channeler's as the crystal hollows dived down from their stations to meet him. This was going to be mildly fun.
(Queue: I write sins, not tragedies by Panic! At the disco)
Argon took this moment to pop the stiffness in his neck and roll his shoulders. The crystal scrubs circled him with shields raised. He wondered if they would come at him one at a time like the brainless husks they were or overwhelm him in numbers. He got his answer after the first soul arrow was fired.
A single hollow rushed him with as much bravery as its empty skull could afford it, sword raised to slice his bare chest. Argon watched him with a small amount of respect for the little mass of crystal and magic essence before his brow twitched and the movement in the open room slowed as if one had plucked out time from the world.
He watched as the azure bolt sped towards him in a perfectly straight line, twin tails spinning around the initial line like a protective barrier as the arrow barreled toward him with a vengeance. Through his right eye, he saw the way the magic spun wildly like an excited ball of energy. Saw the actual 'head' of the bolt as well as where it ended. It was beautiful, in its own way. Magic was an amazing thing. It was just a shame that it was useless when used on someone with common sense – and at times a helping of stupidity.
As the arrow entered his personal bubble, Argon leaned to the side. The hollow growled with a jagged smirk, thinking it had bested him and pressed its advance. Argon waited until the bolt of blazing energy stood parallel with his foe before flicking his wrist. The flat of his sword clipped the soul arrow, making it change direction as it blasted the incoming hollow at point blank range. The other scholars of Seath stopped their chanting to watch in shock as their ally was blown to pieces.
Argon sniffed and tightened his grip on his blades. It was his turn now.
The nearest crystal hollow to his left didn't get a second to block as the undeads sword pieced the monster in the shoulder. Its wail broke the other guards from their trance, and they turned back to Argon as he lopped off the ugly things head. The blades he was using weren't anything special, and they would shatter if he continued to use them with as much force as he was now, but that didn't matter to him as he jumped into the air from a sword aiming for his gut and booted the foe in the temple. What mattered was that he was entertained, given reason to let loose as his pent-up bloodlust reigned supreme over his psyche.
When he landed the remaining two hollows charged at him in unison. It was touching to see they had learned something but equally disappointing that their fragile thinking was exactly like their fragile bodies. They approached with a thrust and a slash aimed to impale his thigh and open his throat, he replied with a roll to the side and sweep of his right leg. With the force he put into the latter, the first hollows leg shattered at the knee before he impaled the second through the skull with his short sword. The wounded mass of crystal cried in pain and he saw thick, translucent liquid run from the smashed limb making him huff in surprise. Who would have thought that you could make a rock bleed?
Argon let go of the sword stuck in the first hollow and two-handed his other, bringing it down upon the second with enough force to shatter the blade and sever the things neck.
His victory was cut short when two soul arrows struck his chest and hip, sending him flailing across the room to the left wing.
A choked laugh escaped his cut lips as he stood again before drawing his black knight greataxe. Things were getting interesting.
He ran up the stairway as another bolt of magic singed the bookshelf behind him. When he reached the first Channeler on his side of the room, he lashed out with an uppercut before swinging his axe. It tore through the flashy garb and the scholar roared in pain. The sound was so pleasing to him that he swung his axe again. And again. The Channeler's screams reached its peak and Argon swatted it a final time, sending the taller foe careening over the banister. He noticed the next one firing off a spell in front of him and he dived for the floor, rolling under the blast and rising with a powerful swung that flung the Channeler into the air with a loud cracking of ribs. The undead found the last one on his side of the room take a step back in caution and he grinned like a maniac before rushing forward as the previous scholar crashed to the floor with a sickening crack.
He spun on his heel, planting his axe into the floor as he stomped forward and threw the curved blade upwards. The Channeler could only raise and arm before the appendage and his neck was torn open. The undead sighed out as warm blood sprayed his face and chest, it had been so long since he had had the chance to experience the revelry of such a spectacle – and he wasn't counting the time that serpentine heretic decided to play tag with him.
He heard more chanting and snapped his head sideways to see five more scholars of Seath preparing for him. He vaulted over the railing and landed heavily on a pile of books before breaking into a run. Two of the scholars were dancing from one foot to another whilst the remaining three charged up stronger projectiles before firing them simultaneously. The trio of azure arrows circled around one another as they sped towards him. he merely grinned as he stopped running, spread his arms wide and took the blast head-on. The burning pain and pure energy that pierced his skin brought with it a crateload of pleasure to his senses and he cackled.
