-five… six… seven…
Are you playing hide and seek with someone?
-no.
Then why are you counting?
-just recalling how long it's been since we started this fanfiction.
Ooh, I know that train of thought well. Eight months huh?
-well, technically its eight months and a few days but I'm inclined not to give a damn this time.
Mm-hmm, I agree. But the ones we should be thanking are the people reading this. Thanks a lot for supporting us so far, I know we've barely reached the half-way mark but thank you all the same.
-there's also something else that's been weighing heavily on my imaginary mind.
Oh? Please do go on.
-why do you never title the chapters published after it has been written? I know it's not that you can't think of one.
Ah, yes… that. You see, I am a man of many, many words-
-the fact that you said many twice proves it.
Thank you. Now, I would love to add a title for each chapter, I really would.
-but?
But the bloody character limit is too short! I mean, come on, I wasn't able to publish the original title of my spin-off because it was too long, I can't input the carefully thought out chapter titles of many of the other fic's I've written and to top it all off, I can't even enter the name of the Arc's because, yet again, the character limit is too SMALL! So what if I want to enter a title that says: "I couldn't think up a proper name for this one-shot so I gave it this random statement thinking it would convince you to read it because I want someone else's opinion"? I know I could always put that in the description of the story but it would bypass the original goal here!
-I see, it was a completely stupid question to begin with. I'm sorry for asking.
Now, now, it's not you that needs to apologise, it's the bloody site's admins and their lack of foresight that do.
-firstly, I was saying sorry to the readers that were forced to listen to your idiotic reasoning. Secondly, do not insult the admins since you are also in the same line of work, thus you are just insulting yourself. And third, if it really bothers you that much then find another site to publish your work that does allow for a greater character space for you to enter your moronic chapter titles.
…
-why are you so silent?
You're me, I know that for certain but… you're really mean.
-I'm not going to take you seriously when you consciously realise that you're writing a fictional conversation between two strands of thought called your own mind. And the fact that you are writing this means that you are being mean to yourself, which therefore states that you are either mentally unstable, plainly stupid or just intensely masochistic.
Again, you are really mean.
-who told you to use italics when you speak? That's my right since I'm your inner thoughts speaking.
Now you want to govern how I write?!
-honestly, I don't want anything to do with you but since you're purposefully making it seem like I am then I'm just going to play along with it so that you can shut up and start the damn story already.
Bloody hell, you yandere, just allow me to vent in peace!
-being a yandere means that I show my affection towards people in displays of violence or with the intent to hurt. I have done nothing of the sort besides verbally abuse you-
Ah ha! So you DO admit it!
-when you write out an inane dialogue of me doing so. The only times I've 'hurt' you is when you were either bordering on the line of perversion or just plainly annoying me.
I was not acting pervy, you twisted the truth to make me look like I was! Just because I call out things that ARE for pervs doesn't mean I am acting like one myself! And besides that, you have a knack of hitting me in almost every a/u I post!
-that's because I'm annoyed by you every time you're allowed to write out these dumb a/u's meant to serve as skits.
The nerve! (*clicks tongue)
-and yet you still haven't stopped posting a/u's.
Because I like them you verbally abusive part of me!
-don't raise your voice in front of the readers (*smacks Mihairu7)
Yeeouch! Bugger this, on with ze goddamn story!
From garrison to reconnaissance scout, from a loyal knight to a burned body of sentient metal, and from the Lord of Sunlight's lap dog to the Lord of the Dark Sun's division of espionage. How fitting that he was to be passed from one member of an accursed bloodline to the next.
Although, for all his hate towards Gwyn, he reaffirmed that the last born was a different story entirely. Gwyndolin might have still gown up with his father's arrogance and pride at face value, but he was less of an autocrat towards his subordinates and more of an instructor when situations needed to be dealt with fast.
That being said, he was in no way saying that he was the Darkmoon's subordinate, he wasn't anyone's subordinate – just a lonely Black Knight. Gwyndolin had been as wise as he had hoped, taking in his sudden appearance and piecing the puzzle together as easily as pulling back the drawstring of his bow. It hadn't taken long for the god to make a decision before asking him to tail the Chosen Undead.
That was one thing he had always admired about the son of Gwyn, he never demanded something of those he had no direct control over. It was honestly a shame that brainless sister of his had been made to rule by their father's side instead of him; perhaps then many things would have been different in the days of old, including the fall of Lordran itself.
Alas, the Black Knight shut his mind off from such thoughts. His time of conjuring alternatives for the monarchy with what little but significant wisdom he possessed had long expired. Right now, the only reason he had come back to this accursed city and agreed to follow the request of Gwyndolin was because he was drawn to his charge.
And it wasn't due to any feelings of ill intent. He may be spectre in armour but he was still partly Silver Knight in soul, thus emotions of ordinary beings didn't exist within him, besides his hate for Gwyn, curiosity for this corroding world and wanderlust for the unknown.
Said wanderlust was directed toward the Chosen Undead, for reasons even he himself could not hope to fathom. Perhaps the undead possessed some of the answers he was searching for? Or maybe by observing him and his party, the Knight would gain a sliver of understanding as to why only he was granted this third opportunity in life after living through two uneventful lifetimes? He didn't know for certain as he stood in the clearing the masked one and the princess had vacated, scanning the mass of broken crystal and beheaded mages of the dragon.
From what menial information he had gathered from the previous night, he was trailing two of his charges whilst they trailed after their runaway comrade. The ex-Archbishop had always been soft at heart when it came to those he pretended not to care for, he knew so from the many times the armoured man had led his followers out of harm's way in the old days single-handedly.
The Black Knight surveyed one of the astrology tools nearby with its metal warped by something thicker than a blade and heavier than an average person in silence before staring at the many bookcases decorated with more splintered wood than there was reading material.
