As a young boy growing to be an aspiring Pyromancer, Laurentius had always known that he would die by the very flame art he had begged his master to teach him. When he was just passing his twenty-fifth year as a human, he had witnessed an invasion of hollows the size of a battalion lay siege to the outlying district of the Great Swamp, and in his moment of panic after his uncle had shoved a spear in his hands, the ginger-haired man had assumed that that was the day he would fall into eternal slumber.
But alas, whilst Fate, Destiny and Life had been unkind, Laurentius had found a new beginning in the stirrings of undeath. And once again, his fascination for the flame was bolstered anew. Whilst the reality of his condition for the next few decades hadn't been as quixotic as he had expected, the thrill of adventure and discovery had claimed his heart from the netherworld of despair; blinding his pessimism with a flush of the future.
Although… one must be wise to the adherence of Fate's right hand, Providence – for if lightning can strike a farmer's brow once, it could surely do it again; until the job of restoring balance from an abnormality has been fulfilled.
That was how Laurentius had found himself trapped within an empty keg of grog, surrounded by others, in a cold, dank, miserable cellar that stunk of uneaten flesh long since turned putrid. He had been placed there by the Depths' Butchers. 'Celebratory meat', they had called him before cackling off to prepare the entrées of their feast. He had been too shell shocked that they knew what 'celebratory' was to even register the blistering flames warming up that filthy cauldron of theirs – but by that time he had already resigned his fighting spirit to give a damn.
And then another anomaly had had arrived, and with a snort and a kick to his barrel, Fate's plan had been thwarted, saving him from returning to the flames which had birthed his undead, unending life.
He had wanted to call his luck surreal, but deep down he couldn't ignore the voice that told him that it was because he was destined to be something more. That he would die only when his name had been immortalised as something greater than a hermit. Stronger than undead. Prouder than a simple Swamp-dwelling Pyromaniac.
Laurentius had ruminated on those thoughts but had come up with no solid conclusions. And for a time, he had spent his days meditating in Firelink. The various undead that passed by and found him cross-legged there had called him stagnant – uncaring of the tempestuous world they both lived in – but he knew better than to rise to such pointless name-calling.
Idleness does indeed breed a certain brand of sin to corrupt the mind. But silence forms the child of wit, and with his deliberation brought upon the makings of his grand epiphany.
That was why he had agreed to accompany Argon and Priscilla, after all. His focus had delved deep enough to alert him of the greatness he was destined for, should he choose to follow the undead of mystery.
He knew that in time, he too would fall to the flame he conjured within himself. His clock was ticking, as everyone else's did. He could understand that much, for when you became a Pyromancer, you inherited more than just dominion over heat made manifest into corporeal form – you also gained a sliver of untold wisdom. Perhaps said gift was from the founding Mother of the flame art, or perhaps it was something deeper. But what Laurentius knew when he peered into the flames around the world, was that he could sense his own lifespan.
Sometimes it gave him more. Explaining glimpses of his future – with regard to the specific path he decided to branch off into. Other times he could see the appearance of comrades or potential foes. But one thing the fire – any fire he gazed into – told him, was that he was slowly coming closer and closer to his eventual finale.
One would think that seeing your own craft show you your unavoidable death was ironical. Laurentius preferred to call it convenient. After all, what Vinheim sorcerer could attest to this boon of magic? Could they even explain it if it was before their eyes, or would they self-diagnose themselves insane like the rest of the so-called heretics of the world?
Personally, Laurentius didn't know if any other of his kin could visit the brief blinks of the future that he could, and maybe he would investigate such a thing when he was once again under the sun or starlight. But presently, all he knew for certain when peering into the flames of the Bed of Chaos before him, was that he was going to have to fight for the answers he needed.
He dived to the side as the inordinate monstrosity flung out an arm to crush him against the wall. The edge of the beast's tree-like fingertips snagged against his ribs, and he grunted as his skin tore, gushed out blood. Solaire fashioned his fist with another brilliant lance of lightning and flung it, only to tsk when it splashed against the hunched over body of roots harmlessly.
He ran past the Pyromancer and toward the right-hand side of the room, shield raised high. It seemed he had a plan Laurentius wasn't privy too right now.
That was fine. He needed a moment of respite. Whining in pain, the undead grabbed his Estus flask and drank deep. It was the last swig he had left. He closed his eyes as the elixir repaired any and all lacerations. Had to make this next attempt count, the Sun Knight was showing him up.
