If you have the time (which you obviously do if you're able to read some quality fanfiction) you should check out this guy named Illusory Wall on YouTube. He's used AI software to generate real-life versions of NPC's from Dark Souls 1!
Disclaimer: some of those characters rendered into actual persons may scar you for life. I'm not joking around. You've been warned.
When he was conceived, the sky had been drowned in infinite midnight. The clean corridors cascaded with inquisitive shadows behind the loud brightness of the flames upon the wall brackets, as the nursery expanded with sound at the forthcoming of another child of Cinder.
Although Gwyndolin had only come into consciousness for a brief moment after leaving his mother's womb, he remembered everything that occurred that night, to the finest detail. It had begun with the shocked face of his wetnurse, confused and terrified to discover that an offspring of Gwyn could have been brought into this world at the time of the sun's departure. He recalled how the priests had stood aghast at the sight of him, looking to one another hopelessly as those abhorrent holy books fell from their sweaty hands. He had scoffed to himself – much to the head doctor's shock – as he was carried to a basin to be washed. As he remembered each facet of that memory, it began to play out in his head like an illusory haze.
"Lords help me," one of the priests breathed as he stared at the glittering silver locks of Gwyndolin, hands trembling as he tried to make sense of it all. "What are we to do, Silas? His Grace was assured that the child would be born within the hours of the morn. Did we err in our calculation? Or was the foresight of our Prophet's not strong enough to detail the exactness of this historical event?"
"Calm yourself," the head priest, who he assumed was Silas, hissed before grabbing the other man by his quivering shoulders, "the skill of our Prophet's can be placed into question only after we've gained the advantage in this war."
Ah, how could he forget that he had grown up in war? It made all the more sense why he felt so uncomfortable in peace.
"Don't you understand anything?" the shivering holy man shoved Silas away. "Lord Gwyn's son was born under the dark silver moon . Have you no clue how this will impact the people? How the citizens will look upon His Majesty and his child of nightfall as charlatans to our Order? We already lack the resources to garner the support of the people, think how this will degrade Our Lord's visage evermore!" Gwyndolin watched him grab at his head as the head priest sat him down, using soft words and gentle pats to ease his worry.
The god could understand such an application of fear, even during his time as an unclothed infant staring at the world indifferently. He was a living contradiction to the proud name of his father. For the world to understand that their god was not perfect would be the end of the burgeoning Age of Fire. And so, the only way to escape that fact would have been to ignore his existence altogether. Indeed, Gwyndolin had come to comprehend all this as he breathed in the virgin hour of his conception. He was a god, after all. It would have been an insult to his kind if he hadn't possessed incredible foresight the moment he opened his eyes.
Thinking back, he wondered whether he was born to suffer from the beginning. All his other siblings had been blessed by the kiss of sunlight; their person charged by its magnificent rays as they accepted the mantle of their family name. Even Filianore had been given the same measure of power despite her obvious abstract in appearance from their father. But he was something entirely different. The opaque moon had given him his strength, not the obnoxiousness of the sun. In the calming waves of darkness, he had found power and skill that none of his other siblings could attest to. But perhaps that had been a double-edged sword from the start, because his life thereafter had held nothing but inconveniences to push him deeper into the roots of uncertainty.
"Oh! You shouldn't move around, My Queen. This delivery has taken more out of you than those prior. Our healer's will do our best to take care of it but you must rest now."
"P-P-please-" a strained, weak voice choked back in reply and Gwyndolin remembered himself perking up to the sound. "L-Let me s-see him… please."
His sight had been blocked by the body of the nurse washing him that day but her pained voice never left his memory to this day. The desperate urgency that called to him, for his mother to cradle him in her arms just once. The thought still depressed him. She had done her upmost to bring him into this world, and he had spat in her face as a newborn by ignoring her very existence. Would she even recognize him one day when he departed this land to be with her? Or would he receive his just desserts as she denied accepting him… just as his pathetic conscious had done the same all those centuries ago?
"I am sorry, My Queen but the laws have not changed. Lord Gwyn must be the first to hold him, if he is to receive the blessing of the line of Cinder." The nurse replied bitterly to his mother. It still irked him that despite not seeing her face, he actually never learned her name. When he thought about it carefully, even the people of Lordran refrained from speaking her name. But not due to it being taboo, oh no. They had never uttered it simply because they had all forgotten who she was. He hated that about his family, that only the 'Great Lord of Sunlight' could be worthy of being remembered throughout time. It made Gwyndolin realize just how self-centred his father had really been. A selfish bastard to the end of his despicable days.
"My Queen?" the nurse asked in confusion and Gwyndolin managed to catch a glimpse of a frail hand grasping the woman's wrist.
"D-D-Don't ha-aave- AGGH!… long…." he recalled the harsh breathing that followed, and the loud sobs the nursery was drowned with thereafter.
"Pl-eease…." The Queen of Sunlight, his mother's voice pleaded to them to let her see him. The sound of her desperation left a deep stab in his chest, halting his breathing when he thought about it as an adult that could have made the effort to grant a wish that painfully innocent.
"O-Oh, My Queen…" the nurse sobbed loudly. He nearly burst into tears when he remembered what came next.
"Ahhhh-HGAH! My child... forg-give me." Her voice grew weaker and weaker the more she tried to speak. However, who could have had the heart to stop her? They were the last words she had left. Who were her vassals to stop her from uttering them to her lastborn before she departed?
"I. L-Love yo-u… dear Gywndol…….." the silence grew deafening as the priests from before rose in disbelief, the healers dripping with sweat as they poured everything they could into their monarch. But it was all for nothing. She was already gone. And there was no one that could bring her back. Not even the Lord of Death himself.
As if things couldn't have been worse, the nursery door had flung open – making the occupants of the room freeze in abject fear.
"Where is she?" Gwyn was breathless as he took two giant steps into the room, face red with the exertion of running, and his bright eyes hastily searching around for the object of his affection.
"M-My Lord I…" the jittery priest from before began with tears in his eyes. The Great Lord looked at him before his sight slid to the side, and he crossed gazes with Gwyndolin. The lastborn remembered that moment well. He knew as his teal pools met burning gold, that this was father. How could he not when the force of the god's might collided with the smooth velvety texture of his own?
A smile lit his features as he walked forward and picked Gwyndolin up from the wetnurses shivery hands. "My boy," he had breathed those words out with such care that Gwyndolin felt the very sun's warmth caress him tenderly. The smile grew wider as Gwyn turned to look at his wife, "My love, you've given me-" he stopped, as any man would. From his position under the Great Lord's beard, Gwyndolin recalled looking at the silent air of sorrow fill his face as he gazed at the head priest gently close his wife's eyes and cover her with a white sheet.