When the bright explosion cleared, he looked down to see more burn marks and blood along his abdomen. With a raised eyebrow, he noted that although their spells had spun wildly en-route to him, they had landed in a perfectly straight vertical line along his left side.
He didn't wait for his adversaries to repeat their method of attack as the tossed a firebomb their way and climbed the stairs yet again. The explosion hit two of them, and he heard their babbled language before he found a trident impaled through his gut, making him gasp.
The next sensation he felt was a solid right hook by another scholar before he was blasted in the chest by a stronger soul arrow. He felt his body go numb as his axe left his hand, back skidding against the cold floor until his head bashed into the wall of the joining corridor.
Argon groaned for a second time as his senses went hazy. His vision went blank, yet he could still hear the cheers of the Channeler's in their usual gibberish, and for a moment he wondered what he had been doing to end up bleeding on the floor. Wasn't he meant to be on the lift with Priscilla? And if so, where was she?
He felt his mind cave in on itself as he fell into a sea of black. And amidst a cacophony thoughts and voices, he heard one sound clearly. It didn't sound as noisy as the rest but at the same time it wasn't as kind as the rest. Even so, he needed to latch onto something if he were to make it back to Priscilla and Havel. He focused on that voice until it began to drown out the rest, and eventually it drowned out his own deliberation.
More. More, it said as he felt his control slipping. The black veins on his body began to writhe like earthworms as a malevolent violet aura oozed over his right side, and soon the shroud of vapor covered his entire form like some ethereal fire. The Channeler's only noticed it when he had risen to his feet, but by that time it was already too late for them to react.
The voice in his head spoke louder until the stillness around him was too noisy to bear. And then it spoke with such conviction that he wondered why he had failed to listen to it sooner.
I. Want. More.
Argon's eyes snapped open as the noxious vapor rushed out from his person like a flash flood, soaking the room in dark purple before everything went black for nearly the hundredth time.
When Argon opened his eyes again, he was kneeling in the opened abdomen of a Channeler, his hands and mouth soaked in red. With a gasp, he tried to get away from such a sight, only to fall face first into the body. He felt something squishy press against his brow and lifted his head to see the scholar's liver bare before him incased by jagged pieces of bloody flesh.
With a spasm, he lurched away from the corpse and emptied his stomach. The sight of such a grotesque display making his body tremble. As the last spasm overtook his body, he breathed in deeply only to look down at the mess he made. That had been a mistake. Instantly, he realized where all the other organs and parts had gone to, and he hurled again.
He wondered what had happened to him to make him do something so animalistic and turned to scan the room around him. That head been his second mistake. He saw the mutilated corpses of four other Channeler's scattered around the wing, their entrails exposed in the same manner as the first.
Terror filled Argon as his eyes went glassy. Thoughts bombarded his mind questioning, scolding, and shouting for an answer he could not give. For a moment he tried to remember the last thing he did before his mind when blank.
He recalled being impaled, yet when he looked back down the wound was healed. He remembered the soul spear attacks that burnt him, and yet when he felt his back and chest, he felt nothing there. He attempted to recall what he had done after his head had hit that wall, but nothing came to mind besides a loud, ominous voice.
As if that was the switch he had accidentally flipped, he felt his sight grow black once again as his thoughts drifted to how good he had felt when he had let himself go berserk. And although he didn't want to relinquish control to something he knew would land him in more danger than before, the pull was just too great that he allowed it anyways.
In an instant, his mortified features reverted back into a sadistic grin as he stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his blood-stained hand, reached the right wing and pulled down the lever for the lift. It reached the balcony in less than a minute and he entered it silently, pulling down the second device and ascending towards the top floor.
When the lift stopped again, he took a single step forward until his gaze found the soft glow of a prism stone. He reached down and picked it up before his grin grew wider. His heretical companion left this behind, he could still smell her.
Without further hesitation, he walked past a small accumulation of astrology tools toward a passageway covered in pure crystal. This must be where his actual target was hiding. He sniffed and went to approach it when he heard the clinking of armor- no, the clatter of rock.
From the shadows of the crystalline passage came the humanoid form of a crystalline soldier, resting a crystal broadsword on his shoulder. He regarded Argon with a blank look behind his blank head-covering before lifting his shield.
Argon rolled his shoulders and drew a morning star from his bottomless box. How thoughtful fate was. He was just thinking of how nice it would be to excavate a mine. The soldier stopped a few feet short from him before dropping the shield and hauling his heavy weapon towards the undead.