Another excruciating shriek tore from the Bed of Chaos and Laurentius turned to see it grab Solaire with one of its limbs and raise him into the air. The Knight struggled and hacked at the tangle of roots around his waist. When his sword snapped in half he stared at the hilt before tossing it behind him casually and drawing his talisman.
His right hand glowed gold as the sentient tree crushed him in its hold. Laurentius thought up an idea by running forward to fling a ball of flame at the ashen hand, but the Bed of Chaos sensed his magic and shuddered. The Pyromancer looked down as the floor began to grow unbearably hot, noticed the tell-tale signs of chaos flame pools and immediately stood between two large circles. The heat of the eruption of flame columns licked at his flesh like sharkskin, and he felt his beard singing off from the roots as he did his best to stay on his feet amidst blistering humidity.
That time spent occupying the turned Witch of Izalith gave Solaire the opening he needed as he cocked back his arm. The bolt of energy felt heavy in his hand. It was larger than the others he had cast in a hurry. Honestly, he felt his consciousness slip for a moment as he righted his aim and shook his head. This felt like the last one he could conjure, his prayers had been continuous as of late, and he didn't presume his wondrous Lord would avail him the favour of more power to wield for the moment. Either way, he would make due. The motto of any Warrior of Sunlight was to strive for victory, no matter the odds, wasn't it? What good was he as a comrade to a Pyromancer with a cause if he floundered now?
Gritting his teeth and flexing his bicep, he aimed for the lingering sealing array not far from his position. He had seen the fading matrix of magic on the cluster of thick roots on either side of the Bed of Chaos and had taken flight instantly. In truth, they looked like binding seals for something more sinister than the Bed of Chaos' natural form, but he wasn't worried about that. Whatever it took to sheer away the impressive armour coating this beast was his main priority. Laurentius could handle it thereafter.
"Hrrgh!"
His burning gazed followed the streaking spear of electricity in slow motion. He noticed every individual current of energy running off the formation of faith and power as it neared the glowing root wrapped in chaos runes. He heard the seal crack, watched the surrounding roots snap away under the indominable strength of his devotion, heard the Bed of Chaos cry out loudly before it threw him against the floor.
He coughed up blood as the sleek flooring around him crumbled to reveal the void beneath them all. His head felt fuzzy. It was a mix of the spell exhaustion and the spine fragments floating through his bone marrow. Even so, he got up. Stood on wobbly knees and stretched out the cramps. Grown undead didn't give in to pain. But Warriors of Sunlight didn't feel pain. Especially when they were aiding others in their heroic triumph over evil.
A rumbling caught his attention and he turned. The front of the Bed of Chaos was falling away as a yellow scythe of fire rose to the sky. Solaire grinned. So his guess had been correct.
Laurentius gasped loudly as the obelisks of crimson and amber diverted to smoke away at the already scorched air. He took a gander at his clothing and flung his arms up in exasperation. Just great. The greatest gift from his fiancé and it had been torn up by the Knight of Thorns, turned to dead charcoal by her mindless sister and now burnt off his bulky frame by her monster of a mother.
Hmph. Suddenly, the title 'monster-in-law' made much more sense.
His sweat formed a river that ran down his cheeks and neck, made to feel stifling due to the ultimate combination of heat and dust surrounding him. Quite honestly, he could feel the ashes falling around him now begin to stick and sink into his bare skin as the heat grew in intensity. His nose tickled and he bit back a sneeze.
He turned his head sideways in search for his compatriot. Whilst morphing his eyes into a makeshift panorama, he observed the absence of solid ground, an abhorrent cloud of dust floating lazily through the air, more thick ashen roots and a flaming scythe descending on his form before he found the Astorian casually jogging toward a curious outcrop of clustered roots holding a glowing shaft in their centre. How odd. Why was there a binding seal on that glowing ro- wait, what was that about a glowing scythe?!
The Pyromancer snapped his head skywards and choked on his gasp as the titanic formation of liquid flame sped toward him. Doing the best he could as his brain momentarily short-circuited, Laurentius jumped backwards, allowed his heel to get snagged by an upturned flap of rock and fell on his rear.
The mighty weapon sunk into the floor like a finger entering a murky lake. His eyes widened and he parted his legs as far as they could go, doing his best to avoid the hissing curve of chaos flame melting stone a hairline away from his manhood. When the hilt was fully sheathed within the flimsy stonework below them, he allowed himself to breathe.
That had been close.