Havel probably thought it would be best to handle the Duke himself rather than leave it to the Chosen Undead and the paledrake's own daughter – two beings that better fit the criteria to battle against an everlasting dragon that was as insane as he was wise and powerful. Although, he couldn't discredit the man of impregnable rock entirely. After all, one of the main reasons Havel had abandoned his friends was due to his vendetta against Seath.
Whilst one had spent eons cooped up in their castle, absorbing knowledge and magic like a sponge; the other had suffered near an eternity warring against themselves in order to stay alive, in order to stay sane – a suffering the Black Knight knew all too well.
On the other hand, maybe the Bishop was fearful. Not of the traitorous lizard but of his companions. It had been a very long time, but the Black Knight still remembered the look on Gwyn's best friends face when they had found the bodies of the maidens Havel had made a mistake of letting go when the time came and passed. He had watched as the ideal of faith and strength of the Church drowned his sorrows in tears, sleepless nights and malicious thoughts whilst those that knew the truth allowed him to seep in his resentment – content to allow him to fester such hatred in his ignorance of his veracity.
The Black Knight tilted his helm a smidge. He had found another reason to despise his former king. Whilst the Sunbringer had been made out to appear oblivious to the cruel experimentation of his Duke before he had made the decision to sacrifice himself to the Flame, there was no possible way everyone in the kingdom believed him. That was simply because of the fact that before Gwyn was a god, he was a monarch; and you would be a fool to assume a monarch was to be trusted on any terms. Thus, one of the reasons this deep-seated hatred of Havel's was at such a peak was purely Gwyn's fault.
But then again, the Black Knight thought, surely the king shouldn't take all the blame. After all, there were still advisors to the Throne to consider, servants that dabbled in gossip but dared not to back up the Archbishop's statement for their cowardice was stronger than the bones in their spines. And, of course, there were the very Knight's themselves… even himself, all that time ago.
And one of them could have said something, said anything to support the voice of Lordran, prevent his exile, expose the truth to him so that he would do what was necessary in a land that was nearing extinction, but none had. Therefore, they were all to blame. The advisors, the captains, the servants, even the loyal Knights of Gwyn. They had all allowed a righteous man to fall into the very thing that makes him a danger to his enemies. The Duke had shipped his conflict off to a faraway location thinking it would force the Bishop to give up on his futile revenge. But instead it only brewed out the worst in the man, turning his hate into controlled rage, his bloodlust into a weapon and his determination into prophecy. For when you strike down a wise man, he rises again in strength.
The clattering of the Knight's platemail echoed into the next room as he walked on steadily, taking in every minute detail. Speaking of bloodlust, the undead he was meant to be shadowing had allowed his to wreak havoc. The Knight kicked the corpse of a Channeler and watched in mild interest as what entrails it still retained oozed over its armour and onto the marble floor. He knew the goddess wasn't capable of such ferocity despite her nature as a walking, breathing god killer, so the only other conclusion would have to be her mentally unstable partner.
He was almost the personification of true wrath, possibly comparable with the deadly sin itself. And whilst his ideals had seemed laughable yet shockingly understandable, that wrath had almost allowed him to kill Gwyndolin in cold blood. How could the Knight not respect such fanatical perceptions? A world without gods did sound like something up his alley, after all.
However, such power was crude, unpredictable and thus untrustworthy. It held no thought for the consequences of one's actions, just an obsession for engaging in the act itself. Under dire circumstances, it may be a trump card for those that required it, but otherwise… it was nothing more than a recipe for loss and regret. And that why it intrigued the Black Knight that his charge was able to hold it back for so long after abandoning restraint not even a full day ago.
He understood what drove this primal instinct to kill, he was basically the calmer version of it. Yet it felt so different observing it pulsate in the body of another. Perhaps it was due to the masked undead possessing the blight of the Abyss, or maybe it was something deeper than a bothersome scourge? Again, he did not know. What he did know, was that this untameable ferocity seemed almost in sync with the undeads movements, albeit fleetingly – as if the majority of that consuming flame of ruin that was originally there had been… torn away. Either way, he still found it odd that such rage made him cannibalistic as well. What sort of twisted righteousness even provided an outlet for such animalistic tendencies?
His thoughts left him again as he came upon the lift mechanism. This would be a direct route to the topmost floors of the Archive. He had never travelled further than the first few floors of the Duke's castle in the past, there was just no need to venture any further when his directives then had simply been to obey. Now, after gaining an abundance of freedom of both will and thought, he wanted nothing more than to raid every shelf of its knowledge and pillage the floors for the secrets it hid in the mouths of Mimics.
Imagining himself grunting, the Black Knight outstretched a gauntlet and pulled down the lever with ease. The teeth of the gears meshed and the pulleys and strands of forged metal and oil worked in tandem as the lift began to lower to his level. As he waited, he found himself sightlessly staring at something that glinted wickedly back at him in the soft glow of the wing he stood in.
Without hesitation, he approached it as the lift landed against the platform with a soft hiss before the clamps and gears locked it into place. The Black Knight placed a hand against his hip where an elegant straight sword lay inside its silver sheath.
Before he had left Gwyn's castle – now inherited by Gwyndolin – he had met an unfortunate accident whereby his pillaged black knight sword had broken in two, curtesy of a Silver Knight's great bow. From that point onward he had been forced to use the thin and light weaponry of his past, which personally did not feel comfortable to him for many reasons; from the thought that he felt like an obedient dog again to the realisation that as a Black Knight he was more suited for larger weaponry.
That being said, his charge had left him a gift when he had gone insane again. And by gift, he meant the beautiful greataxe currently imbedded into a fallen Channeler's cranium. It was covered in blood from the shaft to the carvings in the blade head itself, but that wasn't really problem. When he fought, it was usually messier anyways.