Argon merely sniffed as he intercepted the attack and planted a strong punch into the soldier's face. This would keep him entertained for a short while. Seath wasn't going anywhere so he could afford a few minutes to play with his new friend…
After exactly four minutes and twenty seconds, Argon whistled the tune of an old song as he swung the head of his fallen enemy around, climbing the cold stairway casually as his weapon tapped against each step with a dull knocking. It carried on like a second beat to his rhythmic whistling.
Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink-TONK!
The fog wall blocked his progress into the Duke's Chambers, and he sighed at the delay before dropping the head in his hand, watching as it bounced all the way back down the stairway. This was it. The final stop. It was time for him to act like the 'Chosen Undead' everyone thought he was.
He scoffed and tilted his head to the side.
Pathetic. He was no one's Chosen anything. Not their warrior, not their lap dog and by no means their savior. He was just Argon, the arbiter of the world. The twisted dagger of justice meeting out punishment to those that dared to call themselves gods, and all those that believed in such heresy.
This scaleless dragon would fair no different. Although his race was nothing near the so-called 'divine' and he was basically the omega of the winged lizards, he had still possessed the nerve to ally himself with three contemptuous excuses for deities.
'The Souls of Lords'? He had never heard of anything so pompous. What Lords? From which age? In which kingdom? According to what annal? They were simply the early birds that caught the ugly bloody worm. Whether there was indeed a time when these supposed 'Lords' were around over millennia ago was debatable, and perhaps he was being just a tad dismissive. However, these wretches were anything but Lords.
He had been correct with what he had said to Gwyndolin in the Great Hall, both he and the gender-confused last born knew it well. All these false gods were just like everyone else, hollows.
The first hollows, if he were to be exact. Born from the Flame? Yes. That was probably one of the reasons the three of them worshiped a bloody pile of embers so much, it was practically like their mother. But gods? No. Lords? Not a chance.
Delusional was the correct answer. They were all drunk from the souls they had claimed, created not from the lives of whatever great existence once lived before them, but by the world around them. The soul of Light was simply born from the intensity of the sun, or even a vestige of the First Flame itself. The soul of Life was merely a rendition of nature and its ouroboros given personification. And the soul of Death? Well… perhaps that was the only true power worthy of the title of Lord. But a god, Nito was not. Just an amorphous caretaker of the dead. In truth, he was the only one Argon felt inclined to respect. The mass of skeletons had chosen to fall into an eternal slumber away from the bullshit this world was beginning to form, after all. He had escaped the calamity of his brethren by simply not giving a damn. Such devotion to remain pure was admirable.
But now was not the time for such thoughts, Argon reminded himself as he shook his head. He was going to kill possibly the last everlasting dragon still in existence. Honestly, he didn't know how he was going to kill something that was 'everlasting'. Seriously, even if he hadn't been lied to by pecker-face in Firelink and fem-boy in the castle, the fact that his undead task be to kill something that was by all right immortal was plain stupidity. He should have known these quests were more than they appeared at face value.
Fairly speaking, it was Gwyn's fault for giving a shard of his soul to a being that couldn't be killed in the first place. Argon scoffed again at the thought that the 'Lord of Cinder' would most likely be kicking himself if he ever realized that his legacy would probably never be followed again because he foolishly gave a being with insane longevity the buff that was a shard of his 'Lord Soul'.
Either way, he still loved a challenge. That was what made his boring existence all the more livable. So, without much more thought on the matter, the undead pushed a hand through the fog door, followed by and arm, followed by his left shoulder… until his entire body went through the misty barrier and onto the other side.
Seath prided himself on many things. The first, that he was able to take his revenge on his brethren- no, not the blind superiority of the gods, his dragonkin. It had been an agonizing wait when the world was nothing but crags and arch trees, where the only way he could stimulate his curious mind was pester the few everlasting dragons that would put up with his poking and prodding – even if he was sightless to begin with.
He recalled those days, and he recalled them well. He had been the ostracized one, seen as both a weakling and a nuisance just because he had been born scaleless. The times he had been forced to grovel at the feet of others that thought they were more powerful than him were nearly as numerous as the stars in the night sky, but he had waited it out patiently; playing the role of the pathetic paledrake with ease.