He heard a distinct snap echo in from his left before the Bed of Chaos bellowed out a roar from the mouth it didn't have. The undead winced and covered his ears as the walls trembled. It sounded like it was in pain, or perhaps the scream was something more akin to freedom? He couldn't pin-point it exactly, he didn't speak tree. What he did know was that flying visage of Solaire careening through the air yet again, coupled with the numerous logs of gnarled wood collapsing from the base of the Bed of Chaos' midsection; meant that his friend's efforts had managed to miraculously pull off something that could put an end to the maddened dryad they faced.
Gathering his wits and charging up his nerve, the Pyromancer ran forward. It would do him no good to waste such a perfect opportunity. His bare chest glowed in the harsh orange light provided by the monster above as he dodged another scythe that tore a neat line in the ground. The approach of the second scythe sought to sever his legs when it swooped downwards and he jumped, legs curling against his thighs and the blade passed harmlessly underneath him. He landed and re-entered into his dead sprint, right hand going ablaze with fire. The Bed of Chaos grew excited by the presence of its element before it raised a gnarled hand.
Laurentius sucked in a breath and jerked back, body twisting between the middle and forefinger of the monstrous tree, as it smacked the ground, before flinging the fireball against its wrist.
He watched as the lava from his attack pooled over the appendage like a shackle and seeped through the gaps of the woven roots. It wasn't melting in any form or way. Whether that was due to the roots possessing a stronger durability to the unending heat it grew in, or due to it being possessed by the ghost of a fallen monarch, he couldn't say – but then again, he hadn't been aiming to burn its limbs off. He had an axe, after all.
Stepping on the knuckle of the monolithic hand in front of him, Laurentius took two more steps before he launched himself into the air, battle axe raised above his head before he slammed into the burning wrist like a ginger meteorite.
He grinned at the sight of his weapon sinking more than halfway through the thick tangle of roots. Despite how horrendous this thing appeared; it was still essentially a living tree. Thus, it made him, an axe-wielding arsonist, this things greatest enemy.
The sight of the hardening magma forced him to pick up the pace, and he yanked the axe out of the appendage, swung it up and over his head, before chopping against the wrist again.
The Bed of Chaos let out a shriek as its left arm snapped at the wrist, causing its balance to become uneven for a moment. Laurentius hadn't been able to sever the arm completely, which was a given considering just how thick and mobile the limb was, however, he had only needed to weaken it. The Witch would have done the rest.
His eye caught motion on his right and he turned just in time to see the Bed of Chaos' second arm sweeping against the floor toward him, the shadow it cast like a wall of wicked thickets.
He flashed out the Bloodshield Argon had given him and shouldered it, limbs tensing as the hand struck against it like a tumbling cascade of snow. His feet left the ground and he moonwalked in the air before his other shoulder met the rugged sandstone behind him. He yelped at the pain and flexed both arms against the parallel compression – having half the mind to still scoff at literally being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
The gangly arm that tried to swat him eventually ceased its assault, thick finger screeching against his shield before it violently tugged the covering away. Laurentius watched as the sturdy hunk of metal clanged against the floor and dipped into the missing flooring. He hold his breath in hope as he slid down the wall in agony, only for the shield to tilt and fall into the emptiness below them with a silent whoosh.
The Pyromancer held back the sob in his throat. He had really liked that bloody shield – no pun intended.
Groaning as he rose to his feet for the umpteenth time, he clenched his right hand in hesitation before gingerly wrapping his fingers around his left shoulder. A quick breath, a sudden jerk accompanied by a dull crunch and a mouthful of profanity later, and his good arm was back in its rightful socket.
He jostled the limb to ease out the stinging that brought tears to his dry eyes and shook his head. Now that he had been properly woken up. It was high time he fought like his usual procrastinating self.
Looking down at his bare chest, the first idea that came to mind was a better bolstering of defence. he knew he was a wimp when it came to physical confrontation, nobody really needed to point that out after he was in agreement that he disliked pain with a passion. He was a Pyromancer, after all. And though there were many others of his kin that were warriors before they were spell-casters – Salaman, as the best example – the handful of lightweights like himself were known to be most devastating in battle when they maintained a steady distance from their foes.
Besides all that, he had a boatload of protective Pyromancies. Not just to strengthen his defences from physical harm but from the very element he had mastered, as well. And now that he was fighting the Godmother of goddamn fire, he knew just the ones to give him an adequate boost.
Thank goodness he was perspiring this much.
In normal instances, using certain spells would require him to funnel out more magic to compensate for pre-requisites he couldn't fulfil in other areas, which would be disadvantageous as it would minimise his control over the spell and lessen his focus on the enemy. However, when said pre-requisites were satisfied beforehand, weaving certain incantations became fluent and lighter in the cost of consumption.