With a boot against the chest of the corpse, the Black Knight wrenched out the axe with a loud crunch of bone, sending even more blood spilling onto the floor and his armour, before placing it against his shoulder and revelling in the weight as he paced back towards the opened doors of the lift. At last, he was partly whole again.
Seath was as infuriating as the mumbling merchant back in Sen's Fortress that could barely give proper directions. He had done nothing but sit or stand – he didn't know since the ugly mass of red and white flesh seemed to possess no lower limbs – and fire off mouthfuls of cold crystal to impale him from the ground upwards. Each time he had been struck by those transparent stalagmites, he had felt both the effects of an annoying curse begin to bleed into his skin as well as a lot of his own blood begin to seep out of his body.
Now, he wasn't complaining about the pain. It was actually quite exquisite. What he was complaining about was the fact that this naked lizard of titanic proportions seemed incapable of attaining damage – or to put it simply, he just downright refused to sustain it.
Blow after blow, fireball after fireball, and dragonslayer arrow after dragonslayer arrow; yet the paledrake just waited there before him with that blind and blank stare as if he were getting bored of his presence there within his study.
That pissed the Argon off. He was meant to be the bored one, not some moronic mass of slithering frustration.
But what had perked the Chosen Undead up once he had entered the Duke's hallowed chamber was the sight of one unconscious crossbreed, still currently encased within a cage of crystal, wrapped around a massive, fleshy tail that looked more like some pale octopuses tentacle.
He had been wondering where she had run off to after their brief separation, eager to allow himself to finally administer judgement upon her blasphemous existence now that his mask had been removed. How odd that something meant to shield his face from his foes would end up possessing a dampener for his insatiable need of carnage.
In truth, he had been confused when it came to her. Yes, she was his comrade, his partner like the armoured oaf and a member of his party. She had done much to help him where she thought he needed it and he had been grateful for the aid – even if he kept quiet about the fact that he would have been just fine on his own. However, her deeds did not absolve her of her inherited flaw: she was still divinity. The dragon part, he was happy with excusing. For one, the Everlasting Dragons were neutral parties through it all. Sure, humanity and other sentient life would never have been possible unless the false gods had been born, but the winged lizards did not declare themselves superior over other races like these pathetic forms of flesh and blood had, therefore, he was content to let that part of her be.
On the contrary, she carried the blood of Gwyn in her veins, passed down by the faux serenity of the Queen of Sunlight herself. And because the wielder of the Lifehunt had those ties… she needed to die.
Indeed, her innocence was absolute, he didn't need to be insane to see that. But even if she was pure, her blood was not. She still needed to die. He still wanted to kill her. Whether his calm and ignorant side held nonsensical feelings toward her or not, he would make sure he killed her. Now that he was in his original mindset, who was there to really stop him?
Argon grinned madly at the thought as he ducked a wild swipe from one of his foe's enormous claws.
But first he needed to acquire her father's soul.
The Chosen Undead.
Honestly, it had not lived up to his expectations in the slightest. Then again, could anything live up to his expectations at this point in time? Eons had passed and he had found his first visitor in nearly eternity and yet his blind eyes barely registered anything noticeable about the small change in scenario.
He knew this rancid being would eventually reach his study now that it had already infiltrated his castle, however he was curious as to what exact relationship the thing had with his sad excuse for a daughter.
After its eyes had landed on her, its ferocity had intensified, tactics becoming more complex. Seath pondered on the fact that perhaps the undead garnered feelings of romance toward her, a thought that made him sick to his core. Before he was a dragon, he was a being of discovery and evolution, thus romance and companionship was useless to him when the only thing was certain in this world was time and mortality – the only two things he feared in this life.
The day he had bedded Gwynevere had been his greatest error. No matter what the foolhardy servants and fledgling scholars of his might had said with their lecherous gazes, matrimony was nothing but an unbreakable shackle to one's lifetime. He believed this even after his ancient seed had birthed his daughter, a hybrid with the endless potential to slay every god in existence.
However, when Seath focused his senses more intently upon his feeble foe, he felt something more akin to rage and excitement than love. He had smelt the corruption of the Abyss from a mile away and it had made him seethe in anger.
Artorias' destiny had been to purge that scourge or ensure it died with him, two things he obviously failed at. The reason he despised such a dark power was not due to a fear or wariness of it, but an intense annoyance toward the repercussions it could hold over him and his research.
Since it was created by the ill deeds and perceptions of Man, something the paledrake agreed he should have purged long ago when that putrid Pygmy had scraped out that vestige of the Dark Soul; it was as elusive as the very race that had now outgrown the gods themselves. As such, it possessed the power to erode his research, cripple his work and eradicate all he had taken the painstakingly long time to build from the sandy floor upwards. That would be a problem. Which was why he intended to destroy this foolish champion of humanity… or perhaps capture it for study. Whether the Flame died out from the undeads inability to link it again was of no consequence. Now that he had finally attained his own immortality what did the end of the world matter to him anymore?
The Undead was indeed a curious one. Rising back up again after more than more curse had afflicted its body to the point of paralysis even after resurrection. Perhaps it was the Abyss absorbing the status affects of his crystal breath, or maybe the unwavering beast was just stubborn to yield; yet again, he did not know. What he did comprehend about this inane scuffle was that it was cutting into his time to work, craft, mutilate and invent. He had just captured something close to the equivalent of a maiden, after all. There was no way he intended to delay his eager mind from toying with it – not even if it were his own flesh and blood.
So, with much less than a dismissive exhale through his large nostrils, Seath punched a fist into the hard floor, shattering the thick membrane of quartz as if he were cracking the icy surface of a lake. The shockwave his attack carried with it sent chunks and shards flying in every direction, momentarily blinding the Chosen Undead and causing him to shield his face.
The dragon chuckled darkly. It was a shame people were so pathetically predictable nowadays.