The atmosphere in the room pressed downward painfully in that moment as Gwyn shut his eyes in silent prayer. It was the first time Gwyndolin had seen his father show sincerity for anyone but himself.
"My Liege," Silas started as the nurses began cleaning the nursery, "please forgive us. The healers, they did whatever they could but-"
Gwyn's blank glance silenced him from continuing and the head priest bowed deeply. The Great Lord sighed out as he cradled Gwyndolin to his chest, looking out the window to view the eloquent moon above.
"What's done is done, Silas. We will mourn another time. Right now, there are more pressing matters to resolve…" Gwyn paced around the room, his large building taking up more space than the three nurses and two healers combined. He looked down at Gwyndolin, taking in the blank, feminine face that stared back at him. "News of my lastborn will travel fast if we don't take action."
Silas straightened immediately, his nervous colleague falling into step beside him.
"What will you have us do, My Lord?"
"Raise him in secret." Was the immediate answer they were given. Silas looked up but didn't express any shock. They already knew the implications that would occur if they decided to do nothing about Gwyn's lastborn.
"Dress him in woman's clothes as well." Gwyn said as he peered down at his child. "I think he'll fit the part, given he looks like his mother, he already seems to possess her affinity for lunation sorcery… As for his name, he shall be known as-"
"Gwyndol." The younger of the two priests interjected, earning him a wrathful glare from Silas and a curious stare from Gwyn. He sweated under the attention on him but swallowed down his fear and spoke without a stutter. "Before our dear Queen departed, she bestowed the makings of that name unto your son, Sire. Although unfinished, we heard her Majesty speak these words before her final breath left her."
Something flickered through the Great Lord's mind when he heard that name, the Darkmoon Lord recalled. Even today, he still couldn't fathom why his father did what he did that day, as they stood before the glowing light of the moon.
"Gwyndolin," the king breathed and his vassals accepted it with grace. Gwyn smiled widely at the sound of it before he stared up at the stars. "The sun that sparks at twilight. Very apt."
Before anyone could say a word, Gwyn raised a hand toward the window. As Silas and the rest of them watched, they were astonished as they gazed up at the moon; its decadent silver tinting black as a faint ring of fire circled the full orb in the sky.
"Then from today, you shall be known to the world as my lastborn. To many, Gwyndolin of the Dark Sun, born at the time of the eclipse. But to those that know the truth, I bestow unto you the title of Darkmoon Lord." He said it with such conviction that Gwyndolin had to snort at the irony. That had been the first and last time his father had ever shown him that much attention, let alone emotion. Honestly, he wondered why the old fool had even bothered to bless his less than impressive conception with a name in the first place. Perhaps it was his divine pride shining through the disappointment, or maybe it was done for the sake of giving all things a title, a need for order in the midst of chaos. The god had since forgotten such contemplations. What use was it when the Great Lord was already dust within an ashen crater?
"Hail Gwyndolin." Silas stated proudly, lifting his hand to his chest.
"Lord Gwyndolin." Spoke his wetnurse.
"Gwyndolin." Gwyn said with an unreadable expression on his face, as the name rang out in his ears like an echo in a great valley.
Gwyndolin.
Gwyndolin.
"Lord Gwyndolin!" a voice screamed and the god snapped out of his reverie.
His body moved on auto pilot as the rush of battle flooded his veins and made everything hypersensitive. The glare of moonlight reflected off his crown as the god swivelled his head, aiming his spectre at a mass of Darkwraiths converging on his Royal Sentinel, before a brilliant beam of magic flashed forward – tearing arm from bone, flesh from tendon and soul from body. When the invasive flash subsided, his visored gaze was met with the remains of shredded limbs scattered about the Great Hall.
The god curled his lip at the sight of those putrid carcasses littering his domain. It had been wave after non-stop wave for what felt like eons now. And as much as he admonished himself for allowing his focus to lazily sway in the brief silence before each new flush of ravenous cockroaches, even he had to admit that this was becoming rather tiresome.
The Silver Knights positioned along the wings of the Great Hall lowered their massive bows in conjunction with Gwyndolin's train of thought. As they did so, the platoon of knights residing on the same floor as him made short work of re-applying barricades to their front door, whilst the Darkmoon Blades he had personally elected as his officers sighed out in a what sounded like a combination of gratitude and irritation, respectfully.
"That is all of them, My Lord… at least for the moment." Spoke the female Blade to his right. Gwyndolin tilted his head in her direction. She took his attention as her cue to continue and he observed her as she spoke.
"It seems our efforts to repel this abysmal scum has paid off better than we expected," she breathed out heavily as she lifted her visor, chestnut hair spilling out in sweat-soaked clumps under the almost invisible layer of chainmail she wore on her head. The god watched on as she wiped dark blood from her sword before sheathing it. "In addition to the continuous pace of battle, casualties have lowered significantly since the initial onslaught."
"As I've gathered. Thou hath performed exceptionally." He replied and the Knightess bowed her head, bringing a gauntlet up to rest against her nicked breastplate.
"Many thanks, My Lord."
"Hmm." Gwyndolin hummed. He too had been running the numbers of their sequential scuffles with the enemy and agreed that the overall performance of his subordinates was majorly improved within each breach of foes to combat. Despite being an army comprised of less than a tenth of Gwyn's original armada, with his magic once again stretched to fill their ranks with illusions, spells and occasional summoning of his Blades, they were managing to defend his keep well. Under normal circumstances, there was a possibility for them to weather at least five more splash attacks like the last one before desperate aide was required.
Unfortunately, this wasn't a normal circumstance.
"Rest thineself, my Blade." Gwyndolin said to the Balder Knightess panting breathlessly next to him, and she collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
"Haaa," the Knightess sighed out gratefully, lifting an Estus flask from her hip to quench her dry lips. In spite of her relief, Gwyndolin's expression didn't flit toward joy. If anything the sight added to his growing worry.
It wasn't abnormal for him to summon those of his covenant during battle, his stringent rules regarding people eyeing his visage aside. In truth, Gwyndolin had more than a handful of worthy subordinates that had been blessed with the chance to look upon his regal form. That being the case, the issue was that said individuals were distributed to the distant lands of this world from his direct order to maintain the balance now that Velka had been absent since the genesis of the Undead Curse.
With that in mind, he had seen it fit to exert a helping of his magic to summon two loyal warriors that expressed his will justly. The Balderian gasping below him was one such soldier.