His profuse sweating was one such requirement.
Combing a hand through his hair, the undead lifted his Pyromancer glove to chest level, closing his eyes and controlling his breathing as he focused on the humidity around him.
One of the more secretive reasons why Pyromancy was considered heretical by others was due to the nature of the art itself. Users of the flame knew that Pyromancy was the actualization of the flame within one's soul, and if you were to only focus on the logic behind figurative combustion of an individual's willpower, they could obtain great quantities of power without needing to delve any deeper into the craft – going as far to make even the simplest offensive spells the most devastation.
In the same light, a great way to become a stellar flame arts user in the span of only a few days, was to focus on the common facts surrounding the mystery that was flame control and release. And for Laurentius, this was the particular area he had excelled in from the moment he had first been gifted with a flame of his own; and the reason his master had accused him of 'cheating' when studying the beauty of the inner-self.
For you see, a primal method of harnessing inconceivable volumes of calamitous flare didn't come from the will power of the user at all. It would provide an adequate force behind the forms of Pyromancy, but you wouldn't receive the result that the previous masters of the art achieved.
That secret, which no monk of Izalith had ever deemed to pass down, had been discovered by Laurentius when he had been but a lad experimenting in the harsh weathering of the Great Swamp. And it was in his time of solitude that he recalled a brief, basically nonsensical note of Izalith's grand masters.
That although they lived alongside the lifeblood of the world itself, they continued to dress themselves in the thick robes of their ancestry.
One would think that it was simply tradition or a means of masochism to force yourself to overheat whilst siting in a place where the simple humidity could make a person go insane with the sweltering conditions; but then something had clicked for the young man… something that would shake his foes to the core whenever he decided to get serious.
He had laughed the first time he had discovered it, and suddenly, the reason those grand masters never decided to mention this secret made all the more sense. It was because it was an unconscious exercise. Because they were already in blistering heat, wearing suffocating clothes that they could never pass down important information they never even knew they were collecting.
Pyromancy. The art to mould the flames of the world, relied not only on the strength of the mind, or the knowledge of one's self to reinforce the powers of an individual to an unfathomable level. But the use of the simplest conductor; the human body.
The undead snorted as he revelled in his reverie. It always brought a smile to his face whenever he recalled how to harness his magic to such a fine degree of control. To think all you needed was a higher temperature to expand your power to a devastating degree without chaos fire… it was a wonder none of the older swamp masters had figured it out yet, even when they lived in a place as stifling as the Great Swamp.
Temperature control. It made all the difference. He could see that, yet he never assumed that there would come a time that he would finally be weaving the necessary spell arrays to get to this point.
His body glowed cyan, thin and large drops of moisture flowing down his body like the march of a thousand pale slugs as they conglomerated into his awaiting palm. Despite the adrenaline in his blood, he was excited. This would be the very first time he could cast this spell without feeling like he was going to pass out.
He watched Solaire dodge a pillar of hellfire and duck under a large slap from the Bed of Chaos, before a pair of translucent scythes attempted to shred him to pieces. The knight held firm against each and every strike to his dented shield, the smiling face now resembling a tanned face without a mouth. The attacks stopped for a moment and the Astorian lowered his arms and turned to Laurentius. He saw the large, opaque orb in the ginger's hand and nodded once – turning back to their foe and running up to the retreating gnarly hand of ashen roots.
The Pyromancer was grateful. Solaire was one of the comrades he knew that didn't require words to read his moves and act accordingly. When they got out of here, he was surely going to give the happy fellow a bottle of that rum he found stashed in a cottage back in the Undead Burg. It was the best present he could offer, aside from sharing in his Pyromancy and elucidating him about the pleasures of meditation.
He looked down at his palm again. It was ready, how wonderful. He couldn't wait to get back out there again. And what better way to face that hulking mass of living fire, than to become almost fire=-proof yourself?
Sucking in a mouthful of hot air, Laurentius concentrated on his body; felt the individual beads of sweat rolling off his skin and into the orb in his hands. He held his breath. Feeling the heat, smoke, dust and dryness form a cocoon that pressed uncomfortably against his body – boxing him into a claustrophobic pocket he couldn't hope to escape. He froze his imagination at that thought, waiting patiently for the heat in his body to increase, for the mild fear of being trapped to amplify the need for his body to secret more fluid.
He smiled as the technique worked, saw the orb in his palm grow further, reaching to nearly three times the diameter of his head – before his right hand sparked with flame, injecting dark red and orange into the pale blue in his hand – and he flung it against his chest.