He breathed in deeply, light blue and white light circling his broad chest before the powerful tendrils of his magic crept up his throat.
He was foolish to waste time pondering on this diseased wretch when it was so clear that he would be the victor of this fight. His foe would either run out of blood or magic, whichever the preferred most. Since he was a being of science, he saw no point in waiting until its tank emptied or the Abyssal aura overtook it – which would either turn it into an actual beast or just prematurely kill it… parentally.
Besides, with the technical lord of the undead trapped within his dungeon, that would make it thee equally immortal subjects for him to test until the supposed end of the world occurred. And even if it did, at least he would be fine. In the end, all that mattered was that he was able to continue his work. Continue it until his mind literally broke from too much knowledge. Oh, how joyful a death like that sounded indeed.
Whilst Seath was content with deadpan expressions, Argon was busy trying to breath normally after one of those pretty rocks had shred his left lung to pieces. The pain that bloomed within him as blood poured out of his nose, mouth and groin had been euphoric. And yet… he simultaneously wanted to laugh at how absurd it all was.
He meant he was undead, for whatever blasphemous gods sake. What need was there for his lungs anymore, or his beating heart? It was odd that his bladder still managed to work despite the fact that he barely drank anything on most days besides his Estus.
As he was sent hurtling back for the umpteenth time, he wondered if the reason his bladder needed to spontaneously work was due to the very flask he had shattered not long ago? What if by being undead, a vessel for basically anything, his cells, blood and internal curse known as the Darksign was making his body unconsciously convert the liquid flames into well… normal liquid?
After all, despite what people said and observed, there was no real way undead could drink actual fire, no matter how diluted it was by the Firekeepers of Lordran. Because when you really looked at it, only the remaining survivors of Izalith could consumed fire in its purest form, they were born for just that purpose, after all.
However, he had to cut his musings short by the blind attack of his scaleless foe. He had already felt the power behind Seath's impressive arms – or were they actually front legs – and didn't need to be told twice that he should keep his distance. However, this attack seemed sloppy, even for someone who relied on sound and scent to pinpoint his targets location.
Argon lifted his arm to block the incoming shards of sharp rock from piercing his eyes and forehead as the fist burrowed into the floor with as much force as an Asylum Demon planting its ass on top of your miniature head. Seriously, that had been a gross experience he never wanted to go through for a second time – because damn! That orifice had stank.
It was only after he had centred his balance that he realised it was all a ruse.
The sound of rapidly expanding mass of energy had resounded in his ears as clear as the shattered crystal, but what had made his eyes widen in maddened shock had been the fact that his body was too slow to react to it after losing so much blood.
It happened in slow motion too. One moment he was staring straight ahead, waiting for the particles of shattered gemstone to dissipate before he had seen Seath. He was like some glowing lizard, much like the titanite ones he took the pleasure in impaling on his blade whenever they came round. His open maw had showed bright pink, raw and slick flesh, slowly lighting up as a torrent of magical energy and crystalline fragments were forcefully merged together.
It was in that moment that Argon became aware of the uncomfortable itch on the underneath of his right foot.
And then he was torn apart. Literally. Seath's crystal breath had shot forward like a massive spear thrown by some leviathan half the world away. The burn of the paledrake's magic along with the natural cold of the shiny rock struck his nerves with such force that his body went into temporary shock. The crystals themselves only materialised into solid spears when they had touched his skin, only to tear him open like some angry child does with an old, worn doll.
He couldn't even hear himself gasp out as his head, chest, and limbs were simultaneously impaled, incinerated and torn asunder. Although, before he felt his consciousness slip away again, he was reminded of a similar attack used by a very familiar and very adorable crossbreed.
"I am sorry but I don't comprehend what you're attempting to relay to me."
"You don't comprehend or are you just hard of hearing?"
"What was that, Lithecore Commander?"
"So, you are hard of hearing," Argon said with a smirk as he walked away from Covance and down the smooth steps of the quiet street. "But for the sake of your dwindled hearing, I'll say it again: the Lithecore… are dead."
"Dead?" Covance breathed; shock evident on his face. It was impossible to fathom, and yet the head of their unknown and deadly organization was before him to tell the tale. He knew the Commander of this trained league of assassin's and semi-nihilists was many things, including a heath risk to the old aide of the local Lord. A liar, however, was not one of them.
"How did this occur?" Covance asked with a gulp of air. He was hyperventilating. How could he not when the strongest force in the world next to the armies of Lordran and Astora had been supposedly decimated within the space of a single night?
Argon just started back at him without saying a word. The malicious mask he wore that depicted a cruel smile offering no solace in this difficult moment.
"Well? Are you just going to ignore me? What happened out there?!"
"Nothing… out of the ordinary," the Commander began, arms folded as he leaned against the stonework of a nearby building. "That is… until the slaughter began."
"Yes," the old hunchback sighed in mild relief. They were finally getting somewhere. Details of the battle were always to be delivered to him after Argon returned from another mission. Although he was always toyed with when the time came – Covance assumed it was some crass attempt at gaining whatever ounce of sick humour Argon desired – this time the boy seemed greatly subdued. And he had right to be, the entire Lithecore had been killed off.
It didn't matter that he didn't see his subordinates as his equals, the fact that an armada of that many highly skilled and unstoppable soldiers had simply been erased from this world in a matter of hours would have been greatly disturbing to any Commander.
"The intelligence gathered from our sources stated that it was a small but powerful company of soldiers from the West."
"At least your spies were correct on that point."
"What had they missed?"
"The fact that they were all Clerics."
Covance scratched his bald scalp. The Way of White had indeed gained knowledge of his Lord's less honourable activities as of late, thus they had begun to deploy more of their forces near the settlements outside of Carim in the hopes of finding the stronghold of the Lithecore. However, the hunchback as well as Argon knew for a fact that not even the best scrying spells conjured by the most reclusive mages would ever find it, and that was due to the fact that the Lithecore was apart of the very populace of Carim itself.