Cut from the same cloth as the Berenike undead standing garrison at the entrance of the Great Hall, the god had made it his mission to recruit them both into his convention, seeing as they were one of the few living specimens of their deceased land, if not the last. However, with direct physical summoning came the great physical toll taken out on the summonee.
Gwyndolin stared down at the undead woman once more as she took whatever time they had left to recover the energy she had lost – one of his snakes reaching toward her with a crisp handkerchief in its jaws, which she accepted graciously.
It was wonder she had managed to fight for this long. The Berenike he could understand, remembering the gruesome training they all went through under King Rendal to be able to manoeuvre around with such heavy armaments on. But the Balderian? It seemed she had pushed herself to the limit, even after the stint he had pulled whilst in the Darkmoon Tomb…
Crazed blades and angry flails flew around the expansive hall, like a parade of spinning death tilting evermore on his twisted axis. Gwyndolin never allowed his enemy the chance to force him a step back as he reacted to the hundreds of wraiths charging forward in a singular flood of black and white limbs.
Whilst the odds were certainly stacked against him, his chances of survival tested and the threat of being touched by a morose horde of grubby humans suffering withdrawal symptoms; he refused to bring his image down to the expectations of lesser beings. After everything was said and done, the fact still remained that he was, and always would be: a god.
With a frustrated click of his tongue, the Dark Sun drew back the string of his bow, taking aim at a particular formation of Darkwraiths piling up against one another before firing at a rapid pace. With each arrow he loosed, he heard the squelch of flesh being pierced and perforated – creating a mound of corpses to block the way, expanding his window to brainstorm a constructive plan.
At the rate he was going, the corridor would be too stacked with bodies to discern the dead from those still eager to face him. Additionally, the plight of his predicament remained stationary, exacerbating expression forever paused in that mocking grin he wore like a natural squint. And as much as he wanted to end the plebian's life with a swift blast of soldering soul sorcery, the god knew that it would only cause this unending wave of wraiths to continue until the entirety of the Abyss was emptied upon to his kingdom.
Gwyndolin growled menacingly, snakes biting and ripping bodies apart as he casually flung a dozen darts at a flanking trio of gurgling ghouls, ending their suffering within the blink of an eye.
That twisted copy of Argon had played his hand well. By trapping him here to fend of the swarm of the living void, Lithecore had effectively blocked off Anor Londo's strongest piece from entering the real battle, corning the queen on the board, as it were. Whilst the god was occupied, the crafty wraith probably had bigger plans in store for the kingdom, his main objective directed at his twin rather than the Shining City. It was a smart move, requiring effortless placement and planning – not to mention the freedom of targeting it granted the covenant of the Abyss should their Knight of Thorns decide to arrive at the party.
"You seem a bit flustered," Lithecore voiced over the roar of metal clanking against the ornate tiles and Gwyndolin gruffly cleared his throat in response. He would crush this infantile bottom feeder when the chance arose. "Perhaps your joust was little more than a child acting too smug? You know what they say about a dog that can't bite."
Gwyndolin clashed against a wraith's sword, the black metal screeching obnoxiously against his tin catalyst. The foe grunted as it used all its might to force his hand back, the god merely stared at it with a blank face before flicking his wrist out. The Darkwraith lost its footing as it went stumbling backward. Gwyndolin waited for its back to collide with a nearby ally before sending an arrow of sizzling cyan to tear them both apart. He let go of his sceptre and it remained in suspended animation as he grabbed his bow once again and took aim at the income wraiths to his left.
This constant jabbing directed at him from a lacklustre incarnation of Argon was beginning to grow tiresome. At first, he had chosen to humour the Darkwraith lieutenant, killing scores of his subjects to at least gain a rise out of him that would open an opportunity to strike. However, as time drew on and the puddles of abysmal bodies grew into a small lake of bloody corpses, it became clear that this Lithecore possessed more than just calculating wit and strategy; he was also similarly as heartless as Gwyndolin could be himself.
He didn't care about his skull-faced underlings, it was clear as their garbled screams died on their tongues like lumpy slime. Now that Gwyndolin had a chance to examine the individual more carefully, it seemed as if this special event planned for only him was a ruse to play at the god's psyche. After all, even he would have to crack under the immense downpour of filthy black rain known as the Abyss. The constant motion of fighting would surely wear him out.
Or so Lithecore assumed.
"Begone, rancid flock!" the Darkmoon shouted, raising his sceptre overhead. Lithecore felt the pull of magic around him, like a strong breeze drawing him a step forward before the aether in the chamber suddenly paused. The chortle died on his lips before his eyes widened and he slammed his back against the nearest wall, the pillar to his left obscuring Gwyndolin from seeing his profile.
"Azure Haze."
The magic that washed through the tomb went as far as to turn the air arid, as his wraiths were submerged in holy blue flame. The beam washed the room thoroughly, taking his Darkwraiths, their fallen comrades, even the black blood staining the floor, away with a blinding flash that shattered the windows and banished the shadowy midnight around them for a good few seconds.
Lithecore waited until the final wisps of magic subsided before walking out from behind the now scorched pillar. He turned to look around him, heterochromatic eyes scanning the area for any trace of his army as twirls of soul magic floated into the air, fizzling out in spiral-esque patterns and filling his nostrils with smoke.
"Finally, the ill-bred heathen shows his repugnant face."
Lithecore squinted through the fumes at the god standing untouched by even a spot of blood, before turning back to the staircase behind him. There, eddying lethargically, rested a circular rip of dimensional fabric – the thick tinge of onyx and mauve writhing like a tangle of worms as it prepared to spit out more of those putrid beasts of the underworld.
"Thine trickery astounds me, wraith," Gwyndolin spoke slowly, his tone making it clear that he was in no hurry to race toward where the sounds of battle were being carried off in the distance. The Darkwraith Lieutenant scratched his cheek quietly, face displaying genuine thoughtfulness as he turned back toward the Darkmoon Lord. Gwyndolin only quirked the corner of his mouth up into a brief smile as he spoke. "Did thy expect less from a son of the Great Lord, Gwyn? Was thine malcontent disposition not savvy enough to come to terms with the vicariousness of my authority?"
Lithecore cracked his neck as he drew his blade, slowly walking toward the god with purpose – mild antagonism present on his face, evident by the empty look and unsmiling façade. The Darkmoon Lord allowed himself to smile broadly as he stroked the engravings on his sceptre.