Laurentius breathed out a gasp as the hot, yet cold substance spread over his body, covering his chest, his arms, legs, head. Each singular hair on his head and pore of his heated skin. He felt his magic thicken, pulsate with the offering his body held out, and then; as if the world was a mass of chaos in a cyclone – his mind snapped taught like a rope tethered to a pole on the floor, and the world smashed into crisp clarity as his pupils dilated.
The Bed of Chaos creaked loudly at the intrusion of magic quivering against its domain, and the chaos scythes standing like antenna above the abnormal tangled tendrils turned as Laurentius strode to the centre of the crumbling boss room.
Solaire gazed upon his friend swathed in a flowing suit of what appeared to be water… yet shimmered with streaks of glinting flame. He had never seen anything like it, but the power exuding from his friend was unmistakable.
The Pyromancer, in turn, gave his comrade a cocky grin before he heard a sizzling and looked down. A particularly large dais of flame bubbled at his feet. His eyes widened as he lifted a foot to escape the attack, but the torrent of fire came all too quickly.
Laurentius opened his mouth to scream as the Bed of Chaos burnt him alive, yet as he stood there being flambeed, he couldn't help but notice his body wasn't the least bit affected – even if he did feel the overwhelming heat made his head spin.
He looked down and saw his skin ooze more sweat under the cool coating of Flash Sweat, and huffed – mind baffled in surprise. Damn. That 'secret' about flame art had worked better than he had expected. He didn't know whether to jump for joy or defecate in shock.
A roar from the beast towering over him made him choose option three. He walked out of the cluster of chaos cropped together like a corral of trees, before fishing out a straight sword from his bottomless box and tossing it to Solaire, who caught it as deftly as walking.
He needed to kiss Argon for teaching him that nifty trick.
"Well now, this is interesting." Solaire nodded to his form, casually deflecting an incoming scythe with a swish of his left wrist that held his new sword.
"Thought I'd take the lead after you so graciously created a weak point for me." The undead shrugged and took a look at his body. The shield of literal sweat and fire coating his skin had managed to protect him from standing in that blast almost completely. The only wounds he really had were the slight black smears already being cleansed from the armour on his body. "and used up the last of your miracles, might I add."
Solaire hunched over comically. "Was it that obvious?"
"You put your worn talisman away and your shield looks like Andre plonked it with a haft of unmoulded steel."
"Ah, well, when you put it that way-"
"And the feather in your helmet is gone."
"What?" the knight said in alarm and raised his hand up. He felt the absence of the ticklish accessory on his helm and clenched his sword tighter. "that was a gift from a dear barmaid in Astora the day I left to make a name for myself."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry mate," Laurentius frowned in guilt. It was indirectly his fault for making Solaire fight against his mother-in-law when you looked at it. "Were you and her intimate or something?"
"No, but she served exquisite ale after a long day of training in the mountains killing trolls and fashioning their organs as water skins." The Astorian said, dusting off lint from his coif. Laurentius pulled a confused frown, wondering why he even bothered to ask. The knight in front of him looked wistful as he flipped his shield over to gaze at the smiling sun painted over it.
"I offered to have a pleasant picnic with her during a warm afternoon but she turned me down, stating that she wouldn't be caught dead fraternising with the kingdom's resident 'mad hat', whatever that meant."
The Pyromancer grimaced. Now he felt really guilty for asking.
"But as much as that memory is mildly depressing…" his grip tightened so hard against the sword hilt that he heard the metal shudder. "that feather was a piece of my home." He growled.
The root tangled hand of the Witch came down again and Solaire gave Laurentius a shove before hopping back as the great member formed a crater in the ground. The dust settled and Solaire darted forward, hopping on top of the knuckles and flinging his shield onto his back.
Laurentius saw a scythe twitch in response and tried to reach out for the knight, when realization slapped him across the face with enough force to make him spin on his heel and catch the attention of the other scythe.
Solaire flipped the blade in his hands, stood upright and impaled his sword into the tangle of roots that served as the middle finger of the hand. At the same time, he saw the chaos scythe descend out of the corner of his visor and hopped down to the ground, between the middle and ring finger. The scythe bit directly into the back of the palm, pinning the appendage to the floor as Solaire grabbed his sword by the hilt and roughly tugged.
The sharp blade, coupled with the knight's indominable strength sheered through more than a few roots that formed the finger before the blade sat at an awkward angle, jutting out of the hand like a lonely crag.