In truth, he hadn't known that the Age of Ancients would come to an end, but he had felt something leading to it in his breast. He wasn't able to explain it at the time – not that any of his brethren would have listened – but it was as if he had received a premonition that remained with him after birth. And from the moment he had begun to despise his own ilk for their lethargy and contempt towards him, he had prepared himself for the day when all that he saw before him would be erased by hellfire and death.
And lo and behold, that day came.
The second meritorious achievement he still praised himself for to this day – because even an ancient beast like himself could be self-centered – was the act of landing in the Lord of Sunlight's good graces. The fool was as dim as he appeared old, and honestly Seath took pleasure in the fact that he had become one of the Shining City's dependents, even after that nosey Bishop had had the stomach to oppose him. In a matter of simple decades that passed as quickly sand through an hourglass, he had secured his own stronghold of knowledge and power.
Despite many trusted aides to Gwyn whispering their mistrust of him here and there, they had possessed no force to stop him as he became an Archive the world itself bent over backwards to explore and commune with. When he thought about it clearly, it was probably only due to his hunger for discovery and wisdom that lead to Gwyn turning a blind eye to his dark machinations.
The third act he found most compelling to recall was the day the Flame began to sputter.
The kingdom was in chaos, the Lord of Death resigned leaving everything to ones that possessed the power to change events in life, and that sad excuse for a Witch had turned herself into the very thing she tried to avoid. The sun had waned, and the hearths intensity seemed to lose a certain degree of its vigor. Even Oolacile, the peaceful neighbor of Lordran had fallen – a feat that seemed so impossible at the time despite all the warning signs that the gods had either blatantly ignored or just failed to notice. To make matters worse even that quartet of greedy humans had infected New Londo with untamed abyssal magic. Things had spiraled so out of control that the god of Lightning himself had been forced to pay him a visit to ardently plead for his assistance.
Those days had been very intriguing to his pale snout. With the Flame fading and the world threatening to collapse on its side, he could have jumped in – been the unwanted hero by using all he possessed to save their sad little bonfire of ages.
However, his study of immortal scales and timeless magic had been far too inviting to turn down. What's more, he had been on the cusp of utilizing crystal as a source of potential power known as 'pure magus'. He couldn't very well stop when he was on a proverbial roll.
Even so, the events that transpired did irk him mildly. To live through a singular age of nothingness was worthy of merit. But to live through the rise and twilight days of another was just cursed luck. Of course, he had known that he would survive it no matter the circumstances, however, the fact remained that in all that time the world was beginning to shift perhaps a little too fast.
From his eyes on the ground, he had been alerted of numerous problems with the new world. Kingdoms that sought to claim the near-deserted Anor Londo, the spread of the Abyss after that knight that smelt of hound fur had failed in his conquest. There had been talk of a full-scale crusade as well. Kingdoms like Berenike and Baldor that rode upon the bravest steeds, wearing iron as tough as a demon's hide. To divert more attention, beasts had begun to frolic out of Lordran. Whispers of Astora being purged within a single night by a lone monster spread like wildfire around the continent.
And let's not forget the other minds that were at play.
Velka and her judgement that seemed to extend toward the divinity living in their ivory towers. Human scholars, that tortured souls of others and derived trinkets of magic from their agony. The sudden disappearance of the giant race – he had found little news with regard to that. And who could ever forget the problems that lay in a kingdom so distant to Lordran, Gwyn's rays barely kissed its cold feet? Yes, even talk of the troubles that lie in wait within Ring City had tickled his ears.
But above all else, he could not forget the suddenness of the Darksign. Interesting magic that came as a result of the accumulation of humanities carnal thinking – or so he theorized. It was a plague that had infected nearly seventy-five percent of the human race – and even then, the ones that managed to not contract it still overwhelmed the gods by millions. Then talk of a new hero began to spout around the globe, whether by the reeking serpents or the goddess of sin, he knew not – only that this rumor meant more harm than good to his trove of influence.
With such perplexities at work, the variables had dazed him. Seath had never imagined such a thing to be possible, given that he was, without a shadow of doubt, the wisest being in the world. With that assumption, he had thought he could plan for every and any eventuality.
But to his dismay – or perhaps it was interest – he had found himself stumped by the unpredictability of humans. How fitting that the Age of Fire was founded by beings called gods, only so that the weaker race could either overthrow them or destroy what they battled to build with blood and sweat.
He had attempted to turn the gears of fate, however. What everlasting dragon would he be if he allowed this new disparity to dissolve what he had personally slogged for ten times more than the gods themselves? And so, Seath had set aside his tinkering with the remaining scales of his fallen brethren, and some from his pathetic daughter, and worked to rid Lordran of the coming undead. Yet… in all his scheming, his plans to deviate the impact of the scourge of humanity had been in vain.