"I shall say it once more, wraith… be mindful of mine words, lest thine arrogance be thine undoing." Lithecore's face turned into a deadly snarl as he began to run forward, yet Gwyndolin continued his deliberately slow motions, gripping his bow and extending his arm. "I am the ethereal Lord of the Darkmoon, born on the day of the heavenly eclipse…" with his other hand, he pulled back the silken string – gloved fingers wrapping daintily against it as a sparkling arrow popped into existence against it, spiralled head shimmering softy. "Master of moonlight spellcraft, I am the last born of the line of Cinder." He took aim at the wraith now in full sprint toward him, the black veins on his left churning in accordance with the anger he felt, all the while the god breathed in steadily, the end of his projectile sparking with bright blue before becoming engulfed in magic. "My name is Dark Sun Gwyndolin, and thine shall NOT go unpunished."
Lithecore zipped to the side as Gwyndolin fired the arrow, slamming his heel into the ground and redirecting his momentum as he began his charge anew. It was just a shame his technique against the god hadn't changed since their last scuffle. In Gwyndolin's case, he almost felt bad for the insufferable wretch.
The wraith grunted loudly as he felt his flank being pierced by the flaming arrow. He looked down and roughly yanked it out as the blue flame licked at his wound like acid. The sound of wood rubbing against wood caught his attention, and he looked up to find Gwyndolin pointing another azure flame-tipped bolt at his forehead. He had a tenth of a second to blink before the god loosed it. This time Lithecore was prepared.
He slashed his sword at the last second, growling darkly when the blade deflected the speeding dart, only for his eyes to widen and his body to perform a barrel roll when said arrow swerved around and came back to take his throat.
With a swift arm, the wraith severed the stylized arrowhead from the shaft, flinching as the magic around it exploded in a sparkle of blue. By the time he had recovered, the first snake on Gwyndolin's body had already sunk its enormous fangs into Lithecore's shoulder, forcing him down to his knees.
"Cease this pathetic struggle. Does thou not see the futility in fighting back?"
This time, Lithecore grinned in response, making the god tilt his crowned head in question.
"How interesting," he replied as the poison made quick work of disabling his left arm, "I was about to ask you the exact same question."
Like a dark spectre being violently rebuked by the light, Gwyndolin recoiled as the wraith's body exploded in a surge of black and purple energy. the snakes on Gwyndolin hissed uncontrollably as he curled his lip, grabbing his sceptre and filling it with magic.
"Detestable cur. Thou'st would dare exert that noxious currency in MY domain?!" Lithecore gave him an open-mouthed smile before snapping his hand forward. Gwyndolin immediately replied by flicking his catalyst, and from both parties erupted a confliction of Divine energy and Abyssal corruption. "Thine presence shall be snuffed out soon, nauseating inconvenience."
"That's funny," Lithecore replied, holding a steady stream of darkness to contend with Gwyndolin's wrath, "I assume that must have been what your father referred to you as on a daily basis."
The two of them continued to stand at arms-length, steady streams of Void and Soul clashing against one another in an endless dance of chiaroscuro 1. It was only when fragments of their contorting magic began to spark out and destroy the room that Gwyndolin's voice found him again.
"How long has thine tinkered with that Primordial infection to control it as fluently as Manus itself?" he demanded and Lithecore obliged.
"Oh, my control of the Abyss has far exceeded anything that enraged child was capable of. As for the time taken to perfect it," another grim smile lifted his grotesque features before the initial wave of abyssal energy was increased by twice its original output. Gwyndolin scrunched up his face as he fought back the sudden increase of power, making Lithecore cackle. "Think about how long it took Argon to leave the painted world. I'd equate that to the correct time."
The Darkwraith smiled triumphantly as the Darkmoon Lord struggled to fight back against the overpowered output of the Abyss. Taking a moment to absorb this joyous feeling in his chest, he stretched his other hand out toward his sword laying a few feet behind him. His eyebrow rose a fraction and the hilt quivered, then the sword moved an inch – before it simply flew into his hand as if it possessed a mind of its own. Turning back to Gwyndolin, Lithecore began making slow, yet deliberate steps forward. Drinking in the feeling of being able to cleanse this false idol of holiness from the annals of time.
"I've played around with you long enough, I suppose." He said as he drew closer. Gwyndolin grit his teeth as his magic was steadily forced back against him but stood firm. The sight excited Lithecore to no end. He loved it when they thought they could still continue. "Time to end this silly spar."
"As the inheritor of Man's inner turmoil, explain what thou intends to accomplish." Lithecore heard him respond. Whilst the urge to kill him immediately was strong, he felt compelled to answer. The Dark Sun possessed such an exterior that even he couldn't refuse answering to.
"What I said I would from the start, create a world through the ideals of the League, under the banner of Lithecore."
"If so, what is thine connection with my champion, wraith?" The question surprised the Darkwraith.
"You should know after simply looking at me. I intend to reclaim the body he stole."
"Thine words are confounding," Gwyndolin grunted as Lithecore got even closer. "How can a beast desire both nothing and everything at once. Ugh- what is thine assignment?!"
Lithecore grinned as the surge of the abyss extended over the gods sceptre and washed him in black.
" Evigheden2."
The Darkwraith's body emitted a toxic mist of purple steam as he cancelled out the flare of blackness and watched the dark colours flow through the room like a dark cloud. That had been entertaining, but anti-climactic. He had expected Gwyndolin to put up a better fight despite being substantially exhauste-
BOOM!
A ball of blue flame exploded next to Lithecore, causing him to crash against a pillar. Luckily for his affluent skill, he was able to manipulate the corruption on his skin to cushion the impact. He rose to his feet slowly, staring dead ahead as the black clouds parted to reveal the brightly glowing ball of moonlight sorcery shielding Gwyndolin. The wraith couldn't help it as he laughed in jubilation, clutching his midsection as the shield faded from sight.
"I take back what I said before, you're one tough bastard to kill."
The Dark Sun said nothing, reaching a hand out toward his bow as he stared back at Lithecore stoically. His fingers closed around the elegant shaft, before it was suddenly yanked from his hands. Lithecore chuckled quietly as the darkness pooling around his wrist snapped back with the elasticity of rubber, Gwyndolin's bow resting within his black gauntlet.
"Ah, ah. You're too slippery with this little toy. I think I'll hold onto it for safe keeping." He mocked before looking behind him as an echo of foot stomps filled the room.
Gwyndolin looked behind the wraith and curled his lip. So, the peon had been playing for time, had he? It mattered not. Numbers certainly wouldn't affect the outcome of this battle.