He knew he couldn't rely on brute force to rip the entire finger off, doing that would just snap another sword, and Laurentius was too far away to throw him another. Similarly, he couldn't call upon more spears of godly power, he had exhausted his prayers for barbs of the sun, and he wasn't likely to receive any more until he had some rest and appeased his Lord by killing the Witch of Izalith. Thus, the only other option he could use was obvious.
If he couldn't summon projectiles, he would just pray for enchantments.
"Great King of Wonder bathed in burning light! Hear my reverence and aid my endeavour. Fill not my hand, but my extension of strength the authority of your divine wrath!"
He felt the answer to his appeal before his mouth had even formed the words. A resounding and loud 'yes', clear as first light in his head as his blade sparked with soothing golden flare.
The blade itself was glowing, as if it had just been dunked into liquid sunlight. He saw faint currents of lightning form around the edges, as if Gwyn himself had touched the metal and charged it with unreal amounts of energy, yet as it sheared through the roots like butter, it almost felt as if his sword were on fire.
Regardless of what was transpiring, he took action immediately. In a flash, he yanked the sword downward, severing the middle finger at the knuckle, then he twisted, flicking the blessed weapon against the adjacent digit, watched it thud against the floor and spun around - two-handing the hilt as he sped toward the retracting scythe of solid flame.
The result of two monumental forces of power colliding formed an explosion louder than any chaos flame, and a shockwave more harmful than any Wrath of the Gods Miracle the Sun Knight had ever witnessed. But as he, the hand and scythe were caught in the blast radius and sent hurtling backwards, he knew for sure that he had managed to do more than just weaken it.
Solaire tumbled backwards, legs flailing over his head. He grunted as gravity made him reunite with solid earth and he slammed his heels into the floor, left hand scoring marks into the stone as he skidded to a halt, sword still raised – prepared for a second collision. The Bed of Chaos didn't return to attack him. He gazed at the crumbling left hand as the chaos scythe shattered to pieces and the beast roared in agony.
Indeed, he had managed to injure it quite ferociously.
A feeling like the departure of grace made him feel significantly heavier and he wobbled, turning his head to stare at his sword arm. The blade faded from its brilliant aura and he hummed as he panted. He wondered if he could do that again when the situation called for it. It just felt so much more liberating compared to the use of his lightning spears for some reason.
Meanwhile, Laurentius was ducking and diving, legs on a non-stop run, as he evaded the burning scythe aiming to cleave his head from his shoulders and fashion his body as a receptacle to plant demon eggs – if such a thing even existed.
Flash Sweat was working wonders. He had been nicked and sliced more than a dozen times as he battled against the second scythe angrily diving at him, and so far, his body hadn't suffered so much as a gash. Don't get him wrong, the pain of being almost cut hurt like a bit- oh, that's right, he had to stop swearing so much. What he meant was that the pain was still as real as his overly thick eyebrows, but the rate of the spell's protection was almost unreal. Now if he could just gain some breathing room from this annoying flame-sickle, he could formulate a concrete plan.
He dodged an overhead swing from the scythe and twisted away from it trying to impale him before another thought entered his mind.
Why was he trying to evade it? The right arm was out of commission whilst Solaire was keeping the other hand and scythe busy, which left him with only one more obstacle from the core. Why run when he could just crush this thing to smithereens?!
Grabbing the axe hanging behind his back on his waistbelt, Laurentius turned, lowered into a defensive stance and clashed the steel of his weapon against the oversized form of chaos fire. A shroud of flame collapsed from the scythe and onto his chest. He gasped from the intense burning sensation until the spell using his sweat soaked up the damage and increased his body heat ten-fold.
He couldn't help but grimace. Although his magic was superiorly boosted thanks to the rise in his temperature, overusing the skill would be heavily inadvisable. Even if he was undead, his body was still humanoid. There was only so much his temperature could rise to until he either died from heat stroke, blew up from an overwhelming influx of magic, or just passed out from the humidity. He needed to finish this fight up, lives were at stake here.
But to win, he would need to destroy the scythe slowly crumbling before him, and that could be a hazard. For one, just chopping at it had caused a quarter of the fire forming it to flake off like it was and eroded rock. If he severed it completely, it might explode. And he didn't think he would be able to weather the explosion.
Then again, it was his only shot. And since he felt more or less like an overpowered, fire-wielding lord of flame at this point, he might as well do something reckless.