Perhaps his determination not to be disturbed had worked in his favor though, for why else would the Dark Sun himself seek his aide to convolute this tricky rumor going about? He had assisted all the same, whether he cared or not – his mind was already far from his brethren anyway.
After he had made plans with the youngest, and yet the strongest spawn of Gwyn, he had returned to his manor, locked himself inside his chamber and doubled his efforts to gain but a sliver of that which he had been born without, immortality.
And after countless failures… he had found a solution.
It was not foolproof, he agreed, and it was volatile should it be left unattended to. However, with this new invention he could see to it that he managed to squeeze the globe dry of all the knowledge it possessed in the current age… and all the valuable information it would most certainly hold in the next age; his third lifetime.
Nevertheless, recent events had seemed to put a dampener on his future plans. Things like the frequency in which his loyal Channeler's were diminishing in number, the loss of reconnaissance from more than one of his sentries posted in various strategic positions within the kingdom; and the most prevalent disturbance of a supposedly deceased Archbishop in his dungeon.
He may have been the same man which he had framed with false evidence over paltry matters, but he was less of a challenge now that he had turned undead. Granted, he was basically immortal as well just so long as he held a sliver of sanity, but he had been less of a trifle for Seath to deal with. And then… his greatest failure had walked into his hallowed hall dressed as a servant of that Witch whilst cradling an absurdly inane mask against her face that reminded him of two scents he hated with a passion: the magic of the Darkmoon god and the aroma of the sacred undead.
From the echolocation he was able to channel via the minerals that were now a part of him, he had given a second thought as to how she was the size of an average human, but his rage and interest regarding how she escaped the painter's cell and what she was doing here had been more urgent at the time.
Now, Seath knew far better than anyone else that he was not the same dragon that had made a name for himself after selling out his detestable race. For all his knowledge, it was quite hilarious to him that the very things he sought after had made him quite insane. However, he embraced it with open arms. He had achieved a scrap of his original objective, nothing else really mattered to him so long as he was allowed to continue his work hoarded up in his castle. And that was why he had deemed it necessary to experiment on his own flesh and blood for a second time.
He didn't care that she was a part of him. In fact, from his maniacal point of view, everything she was belonged to him since she was a part of him. Whether he wanted her dead of maimed was no business of hers just so long as she obeyed like the good failed test subject she was. She would be sturdier than the maidens of Gwynevere he had previously used anyway, so if she did get hurt it would be a miniscule thing. She was half dragon and half goddess after all.
And yet… although fate had been rather kind to him from his inception, yet another variable had arrived to delay his plans of seeking further information.
This time, however, that delay had not been in the form of an event. Rather… it had come to him as the source of the curse he had opted to avoid fervently.
Yes, that was right. Even though he had done his best to prevent any encounter with it at all, the plague of humanity and the world had walked through his fog door as the pinnacle of the very word curse.
So, Seath the Scaleless cocked his head as the Chosen Undead sauntered into his domain, prepared for a fight.
The only thought that went through the dragon's head at the time, was how badly he wanted to kill Gwyn for giving him a shard of his powerful yet bothersome soul.
Woo, that was quite enjoyable. Towards the final 4, 000 words I was really in the zone. Also, I actually didn't plan for a monologue for Seath. Either way, hope you all enjoyed this chapter.
Now… let me explain a few things.
Ze Explanation:
1. Argon's flashback – So, do you all recall the a/u I wrote out during the Gwyndolin battle? I stated that even though Argon does not support any gods or possess a covenant, his faith stat is still pretty high. I think I messed up by saying something about faith and intelligence when the correct answer was attunement or something like that. Anyways, his faith stat is quite high for someone who finds all gods as sinners. The reason is due to the encounter he has with his mother, Eliana. Whilst she gave him an explanation as to the system of punishment and reward of 'God', the ideal was something he latched onto due to many reasons (the comfort of someone that contrasts with all the torture Stein has dished out, the fact that someone was actually kind to him for once, the warmth of a mothers love – although he doesn't know who she is, the desperation he sought to understand why he's going through such turmoil, the question of who god really is… you can choose whichever seems more fitting) . Now, here's the funny part; even though Argon (in Lithecore mode) seeks to destroy all deities, in truth he actually believes that there IS a god out there and he (the aloof and jolly him) hangs onto that sliver of belief sub-consciously. The flashback of his mother just reaffirmed his belief, even if he doesn't talk about it much.