That being said, even if a skilled group of hunters from that detestable covenant that warped Lloyds ways had found their base, there would be no possible eventuality for them to even thin a tenth of their forces. Which is why news that not one or two, but the entire army of Lithecore was purged was so shocking to discover.
"Did they possess a Paladin in their ranks?"
Argon shook his head. "They were nothing difficult to face. The problem only arose when their dead began to rise back up again."
"I'm sorry?"
"Don't be, I don't care for the lives that were lost."
"What? No, what do you mean they rose up again?"
"It seems the Curse has found its way to Carim."
Covance's blood froze in his veins. They had all heard the stories, nightmarish tales told by the drifters and fugitives of other nations. They had all feared the oncoming disease that only seemed to affect the humans.
A punishment from the gods, some had said as people who fell on the battlefield rose back up wrinkled and lustful for human flesh and destruction. Many a nation had already fallen and talk of this plague spreading had sparked massive panic on the King, so much so that he had declared this topic taboo to speak of.
And now, it had arrived at their doorstep.
Covance shivered in the chilly air of midnight. This was not a favourable outcome. He would need to alert Lord Stein, immediately.
"Why did he name me Argon?"
The aide blinked, broken from his worries to stare back at the Lithecore Commander.
"What?" He asked in confusion. This was a serious time for Stein's favourite to be behaving nonchalant.
"Who ever chose the name "Argon" in the first place? Its utterly stupid."
"It was chosen because of its simplicity." Covance replied, his embarrassment evident by his reddening face.
"Oh? Do go on."
"Lord Stein required a name for you that possessed no relation to anything or everything. A name that would encompass nothingness but would also plant fear into our adversaries."
"And Argon was the best he could come up with?"
"No, it was the best I could come up with."
Argon turned his head to the hunchback and stared for almost an eternity. The aide didn't need to peer behind his mask to imagine that pitiful stare he would always offer him whenever conversation like this occurred. It was sickening.
"How did you come upon it?"
"Pardon?" Covance asked impatiently. They needed to report to their Lord and all the Commander could do was ask meaningless questions?
"How did you come by my name?"
The hunchback sighed and turned his body to face the soldier. The only way to get him to listen would be to answer him. It was a better time to just say it now rather than later, he supposed.
"From the word 'jargon."
"I don't fully understand."
"I took the first letter out and thus we had found a name meaning nothing but would instil everything into this world." He stared at Argon with a grim look. "Happy now?"
"Amused is more like it."
"Good," Covance said as Argon began to walk past him. "Now, let us take our lea- ack!"
Argon held his blade firm as he twisted it into Covance's chest. The hunchback gurgled blood and feebly tried to pry the knife away before collapsing in a heap on the floor.
"So, I was named after something nonsensical… how tasteless." He said as he wiped his blade on his torn tunic. "But I suppose its better than what the Lithecore's got for their troubles. After all…"
He lifted a hand to his mask as he spoke to the corpse at his feet, slowly undoing the bindings before the facial covering fell with a shatter of burnt porcelain. What was revealed beneath it was the leathery, wrinkled face of a newly turned undead.
"Who would have imagined that from an entire army, only the Commander would be granted a second chance at life? A second chance at revenge?"
Argon chuckled to himself as he began walking again. Walking toward the destination the Lord's aide was to travel to: the home of Lord Stein.
The Chosen Undead groaned as consciousness forced his mind to burst back into reality. As soon as it did, his brain found it priority to absorb and speed through the first influx of information it gathered whilst his eyes were still very much squeezed shut.
Things like taste, hearing, scent and the sight of his eyelids shadowing his most likely weary eyes. He could also feel an oncoming headache, or perhaps it had already come? He couldn't say for sure, all he knew was that it felt like something was repeatedly smacking him upside the head. It almost felt like a human hand doing it too, one covered in a gauntlet of hard ston-
Wait a damn minute.
Argon snapped his eyes open to see the ever-frowning face of Havel standing above him, gloved fist raised an inch above his noggin to deliver another wake up shot.
"THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM YA CENTURY-OLD HACK?!"
"WHAT'S THAT SHRIMP?!" Havel exclaimed back at him before planting his fist into Argon's bare stomach.
The undead let out a whoop as the air left his lungs, and the Archbishop scoffed before turning his back to him.
"Ungrateful whippersnapper. Hurry up and put some clothes on."
The undead rose into a sitting position, a hand cradling his abdomen. That cheap shot had hit its mark good. He could barely feel his legs.
"Augh… nobody says whippersnapper anymore, gramps."
"Don't call me gramps! I ain't old yet." Havel shouted in reply before the sound of a loud hiss broke their conversation.
Both undead turned their gazes forward to see a serpentine guard staring back at them in annoyance. They turned to look at each other before staring back at the humanoid snake as it readjusted itself to rest comfortably against the steel bars of their cell. Argon frowned in confusion. They were in a cell?
He blinked for a moment and examined their surroundings, taking in darkened area covered by more lacquered wood and cold metal bars. It was only then that he noticed the bonfire next to him, and he instantly reached out a wrinkled hand to grasp the rejuvenating flames, sighing out in relief as it woke him up from his stupor.
"So, Seath got the better of you, I see." Havel mused as he watched Argon crush a humanity sprite in his palm before turning his half-hollow flesh into its original pale and muscled physique. "And you lost your mask…"
Argon turned to the ex-Bishop. He was giving him a look of worry, which in any normal scenario would have been quite alright if he were anyone but Havel.
"What happened out there?"
The undeads opened his mouth to speak but froze. After another moment of silence, he closed it and looked down at his legs, brows furrowed as his mind did its best to remember.