Nodding like the idiot he was at the worst times possible, Laurentius jumped to his feet and moved to the side as the scythe flicked out of the ground. He back peddled, watching as it rose in the air before zooming forward to pierce him. He waited for it before twisting at the last moment. The scythe melted into the floor, hissing like a den of snakes as the edge of the 'blade' sunk into the ground. The undead sniffed, drew back his axe and swung as the shaft of the scythe came into view.
The result was instantaneous as his weapon severed the crimson formation of chaos flame. A deafening eruption of deadly hellfire.
The Pyromancer yelled as he flew of his feet, back crashing into a root on the ground as his axe melted away. He felt his body burn and he closed his eyes, felt the rest of his beard burn away and clenched his teeth.
It had taken him a full year to grow a beard that suave.
The room blackened after the second explosion caused by Solaire's attack against the other scythe and the Swamp-dweller felt his hair blow wildly about his head from the aftershock. He panted as his sight returned, eyes looking first at his body and sighing as the final vestiges of Flash Sweat soaked up the fire and faded away – his magic fully exhausted beyond its reserves. He took note of the harsh third-degree burns marring his hip, shoulder and chest, but took solace in the fact that at least he had eyes to admire such manly battle scars.
A rumble caught his attention and he saw the floor before him crumble away before the Bed of Chaos. He went to complain about not being able to reach the that tunnel he saw, but then saw the thicker tangle of roots below said entrance, looking like a makeshift pathway. He scoffed and got up. He didn't know whether to call it coincidence or the gods being funny.
His legs, thankfully, weren't wobbly as he assumed they would be, and he was able to make a running start before jumping down onto the pathway before him. He climbed up the side of the root and stood upright, looking from the tunnel to the area he had just left. He wouldn't be able to jump back up.
"Laurentius!" called a familiar voice and the undead smirked tiredly.
"Solaire?" he voiced as the knight came into view above him. He looked roughed up. Really roughed up. "thought you'd died, mate."
"Hah-ha, there's still more life left in my tank, I'm afraid. So, save the candles and well wishes for… huh, another three centuries or so." The Astorian replied in that ever chipper, ever welcome voice of his. Laurentius noticed him dig a hand into a pouch and he frowned, only for the knight to withdraw something long and red. "Look, I found my feather!"
"Joy." Laurentius smiled, before he turned round and looked at the glowing cavern at the centre of the Bed of Chaos. "She doesn't seem to be attacking anymore. You think cutting off those scythes did the trick?"
Solaire shrugged above him. "Hard to tell. But I don't assume that severing a few weapons and limbs would silence it. Perhaps it's just shocked by the twin explosions that were released."
"If that's the case, we should hurry and end this." The Pyromancy said, all jokes aside.
"Then take this."
Laurentius turned and caught the sword thrown down to him. He blinked at the glinting metal and looked back up at Solaire.
"Your axe was destroyed in the blast, wasn't it?"
The undead smiled and nodded. Walking up to the roots blocking his path. "Thanks mate. Wait for me a bit."
The Astorian nodded once and stood watching. Laurentius walked ahead steadily, severing tree roots that barely gave up any fight at all. Call him crazy, but it seemed like the beast was almost giving into its fate. Whatever the case, however, he wouldn't waste the opening. Enough was enough. It was time he finished his job.
Cutting down the last of the roots blocking him from his goal, he found an unlit bonfire a few paces away, with an odd bug standing behind it. He frowned, wondering where exactly the heart of this thing was when the bug let out a shriek.
He stared at it, an ugly little thing, almost as similar as those hopping parasites he had prevented Solaire from putting on his head way back when. The only difference here was that this one was glowing awfully bright, and he felt a strange pull toward it. Realization hit him, and he blinked quickly, staring at what remained of the Witch of Izalith, scurrying away from his form in terror.
He felt… sadness. How such a powerful being could be reduced to something so pitiful it couldn't even defend itself without an outer body was unknown to him. However, he did know that all this was due to the Witch's own actions. And whether she had done so as an act of benevolence for her people, or brashness after power made her head swollen, was anyone's guess. The truth remained that she had caused millions to suffer. And he would be the one to end it.
Lifting his sword, he swung without hesitation. The bug shrieked in pain, but just as easily passed on, the light of its body pulsating once before that light travelled throughout the cavern and into the outside of the room. It wasn't long until the entire chamber began to convulse.
"Solaire!"
"You called, dear friend?" the Astorian said, two feet behind him. The Pyromancer let out a breath before crouching down. Solaire watched him, eyes swivelling to the bug corpse in front of him.
"Is that… ?"