2. Argon's real name – Okay, since Eliana is a priestess of a church (one that worships Christ), I thought that she would want to give her son something biblical as well (since she practically missed baptizing him as a babe). If you note the flashbacks and references to Argon's homeland well, you'd have guessed that he's from somewhere near Carim. Now, I did some research and although I didn't find that much, my opinion is that Carim is like Europe IRL (meaning In Real Life, and not some other weird abbreviation your overly creative mind comes up with – not that it's a bad thing though). So, I gave Argon's mom a European name, Eliana – which means 'God has answered'. Note the biblical reference. As for Argon, he was given the name Mikel – which means 'who is like God'. Again, its biblical, it's used to emphasize his relation to a religion he feigns ignorance toward. So, if you were ever wondering where Argon comes from, you now know it's in the same region as Carim. Congrats for coming this far with me.
3. Argon's mask – I mentioned that Argon's rage and emotions when he went abyssal calmed down after he left the Throne Room. This was because of Gwyndolin. The kiss he placed on Argon's innocuous little piece of porcelain was also laced with a small amount of his magic. I had hoped to explain that after Priscilla put it on but Seath ended up hinting toward it instead. So, yes, when our hero (at this point I think he's more of an anti-hero but whatev's) wears his trademark head covering his violent tendencies are significantly decreased, although it still bubbles on the surface of his mind. When he was knocked back by the crystal golem earlier on, that nature of his was allowed to roam free, thus the sudden explosion of abyssal energy from his right side. You will be glad to note that this fickle state of being is not permanent (else the arc would never end) but just until him and Priscilla reunite. If you read carefully, you'll see that after Argon madly slaughters the Channeler's, he 'wakes up' terrified of the scene. This was the waning influence the abyssal/Lithecore side has over him. Oh, yes, the mask also possesses some initial magic within it (not from Gwyndolin) that allows the user to wear it without the need for clips and bands that fit against the head. That magic was how Priscilla was able to wear it. I've always wondered how the hell people in anime and various movies wear masks like that without a band or string to wrap around their heads so that it doesn't fall off. Whilst the answer could be that the object is custom made to fit to their faces (take Phantom of the Opera for example. Gerald Butler's mask was made from clay molded against his right cheek); the solution isn't very satisfying. So, I made up this tidbit. It's a silly thing to worry about, I know, but I couldn't help but think about it.
Onto other matters, some of you might be wondering how Eliana has a son when a priestess (or nun) is meant to remain a virgin. Good question, I'll get to that in the next chapter.
Aside from Argon's hazy past, I did my best to make the chapter contain more actual events and happenings than usual. Hope you all enjoyed that.
As for the fight scenes and the stealth run they did, I incorporated a few things from my own method of playing the game. Aural decoy is something I used frequently when playing the game at first. It helped a bunch in the catacombs when I needed to get stuff and run, plus it aided me Seath's Archives when I was out of Estus and needed to reach a bonfire fast.
Nowadays, I'm always equipping the sleeping dragon crest ring and/or the wolf ring. If I have a chance not to be noticed by enemies, I'll take that route and backstab whoever I can. Guess my time playing Assassin's Creed rubbed off on me a bit.
Ah! To recap from the previous chapter, I did say that I had a surprise for all of you. That surprise is a new fic (a set of one-shots to be exact that will in no way derail me from finishing this fic) that is comprised of funny encounters of various Chosen Undead I've created to poke fun at the Dark Souls universe. It will include rants at game mechanics, bosses, glitches and just random funny stuff you run into when playing Dark Souls. If you have any funny encounters you'd like to see written into one of these one-shots, please pm me- oh, crap, the pm-system doesn't work.
Okay, please leave a review about it and I'll write it out when I can. Hopefully, I can make it as funny as possible. As for that other fic I recently posted about Priscilla and the Chosen Undead (not Argon this time), I'm still doing that when I have the time. I'll reiterate; if you have any pairings from DS 1 you want me to do (besides yaoi) please state it via review and I'll get to work drafting it where I can and publishing it later.
If you will excuse me, I have a text on Sustainability and Greed to study. Have a jolly day. Hopefully when I type out my praise the sun emoji at the end of this a/u it won't crop out the right bracket like it did my bloody ampersand whenever I post the chapter. Don't shout at me if it does. Down with the bloody big head. Peace.
\[T/