"As it thought," Havel sighed before taking something out from a large pouch and throwing it at his companion.
The dull glow of the empty Estus flask caught Argon's attention as he grasped it gently with both hands. He had broken his when in the Throne Room with Gwyndolin. Although he had made it an objective to obtain a new one, the opportunity hadn't presented itself to him since coming to the Archives. He looked back at the Archbishop as he stood, helmet resting against his waist.
"I didn't find one on you when you were thrown in the cell," was all he said before turning to pick up his Dragontooth and great shield resting against the wall. "Now that you're here, do me a favour and warp us out. I've been waiting for over four hours for you to get your ass here."
Argon blinked.
"What?"
"You heard me, so don't make me repeat myself." The grouchy undead narrowed his eyes at him.
"Wait, wait, wait… you mean you knew I would die and get thrown in here with you?"
"What? You're telling me that you didn't?"
The Chosen Undead opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He honestly didn't have a reply for that.
"Alright, fine." he grumbled and grabbed the hilt of the coiled sword impaling the bonfire. Havel came forward and rested a hand on his shoulder in preparation for their escape. If he could warp them to the first bonfire they had all found guarded by those armoured boars, they could traverse back to Seath's chambers. After going through a seemingly endless labyrinth, Havel had managed to get a proper sense of direction towards the paledrake's chamber and many other areas of the castle. And with Argon's smarts that he hoped would spontaneously activate upon listening to his plan, they could form a decent offensive that would possibly injure – if not kill – their scaleless target.
The two of them remained in their current pose for well over five minutes before Havel began to grow impatient again.
"What's taking so long? Did you forget how to use the Lordvessel or something?"
"I can't forget how to use it if there is no method given on how to use it."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I can't warp here. Something seems to be blocking its powers."
"What?" Havel frowned.
"I can't warp here. Something seems to be blocking its pow-."
"I heard you the first time, dammit!" Argon chuckled at the armoured undead. Sometimes it was just so amusing to annoy the guy.
"Seems like we gotta bust out the old-fashioned way." Argon replied as he stood, dusted off his rear and pulled on a frontal covering of chainmail. He admitted that the sound and feel of the interlinking rings of steel wasn't as comfortable as most of the things he usually wore but it would be better to rip this piece of armour instead of the ones Borgus and Andre would charge him an arm and a leg for.
"Ah, I didn't even think of your set of skeleton keys!" the ex-Bishop cheered with glee.
"Pfft. None of my keys are gonna fit a lock this big, be serious." Argon waved him off and nodded towards the serpentine guard resting against their cell door. "But I bet he does."
Without waiting for Havel to reply, he gripped the handle of the coiled sword in the bonfire before jerking his entire body in the opposite direction. The ex-Archbishop yelled as ash and embers were thrown his way before gawking at the sight of Argon holding the very coiled sword itself in his right hand.
He didn't know whether he should be outraged or stunned to silence. Eventually, he ended up choosing the former.
"What in Lloyd's name are you doing?!"
"Cool your moss-covered titanite shard. I'm just gonna borrow it."
"Borrow it? That was our only way back here if we die!"
"I'm sure it'll be fine. That Brass Keeper will most likely divert our path to revive by her or something."
"How can you be so sure?" Havel spat.
"You think the bonfire's have a mind of their own to remember who rested where?" Argon raised an eyebrow at his companion, effectively shutting him up.
Satisfied with the response, the Chosen Undead happily marched forward before plunging the coiled blade through their guard's midsection. As the humanoid snake writhed in agony whilst the undead grabbed the key at its hip, Havel gawked at him for the second time. What was he thinking when he agreed to follow him to the Kiln? The Chosen Undead was a maniac.
Argon ripped the sword out with a few strong tugs before turning back to Havel with a grin on his blood-smeared face.
"Found us a way out."
The ex-Archbishop rolled his eyes as he put his helmet back on. If Seath didn't kill him before he was able to reach Gwyn, then it would be the idiot of a leader he had chosen to accompany that as unpredictable as he was a bonehead.
Nevertheless, he took a step forward after unlocking the cell door, intent on getting out of this annoying dungeon but stopped again when he heard Argon groan out in pain. Havel turned his head toward the undead to see him shirtless once again, rubbing the centre of his chest with a frown.
"What happened?" the Bishop asked with a raised eyebrow. Was it the Abyssal corruption acting up again? "And why are you shirtless again?"
Argon looked up at the man, a pout on his face.
"The chainmail ripped of a chunk of my chest hair."
Havel facepalmed. Scratch what he said about the Chosen Undead being a maniac. It was much simpler just to call him and idiot.
"Just put on some damn clothing please."
"Okay," the undead replied like a child before pulling on a cuirass with the coat of arms of Astora.
They exited their cell to scan over their surroundings. What greeted them back wasn't exactly a dungeon per se, but another part of the Archives flooded from the ceiling to the floor with more books. They stood on a large stairway that seemed to spiral all the way toward the ground floor if they were to travel right, and a short distance away to their left stood a ladder possibly leading toward the exit.
If Havel's memory served him correctly – which it always did – the old blueprints of the castle marked this area as the 'Forbidden Collection'. As to what that title was related to, he hadn't a clue; what he did know for sure was that the cells were originally meant to serve as locked vaults for important volumes and research not even Gwyn knew about. Then again, he doubted the fool knew any of his Duke's plans in the first place, save for the one's the dragon would relay to him personally.
But after a drastic change in architecture had been done on the castle, it appeared this section had been left to rot if the stench of old blood and rust was anything to go on. From what he and the Chosen Undead could see, each cell seemed to contain a prisoner. Some dead, others alive and kicking; but most important to note was that most of them were the same crystal hollows they had killed during their time traversing the first few floors.