"But I've grown bored of our tango. Maybe you should play with my pets instead."
The god straightened his spine and took a breath. Dealing with this new rush of fiends wouldn't be impossible, however they would eat away at his time to come to his army's aide. At present, with Lithecore running away, it meant his only target was that black portal allowing his wraiths entry into Anor Londo. Taking it out wouldn't be difficult. Yet, at the same time, just because he could finish this battle single-handedly didn't mean he had to.
Lighting the end of his sceptre with magic, Gwyndolin twirled and pointed it at the floor. Within seconds, a large array of runes were drawn into the floor before the spell circle brightened with light. The Darkwraiths on the other side of the tomb stood in wait, before they caught a glimpse of two warriors, dressed in the armour of lost civilizations.
"You summoned us, My Lord?" Asked a young undead in Balderian gear, next to her taller compatriot fashioned in the black iron of Berenike.
"Bespoke," the god began and the woman straightened, "Anor Londo sits in turmoil against this fetid brood of dark. Thine task is to eliminate these creatures with extreme prejudice."
The undeads freckled face blossomed into a smile and she flipped her visor closed before drawing her weaponry. "Understood, Lord Gwyndolin. Leave it to us."
"I count one-hundred and three wraiths," the baritone voice of the Berenike warrior piped up, catching Bespoke's attention.
"Aw, is wittle Damocles getting cold feet alweady?" she teased and the knight drew the greatsword and shield resting on his broad spine before speaking.
"I'm mentioning the number because it's so small," he corrected his companion before giving her a glance. "Just like you."
Bespoke choked on her tongue before giving him a glare. "What was that you abnormal spire?"
"Nothing, you barefoot pygmy." Damocles replied smoothly.
"Hey, that's racist and you know it!" Bespoke chirped before huffing and turning back to the wraiths with a smile as her gaze turned maniacal. "But we'll talk about that after crushing these bottom-feeding maggots stewed in the broth of their club-footed master! Now, advance!"
Gwyndolin watched his Darkmoon officers march straight into the arms of the horde of Darkwraiths Lithecore had left behind before waving his catalyst and teleporting to the Great Hall. The two of them would end this side attraction and rendezvous with him when the time came. For now, he needed to expand his influence throughout the castle. The moon was full this day, which meant a greater boost to his magic potential. He would be a fool not to capitalize on this eve and nip this invasion in the bud.
Thinking back, both his Blades were most likely drained from that encounter. Despite them being undead, it was still possible to drain one of their seemingly unlimited stamina. Fighting off those enemies in the Darkmoon Tomb, destroying the portal that was summoning more of them, and now systematically making his officers fight against unending waves of Darkwraith's was beginning to take its toll on them. As if that wasn't bad enough, it seemed that more and more of his Silver Knights were falling to the ebbs and flows of battle.
Their training had not slacked off since Ornstein had passed on, Gwyndolin had made sure of that. However, when placing competent forces against hordes of mindless attackers in war, skill did not always guarantee overall domination in battle. And as of late, his knights were being used more like fodder to momentarily halt the wraiths before his archers and Blades moved in for the kill. Sooner or later, they would need reinforcements.
The trouble there was that Gwyndolin couldn't call anymore aide from his covenant, nor create warriors from his magic in between fighting. Either action would take too long, leaving them to sit defenceless should any more of his infantry die too quickly in this battle.
Therefore, the god decided on the only other option viable.
Turning behind him, he looked at one of his subjects casually sharpening their armaments, the blood of countless wraiths decorating their armour like a coagulated cape. With a motion of his hand, his subject looked up, dropped their whetstone and stood at attention. Gwyndolin gave the soldier a hard stare as he contemplated whether the decision he was making was correct or foolish. The he stared at the corpses of his fallen forces, neatly placed to the side of the Great Hall with white sheets covering their bodies. Instantly, his pride flared its head and Gwyndolin made his decision. He had already lost too many good subordinates to this petty assault on his kingdom. Now was the time to recall those that had been idle for far too long. Now was the time to activate the hordes of Anor Londo that had made even the most deadly of beasts cower in fear.
"Venture forth," Gwyndolin spoke to his underling. The soldier did nothing but stare back silently, prompting the god to continue, confidence flooding his voice. "It is time our enemy learned the true might of Anor Londo. I give thee leave. Call back the fierceness of Lordran the distant lands remembered us for. Make the Abyss know fear with the extension of our rage."
A solitary nod was given by the soldier, and they stepped into the spell circle Gwyndolin weaved for their disposal. As he breathed out a prayer for their save return, the front door of the Great Hall was met with a deafening thud.
"Bespoke," intoned Damocles as he drew his sword and formed a defensive line alongside the Silver Knights.
" Ugggh! Not again, for Lloyd's sake. I just killed a tenth of the last batch." The Balderian complained, yet accepted a nearby phantom's hand before rising to her feet.
"Don't insult the goodwill of Lord Gwyndolin with your crass attitude." He replied, eyes focused ahead as the barricaded door thumped once again, the great steel hinges groaning as an oppressive force raged against it. His words seemed to make the undead sober up as she put her helm back on and draw her buckler and rapier. Behind her, an array of blue phantoms enchanted their weapons with their covenant's blessing. Gwyndolin eyed the mass of hissing blue blades coated by magic before he looked up at the moon shining down on them through the glass windows. With a thought he conjured a battalion of azure orbs to appear overhead, suspended like stars as he prepared himself for their foes.
He could tell that this wave was larger than the others they had fended off, however something felt suspiciously off. As if a sense of foreboding had suddenly crept up his spine. He shook his head to rid the feeling. Whatever it was, they would defeat it. Such was the might of the Shining City.
His Royal Sentinels and batwing demons tensed as the entrance was assaulted with another massive bang, followed by a crunch. These wraiths seemed more dedicated than the last. And whether that was good or bad, he couldn't tell. What he was certain of was that they were all rushing toward their doom regardless.
"Stand strong!" Gwyndolin boomed as their foes continued to knock on the doors. He figured this was as good a time as any to energize army morale. "Do not faulter before the sight of this morose foe. Though they number many, we shall smite them down just as effortlessly."
A louder knock struck the doors of the Great Hall, shuddering the walls and thrumming out a shockwave that buzzed in the god's chest. His expression never faltered. This was the Abyss they were fighting. A creation of man his champion, the Chosen Undead had slain long ago in Oolacile. Which meant its diabrotic powers possessed a weak point, therein explaining that it could be defeated. Now this scourge stood at his doorstep, breaking down the door for entry to a wealth of items that was not its own. The Lord of the Darkmoon sneered in reply, his snakes snapping wildly, fangs dripping venom so potent in dosage that drops seared holes into the floor below.