"Yeah." Laurentius replied, a soft tone to his voice. The knight didn't mention it to him. He could comprehend that the mood was sombre. He would also feel great pain if he had to slay the technical god of his faith.
The husk of the bug began to grow ashen, dying like the rest of Central Izalith. The pair of undead looked on as the bug dissolved as the area around them saved in. They had done it. They had slain the Lord of Light, the Godmother of Pyromancy – one of the Great Lords of the Age of Fire.
In all honesty, they should feel proud. Not many of the brave could ever pull together the resolve to face such odds as they did, it said a whole lot more when you considered those more insane. But they had done it, they had accomplished the impossible. A true victory in both their eyes. Something that was worthy of being called a partnership of Jolly Co-Operation.
Yet… why did both undead mourn the second death of a sovereign? Why did their hearts clench in dismay, as this weak and useless morsel of an almighty being turned back into the pure soul it once was?
Many people may have argued about it, but the one constant was that death was never joyful. The memory of what Death himself had taken? Possibly happy. But the sting of what He had taken away? It never truly left the mind, never mind the soul.
In all honesty, the fall of the Soul of Life was like a signifier to the end of all days. Drawing any happiness from killing something that radiant was just… abysmal. But even so, those were thoughts better left to stew on in settings less… disheartening.
A gentle hand on his shoulder and Laurentius looked up at his companion, Lord Soul gently resting in his opposite hand. The meaning behind the movement was clear. As such, the undead merely nodded his head – too dejected to open his mouth.
Solaire merely tapped the bonfire once, watched the flames burst to life, withdrew a crumbling fingerbone from his pouch, and activated its spell.
The white runes circled around the two of them as the crumbling room ceased its shudder. Izalith was now history, as the saying went. There was nothing more to visit. No other pieces to discover, and no demons to slay. The pulsation from the Witch of Izalith would have travelled throughout the levels of this fallen kingdom already, killing any and all demonic forms in an instant. Laurentius wasn't worried about the likes of Quelaan. She was still partly Izalithian. She wouldn't be touched. Her mind was still perfectly intact, after all.
As the spell circle glowed and they began to fade from view, the ginger undead had to think about his journey thus far, and about how even after defeating his progenitor of fire, he still felt the element of life coursing through his veins and reverberating with his magic.
He wondered, what did it all mean, exactly? To fell the Godmother of Pyromancy yet still retain his powers. To see the Lord of Life die and for the world to still carry on. To hold the Soul of Life in his very hands and not burn for being too impure as an undead. And he dared not forget that he had cheated death yet again, the flames showing him that there was still more he as an individual must do.
It all confounded him. Made his head turn to molasses. But that was okay… for now, at least. This time he wasn't alone in his musings. He had Quelana. And Solaire. And Siegmeyer and Queren and Quelaan and Quemera. Even Priscilla would be willing to listen to him.
And Argon too.
The undead frowned at the mention of his best friend. He had to wonder, how was the oddball? Surely faring better than him, he hoped.
If not… then they were all probably doomed.
The idea about boy heat bolstering Pyromancy came when I was reading through the flavour text of the Pyromancies themselves. We already know that Carmina taught how to use the inner-self (i.e. ki or inner peace or even great willpower) to create defensive spells with Pyromancy. The ones developed by Salaman and Quelana rely on the study of fire after deep thought and meditation – something we see Laurentius doing often whilst in Firelink.
And so, I decided to bend the Lore even further. Since the manipulation of Pyromancy revolves around all elements and variables surrounding fire itself, why not depend on the human temperature as another source to bolster the power of one's Pyromancy? It would be stronger than a deeper understanding of the element, and as I've briefly touched on, the original masters of Pyromancy that lived in Izalith were able to subconsciously channel this power since they lived inside the outer core of the Earth itself.
As for Solaire, I took a gamble on that one. At the same time, I wondered whether Lightning Spear was really the only Miracle he could be capable of casting. I mean, he's THE adherent of Sunlight, and, if you want to rock that boat, possibly the son of Gwyn. That being said, wouldn't he also be capable of drawing out his faith to other extremes so that he could fight on?
The blessing he managed to use in this chapter wasn't exactly like Sunlight Blade, due to it fading immediately after use. That, and that fact that it doesn't crackle like a golden version of the Chidori.
I'll let you decide if these spells were justifiable.
And that's it for the Ifrit Arc! Man, I really have to start naming these things early.
Anyway, next chapter focuses back on Argon and Priscilla. Again, sorry I've been away for so long. But I'm back now. And my imagination had regained rejuvenation. I thank God and the Monogatari series.
Peace fam.