"I reckon they were disobedient." Havel grunted at Argon's statement. It seemed he was on the same page.
"Either way, they mean nothing to us."
"Then why are we still standing here?" Argon asked in confusion.
"You haven't noticed that we're a person short of our trio, have you?"
Argon's eyes widened. Of course… how could he had forgotten about Priscilla like that? He swerved his head back to their cell but found nothing there except the disturbed bonfire and serpentine guard staining the floor red.
"Don't let it get to you, Argon," Havel said as he shifted his shoulder guard. "considering what must have happened to you, it's no surprise you forgot."
The undead frowned again, even more perplexed than before. Considering what had happened to him? What exactly did the old man mean by that? And what did it have to do with Priscilla?
"As for why we're still here, I'm want to check if she's trapped in her like both of us." The Archbishop's eyes narrowed as he attempted to get a glimpse inside the cells further down the stairwell. He hated to admit it but even though he was now undead his eyesight was still worst than a blind man.
"Use these." Argon handed him a pair of binoculars as he walked down the steps, observing each cell they passed.
Havel took off his helm and dumped it into his bottomless box. It was pointless wearing it when he had to remove it to do something every few seconds. With a moment used to adjust the focus of the optical equipment, he peered through the glass and scanned over the lower floors Argon was walking on. It would do them well to keep a lookout whilst the other searched the place.
After a few minutes of quietly going through each cell on each level, the ex-Bishop saw Argon shake his head through the binoculars before he sighed and lowered his arms. So, she wasn't here. In truth, he had hoped that she would have been thrown into the same cell as the rest of them, being deemed as useless to Seath, but he was mistaken. In his haste to redeem himself and all those he had allowed to be imprisoned by the paledrake; he had allowed his worst fears to come to pass.
"She's not here," Argon said as he reached Havel's side, catching his breath after climbing up a seeming endless flight of stairs. "There's a bunch of these serpentine things on the last floor though."
The armoured undead turned his head toward him.
"They're huddled around another cell but they seem docile. I walked past one of them and all it did was whimper out."
"Whimper?"
"Yeah, as if it was in pain."
"Hmm," Havel stroked his beard in thought. The maidens that had passed Seath's gruesome experiments were never seen again. Word was that they were taken away from Lordran, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe such a ruse. "What else did you find?"
"A platform above that cell. There was a ladder leading up to it but I didn't find anyone there."
"I see, then we should leave befor-"
A chorus of loud hissing interrupted him and the two undead turned to their left to see more serpentine guards sliding down the ladder with weapons drawn. The first three that landed immediately caught sight of their fallen brethren outside of Argon and Havel's cell before they stomped forward enraged. As they left the rusty ladder, three more slid down to join the first group, and then three more after that.
"Well shit." Argon said. Havel could only nod in reply as they were becoming more heavily outnumbered by the second.
This would be a long fight before they reached Priscilla.
Man Serpent's. Yet another failed experiment of Seath's, and more troublesome to deal with when in groups of three and above. As far as the sentries and garrisons in the Archives, the Chosen Undead and his party had done a good job in drawing as much attention as they could as they slowly but surely thinned the ranks of the paledrake's forces. Now, all that was left for him to do was observe how the Archbishop and Chosen Undead escaped from their confinement before rushing to the aid of their dragon-tailed comrade.
Whilst she was still the fear and nightmare of all gods out there – something the Black Knight seemed to respect with great integrity about her – the crossbreed Priscilla was still in all right a princess, perhaps even the next Queen of Sunlight now that Gwynevere had fled. With that in mind, and considering the fact that she was still royalty, he found it disappointing that those two who knew full well the meaning of valour and knightly pride could allow the nobility of their party to be abducted so easily.
Of course, it was quite understandable how such a thing occurred. On one hand the ex-Bishop of the old Church had deemed it necessary to brave the now literally everlasting dragon on his own due to revenge, hate and more pride; whilst the undead of prophecy, the hero of this already dead kingdom was still internally battling with his own identity – so much so that he switched from one emotion to the next as if he were performing double roles in some elaborate and poorly-scripted play.
He had honestly been content just to watch how the legendary undead of ages shifted persona's when battling hordes of enemies and enduring difficult challenges, however, as the newly knighted and tasked warrior of no-one, he was inclined to assist his charge and his comrades so that they could, in the Darkmoon's words: "Get the damn job completed already".
And that was how he found himself severing yet another cobra head from its scaly, humanoid shoulders. Wait, he was actually aiming just below the hood of the Man Serpent minions. So, scratch that, he was severing their heads and necks from their scaly and humanoid shoulders.
Funnily enough, although he didn't possess a nose he could still smell the pungent aroma of snake blood as it spurted onto his armour, coating the dark metal with a thick red sheen that would eventually get sticky. He didn't care, though. He had been through worse when he had fought in the battle of Izalith to ensure his previous King had made it to the surface after the Witch had turned herself into a blazing mass of roots and snares. Now those newly formed demons had been formidable. Worthy of the title demonic, and their resilience to Lordrian steel blessed by holy smite had been impressive. He recalled the many he had slaughtered, beheaded and bathed in the fountain their blood sprayed over his once silver armour. Although their strength had been worthy, they hadn't stood a chance against him as he swept through the pursuing thirty like a swift arrow through the clear sky – and he hadn't been nearly as indominable as he was today.
That's why when the Black Knight found himself mowing down Man Serpent's, crystal hollows, one or two blue golems and a small cluster of Channeler's all simultaneously, he couldn't help but think about how he would have to place his deep thoughts and reservations for later. Sure, it wasn't as exciting as battle but could one really call this butchering of forces enjoyable when the foes were so paltry? He thought not.
And all this, he reminded himself as he crushed the throat of another mage with his boot, was so that his charge – or charges since there were three of them – would have an easier time getting to the blind dragon of flesh and crystal before he used his daughter for one of his less than tasteless try-outs.