This useless abomination, amorphous in sight and suffocating in presence had been revived by his champion's darker side – who had gone as far as to become the embodiment of the Abyss itself. Despite that, he did not fear for his life; for he was not his father – desperate to hold onto the simple majesty he had created. He was the last born of Cinder, the black sheep of the family hidden away in a tomb for none to see. It was because of his very making that he grew confident in the face of a force so powerful it devoured their neighbouring kingdom.
Even so, Gwyndolin was not one to back down. He understood the world better than any of his kind could have. In his eyes, this battle and massive loss of life. This turmoil, suffering, decay of land was just a stepping-stone for something better. He understood that when winter arose to strike the crops with frostbite, there would still be those that endured within the cold so that harvest could still be brought. He knew all too well that when the sun reached unthinkable summits that the poorly hydrated ground cracked from the pressure, there was still a multitude of animals both big and small that were able to strive in the harshness of it all.
Likewise, he foresaw that in spite of the lives that would most likely be lost here today, their victory would still be guaranteed; and in the peace that victory promised, he and his remaining disciples could rebuild that which was lost, honour those who had passed, and migrate to greater fields of grain than they had ever seen in years prior.
Gwyndolin wore his mantle of surety proudly, his words amplifying the spirits of his men and woman as the hellish world of Darkwraiths impatiently scratched at their door. They were prepared for this. Ready to die for that which they believed in. So why the god still feel a weight of doubt settle onto his shoulders? Why did it feel like this entire ordeal was just an elaborate performance for the real threat against their lives?
He received his answer when a gurled scream sounded to his right.
"WRAITH'S HAVE BREACHED THE CASTLE!" a phantom shouted before being cut down but a heavy steel sword.
"What? Impossible?!" the god exclaimed, peering up toward the right wing of the Great Hall, where his breath caught in his throat.
Cascading throughout the side of the gallery, Silver Knights and phantoms did battle with strings of wraiths emerging from rows of similarly ominous portals that writhed and contorted in on itself continuously. Gwyndolin's body turned red hot as his magic flared angrily, the soul orbs hanging above him doing their work as they crashed, exploded and ripped apart bodies of bone and black corroded armour.
It had been a set up this entire time. They had silently coerced them to gain tunnel vision, their focus primarily set towards the waves of wraiths pouring into the castle via the front door. He had never even thought that they could breach their defences from the inside. By how was it possible to create that revolting magical gateway within his own domain when he had placed what weak wards he could muster inside the castl-
His eyes widened as his memories returned to him. He hadn't erected any wards within the castle perimeter. His magic and focus had been too divided to correctly cast something that required intricate detailing, and before he could try again, Lithecore had invaded the Darkmoon Tomb.
He bared his teeth as he cut down the wraiths nearest to him, casting soul arrow and conjuring motion sensitive orbs to implode against their tagged targets. Whomever had planned this had been a step ahead of him, he admitted it. But what kind of mind could orchestrate something that detailed, who could set up a stage so grandiose that the pieces fell together like clockwork and he never even realized it?
Could it have been Lithecore? The Darkwraith certainly possessed the brains to do so. However, such intricacies would be lost to a mind that was only concerned with indulging in momentary carnage. If his assumptions were correct, that meant there was only one person who had staged this elaborate exercise of guerrilla warfare.
As if on cue, the doors to the Great Hall were suddenly broken open, letting in a throng of ghosts, wraiths and what looked like sentient families of walking humanity. At the head of the pack stood one Darkwraith Commander.
The Knight of Thorns stared at the Darkmoon Lord and his forces with as much dispassion as a farmer gazing at rotten vegetable infested with maggots. His expression was surprising to the god, especially since he was exuding that much distaste behind a barbed helm.
"Ah," he spoke casually as he folded his arms against his chest. "There you are. This spares me the trouble of having to look for you myself."
Gwyndolin stared back at the indecent swine with a blank disposition, sceptre in hand, his magic jumping at the thought of casting enough devastating magic to level the entire castle to ruins. However, he held back his rage. Letting his fuse burn out would mean he would put his subordinates in danger. For now, he would calm himself down. There was enough time in the everlasting night to administer justice.
"Foul atrocity, art thou the cur that has dared to wage war against the Shining City?"
Kirk drew his sword slowly in reply. "My master has asked for your soul. By all rights, your life is now forfeit."
Gwyndolin scoffed as his sceptre glowed dangerously, his golden helm lighting up as his face morphed into a wide smile. "Foolish human, dost thou truly intend to face the Dark Sun with thine inferior existence?"
The Barbed Knight merely titled his head to the side. "Not me, but I'm sure my pet is capable enough."
The god frowned but stayed his ground, around him Darkwraiths, Silver Knights, phantoms and his apparitions fought fiercely for dominance.
"And whom exactly is this challenger?"
Gwyndolin felt that familiar feeling of dread creep through his chest as the darkness seemed to grow over the Great Hall, swallowing up even the shadows of every individual there. The Darkmoon Lord breathed in softly, his heart a raging storm of emotions as he prepared himself for a devastating battle.
Unfortunately, he had not ever anticipated that he would be fighting this particular foe in his lifetime.
"What trickery is this?!" he screamed as the deformed figure of one of the New Londo Kings rose up from the debilitating darkness, pasty complexion and gory appearance making Gwyndolin's forces reel back in shock as the enormous monster let out a horrific roar before charging toward Gwyndolin.
Darkwraith Kirk merely stared up at the two of them do battle, a pleased look on his face.
"Prepare to die, insufferable god."
Desperate. That was the emotion emitting from Argon when his first swing impacted with Lithecore's vambrace. He didn't fault his other half. Years of accumulating a human conscience would allow feeble thoughts of doubt and fear to bleed into their focus and hinder their rationality. And whilst it made the undeads arm quiver when he drew back and inch, he returned with youthful determination as courage turned his muscles to unbreakable iron.