That being said, it would be odd if the Chosen Undead and Archbishop were to come upon this section of the castle and discover a mass of bodies not slain by themselves. The Black Knight raised his shield and a soul arrow burst off it harmlessly before he rammed it into the face of a leaping crystal hollow, shattering its head with the fast movement. He would need to find a way to dispose of the bodies once he was done here.
The sound of bare feet running alerted him to the next wave of on-coming adversaries and he twisted around to deliver a harsh slash with his greataxe that split a Man Serpent's head in two, sending even more blood and brain matter flying around. One of the remaining two human-like snakes lost their footing on the blood and fell to the floor with a hiss whilst the other leapt into the air – intending to impale him through the breastplate with his oversized greatsword.
The Knight would have scoffed his he had a mouth and calmly sidestepped the thrust. The human snake battled to regain its stance now that it had left itself open. It was at this time that he chose to two-hand his axe and lop off the creature's arm. For once he heard an unnatural scream and he delivered a strong kick to its chest, watching it writhe on the floor as it attempted to stem the bleeding from the clean cut.
The next thing the Black Knight felt was a blast of energy against his shoulder that made him take a step forward. He turned his helm to see the last remaining Channeler standing a few feet away from him. The mage was panting heavily under his ridiculous armour, his stomach nearly spilling out its innards from the swipe he had managed to avoid before it cut his entire body in half. His left hand gripped his trident with weakening fingers.
Well this was intriguing. The scholar of the Duke had fired off a heavier version of the original soul arrow whilst his powers had been increased by that absurd chant they all possessed, and all it was able to do was scuff his midnight platemail? Either they had been slacking off on their spellcraft whilst their master went insane in this study or he had gotten much, much stronger. Personally, he knew it was the later – probably due with all the souls he had gained after killing so many.
He decided to end the mage of his suffering and took a step forward. The action seemed to instil fear into the tall scholar as he retreated three steps backward. The Black Knight didn't ignored how amusing it looked as he crept forward, only to be delayed as a scaly hand wrapped itself around his right leg. He looked down to see the Man Serpent from before that had slipped lifting a crystal straight sword to hack at him from below. He intercepted the blue shard of rock with a swipe of his axe and the sword shattered into jagged pieces of glittering azure. The snake-man hissed at him in defiance and opened its jaws to bite him. When it shot its long neck forward, he buried the end of his shield into its throat.
The creature choked and tried to wriggle out of the dark metal pinning it to the floor, legs kicking out desperately but he didn't show a hint of remorse as he used the shaft of his axe like a hammer and knocked the opposite end of the shield.
The Channeler nearby groaned out with jumbled words, turning his visor away from the gruesome sight of the Black Knight's shield impaling the serpent man's throat all the way through. He pulled his arm out of the handle and continued his march before lowing into a small lunge and leaping forward.
The mage didn't have the time to scream before his head rolled from his shoulders. The Black Knight stilled for a second before yanking the axe from the cut it had made upon the marble floor. That made fifty-three.
The soft hiss and sound of shuffling guided his boots toward the surviving fifty-fourth target. Like a nightmarish spectre, he stood over the maimed Man Serpent currently trying to creep away from him on its back. He would have called it a pathetic sight but knew all too well what such grotesque images would do to the average being. And so, without a word – not that he could even utter a syllable – he stared at the creature as he raised his greataxe slowly, the blade-head still dripping with the blood of the thing's comrades. It hissed at him meekly before opening its mouth in what seemed like terror as the axe fell like a pendulum.
The ground beneath the serpentine beast's body cracked loudly as the blow found its mark, silencing the final reinforcement that would only hinder his charges before he retrieved his weapon and rested it against his back once more.
The scene around him was gory, enough to make any grown man sick with the blood staining the floor, walls and stairways leading to the makeshift dungeon. The bodies would rot if left unattended but he didn't really care. It wasn't his job to clean them up, just to make sure they didn't interfere with the order he would set so that his charges could finish this mission of proverbial suicide and give him the answers he desired with their actions.
The Black Knight walked back to his shield and tugged it out of the fallen snake-man's mouth before giving it a good shake to rid it of excess blood. Whilst it was Lordrian steel coated in the First Flame's shockwave, it would still be damaged like any type of weaponry if he allowed its condition to deteriorate. He placed the shield against its resting place behind him as he calmly walked up a flight of stairs.
His job was done here. Now, his respective charges needed to do theirs so that he could leave this annoying Archive. There was still much to do, and he was impatient in his contemplation. He needed to understand his reason for existing a third time, a reason for this gift called freedom. And the only one that could indirectly answer that was the Chosen Undead, the undead with the split-personality named Argon.
Okay, make that two more chapters until this arc is officially over. I know, I promised two more and then we move on to Izalith and the Darkwraith movement. However, things in the real world have been keeping me really busy lately – so much so that I haven't posted this chapter in almost a month!
I really am sorry but like I said I will not abandon this fic nor will I put it on hiatus. Its too damn interesting to do that and besides I'd be a real douche for doing so.
Hope you enjoyed this so far. I'm making the Black Knight have a bit more screen time so that I don't miss out on anything he's meant to experience and grow in. In other news, Oregairu and Re:zero have begun airing their second seasons and I'm as euphoric as Santana was when he made that song of the same title.
Please do read and review, have a smashing day and don't forget that love is war.
-what does that have to do with your send off?
Nothing. I just wanted to say that.
-I still don't see the rea-
OH LOVE ME, MISTER!
-son… oh, I get it now.
Sing it with me!
-OH MISTER!
JISARA RERU HODO SETSUNAI
-FUTARI DAKE NO ABUNAI GEMU
LOVE IS WAR!
-LOVE IS WAR!
LOVE IS WAAARR!!!