Eager was the second sense that peeled off, like a troublesome whitlow on a labourer's calloused fingertip. Despite the repulsion his aloof self seemed to exude in every word when speaking to him, Argon could never hide the minor pinch of knuckle breaking, tongue-twisting anticipation he felt to finally be squaring off against a wicked version of himself. Again, Lithecore didn't fault him for it. If anyone was pumped for this auspicious occasion, it was him; thus, he understood the roiling fluctuation in nerves at the face of battling a nameless fear given corporeal form. Yes, the Darkwraith was anything but opposed to the burning flux of emotional roulette coming from Argon. For in truth, this was what he had been expecting. A helping of doubt, an inkling of trepidation, bittersweet drops of secretive hope breaking the surface of utter hate and repulsion. This was what Lithecore wanted to embody for his kinder half, he wanted to display what it felt like to become the prey. After living as a member of the League – and subsequently departing from it – Argon needed to know what it felt like to be on the reverse side of such an order. To be retaught lessons previously drilled into his head with rusted nails, for his mind to be battered by intense mental warfare that barely took an ounce of effort to conjure. The wraith wanted to impart this, and much more towards Argon as they danced around fallen corpses. All this, simply for the purpose of explaining to Argon what exactly it meant to possess the name of Lithecore.
And what it meant when you turned your back on such an order.
And it was going well. Every clash of blades, every exerted grunt, every blessed drop of sweat given was gratefully used to rekindle Argon's forgotten lineage. Lithecore grew ecstatic as his twin came at him with greater ferocity. Though this was nothing but a quick fix to bring back burning reverie to this amnesic fool, it was working quite brilliantly. Slowly, Lithecore felt the original fixtures of his twin crawl back into a proper member of the League. He felt each raging sentiment twist and re-arrange into its former glory. His time and effort had paid off wonderfully in the long run.
But whilst the progress of Argon's subconscious pleased the wraith, what didn't was the way the Chosen Undead seemed to do battle.
Indeed, whilst Argon may be deadly with a sword and his bare hands could plough scales from a dragon, the tangible difference in finesse and execution bore a hole into Lithecore's head – summoning a headache that grew in potency the more he traded blows with himself.
What was the best way to convey his twin's abilities, he thought.
Lithecore deflected a slow jab aimed for his throat and skipped to the side. When his feet met the ground, he found Argon right next to him, rushing in with a backwards slash. He wanted to deliver a solid fist to his doppelganger's nose at that very moment, to properly state through battle that this duel was utterly one-sided, but instead he lifted his rapier to catch the heavy swing. With his other hand, Lithecore gripped Argon's blade tight, the black metal on his hands preventing the sharp edges from biting into his fingers and yanked sideways. Argon let out a startled sound as he was disarmed, before Lithecore drove a knee into his chest and gave him a reason to gasp.
Lax. That was the perfect word to describe it. There were multiple possibilities for this appalling decrease in skills, Lithecore understood this. From a lapse in memory, a lack of daily practice, to a simple matter of facing hordes of weaker opponents. Any of these options and many more could have been the cause of the deprecating fighting style the wraith was currently observing. If he had to think deeper, it was perhaps even his fault directly that Argon fought as if he were some enraged child. The concurrent overlays of his influence in Argon's mind when situations grew tough would most likely have had adverse effects to his approach to combat. After all, the speck he had left in his twin's mind had possessed all the original traits of a fresh Lithecore soldier. Compare that unorthodox prowess to the current movement of Argon as he assumed the role of Chosen Undead and you had a clash of ideals. Such confusion would obviously hamper the rate at which you fought, yes?
But then that left out the other factors that led to this degradation.
" Hmm…"
Argon recovered from being winded, looked up and snarled at the wraith. Lithecore cricked his neck casually as his twin stood up and ran forward. It seemed he was going to continue the fight barehanded despite the arsenal of weapons he possessed. Lithecore didn't seem to care as he pulled his sword arm back. Argon's eyes locked into the rapier, mind racing through the many ways the Darkwraith could execute his next move – body tensed and ready to avoid the glinting steel. The undeads foot fell forward, entering Lithecore's range of attack and the wraith lunged. Argon prepared to swing his body to the side, away from the thrust that would have impaled him – only for his bruised lungs to suffer more torment as a black boot impacted against it, shoving him with enough force to make him hit the ground for a second time.
Argon dry heaved as he peered at his twin through teary eyes. It had been a feint the entire time.
Thinking back, Lithecore recalled that his twin was fond of company. A retarded effect brought about by his sudden growth of insecurities. Add on the meek hero complex he had developed and you arrived at a person who could only thrive with comrades. That was a problem. It would mean the careful planning the wraith had implemented to make Argon stronger was wasted. How could he ever exceed his limits if he relied on aid? How did he grow as an individual if he possessed people to conform his judgement? A blind trust in 'friends' would equal to a drop in his power to overcome obstacles, no matter the severity of the situation.
He could see it now, the fault also lied with these lesser beings his twin chose to surround himself with. The Pyromancer and thousand-year-old mage, Lithecore could permit due to their potentials as undead and the sorcerer's unparalleled knowledge, but a blaspheming bishop and a pathetic goddess? It was no wonder Argon's prowess had diminished, he was colluding with the enemy, and enemies needed to be killed.
The undeads stomach clenched and his body convulsed as he retched whatever liquid his body still retained onto the cold floor. He could barely keep his eyes open on the account of the intense bruising on his face sealing them shut. Every breath made his lungs scream as his broken bones grated against each other. He couldn't comprehend it; how was he being overpowered by Lithecore? Rage and frustration only served to hinder a person's motor skills, and so he had focused that anger into a determined roar as he battled for his own existence. But in the face of an oppressive deformity of his self, he found his own skills dwindling – lowering his responses with every unimpressed strike breaking his body from the inside out.
He could always take a sip of Estus to renew his durability, but for some reason he felt as if the act would insight further dishonour to the pathetic performance he was displaying.
Was it simply a mental trick to degrade his fighting ability? Or did the truth lie in the difference in finesse he and Lithecore possessed? In a previous encounter, perhaps he would have approached such a foe differently. Using confident arcs of his blade to inflate a superior opponent's ego, rather than strafe them cautiously as he did today to satisfy his indecisiveness.
Argon looked up at the shadowy twilight. Saw the pearly moonlight wash Lithecore's ebony armour with tint as he grabbed the undead by the hair and hauled him up.
He thought he had passed this hurdle already, delved as deep as he could go and then further into the thickening horrors of his life before establishing dominance. The recluse in his head had been shown that he could do better without the League nipping at his throat, and Argon had seen peace for a time as he concluded his goals and set the next precedent. And in that time of meditation, he had grown physically, mentally. So why then was he so… powerless against himself? What was this growing permeation of dread and despair festering in his chest? Was he really beginning to fear for his life?
No, not his life. He would throw it away if it was necessary to save another. Lithecore understood that. It was why he had used threats and jabs directed at his friends to get to his anger. The undead clenched his jaw and took deep, slow breaths. He wouldn't allow himself to be gaslighted into doing what his twisted twin desired. He had gone through too much misery and pain to be beaten to a pulp with elementary mind games.
So, instead of having his confidence badgered by Lithecore's superior skills, he would compensate for the difference in other ways. A smile grew on his face as Argon stood up, drawing a certain catalyst from his bottomless box that made the Darkwraith's face morph into surprise.
" My, I forgot all about that item of power," he breathed as he strafed the undead. Argon watched him carefully. Taking in every detail of his movements: the pace of his footfalls, the even level of his breathing, the grip he had on his sword, even the calculation in his gaze. From the beginning, Argon knew Lithecore was nothing but a man of the hunt. A connoisseur after the finest prey to kill, he took no pleasure in the final moments before his targets death, just the euphoria of engaging in the act of predator and prey. With that being the case, he would need to show this over confident imbecile that he possessed fangs just as sharp.
"How long have you held that in your grasp?" Lithecore motioned toward the twisted, gnarled staff of Manus resting within Argon's closed hand. The undead didn't bother to answer him for the wraith already knew the answer. Back then, when Lithecore and Argon had become two separate entities, the Chosen Undead had looked back at that adjourned chasm where the Primordial had been dug up. Indeed, they had torn the ground up and erected craters deeper than a duchy's personal water well. The body of his foe had rotted away and turned to crusty flakes of ash long after Argon had plunged his blade into the monstrosities black heart, leaving behind naught but his peculiar staff.
Argon hadn't known why he had picked it up, whether for recollection or assurance that this plight on Oolacile was over, he didn't remember. But for what sanity he still retained in that moment, he had placed that monster's staff deep within his storage, hoping that with him the Abyss would finally end.
And as he stood now before the object he thought he had slain, within the city that held those of his beloved, Argon faced down yet another incarnation of that most troubling entity known as the dark side of Man.
It was funny in some manner. He had been sucked into that ancient kingdom long ago, taken up the quest to save a princess he barely knew from a soapstone, delved into the heart of its majesty and killed literally every denizen Oolacile had possessed in a valiant effort to rid the bubbling Abyss eating the realm whole. Finally, he had found the chasm of that said Abyss, where the Primordial spirit was founded. He had taken his time to clean out and purge every nook and cranny of this sickly substance, so that not a lingering trace of it could reform and wage war with the world again. And then he had battled Manus…
He couldn't recall how many hours he and that perverse amalgamation of humanity had tussled for, but by the time he had brought Dusk out of that cave via the Lordvessel, Elizabeth had mentioned that Spring had come and gone. Back then, he had assumed the ordeal that had struck fear into Gwyn and claimed the mind of Artorias was long gone behind him – another foe vanquished on his road to the Kiln.
However, it seemed that even after doing back in time to save a dystopian city, the Abyss had still spread and become more sophisticated. And in that sophistication, Argon had found himself battling the demons of his past, once again swathed in the shadows of the force he had triumphed over eons ago.
It almost made him laugh when he thought about it. The Abyss was crafty, it was. It made him believe that he had actually purged it, rid the world of its infestation for good. But one must take to note that when a great evil is slain, they must simultaneously purge the evil burning in their own hearts. For how else can destruction continue to grow, if it does not fester and spread from the emotions of man?
Argon should have known all this by now, he had been one of the evilest humans of his time. But ignorance is indeed bliss, and when one's mind grows complacent, it is when the real monsters under the bed begin to crawl out.
"I'm intrigued," Lithecore spoke as Argon tried to ignore the creepy feeling the abyssal staff still contained. Unfortunately, his repulsed expression seemed to show more and more as he held the damn thing, unintentionally entertaining his sickening twin. How he wished he had put his mask on before leaving the Archives. It would have done him so much good if his face couldn't be seen by this manipulating dog. "How well do you think you can use that weapon against me? You do realize that your control over the Abyss is limited to the pathetic might that ring on your finger exerts."
Argon looked down at Artorias' ring. Lithecore was right, his ability to fashion the Abyss as a weapon was weak, less than noteworthy when he really looked at it. As it was, he only wore the item to curb the growing infection poisoning his body. Yet, at the same time… he didn't need to have fluent control over that disgusting slop, now did he? He was the slayer of the Abyss, after all. Not its protector.
Letting out a huff, Argon slammed the staff against the ground, his magic bursting forth from his body like a geyser cracking the earth open in a brilliant spray of hot water. Lithecore noticed the impressive strands of cerulean magic swirl around him and his face changed to astonishment before he charged forward. Argon couldn't comprehend his surprise all that much, when you got down to it this ugly piece of cane was just the same as any: a catalyst of power. What it expelled depended solely on the user.
The soulmass created from Argon's spell sprouted a dozen blue balls that haloed around his head. The undead gave a surprised nod as they flew toward his twin in a flurry of burning energy. It had been a while since he had used proper offensive sorcery. And after fighting the Grandfather of Magic, perhaps his own skill had grown by a few feet. Not that he was complaining, this was the leg up he was looking for.
He watched the wraith come toward him as the orbs homed in toward their target, another Silver Knight sword appearing in his hand as he advanced toward his twin. The staff of Manus remained in its place, almost levitating there, waiting for him to use it again. Argon liked that nifty ability. It would help out in the moments to come.
Lithecore laughed as he twirled, spun and leapt over and out of range of the pesky soulmass sent his way. He had expected Argon to use magic to even the odds, but to think his abilities had broadened since fighting that introverted dragon was just exciting. He couldn't wait to push the limits until he broke.
Sidestepping an incoming orb before ducking under another, Lithecore rose to his full height as Argon intercepted him, his blade clashing against the wraith's. As if they were in some fantasy novel, both side of the same entity stared into the other's eyes, identical features reflecting back as the tide of battle took over from the futility of speech. Within their silent exchange, Lithecore shoved Argon off his sword, correcting his stance before jumping forward.
The undead stumbled back but stayed afloat as he two-handed the hilt of his blade, catching the downward swipe of the Darkwraith, followed by the lighting fast backhand cut of his fist. Argon took a step back but Lithecore refused to give him breathing room, stepping forward and flashing his sword once more. The undead met him with and overhead swing that sparked their blades together. A contest of strength began as the smirking wraith pushed back against the snarling undead, neither giving way for defeat when suddenly they both jumped back, raising their blades, and slamming back against one another.
Not one to be outsmarted a second time, Argon raised his knee to impact with Lithecore's sternum. It was just rotten luck that the wraith happened to be thinking the exact same way. Armoured leggings met leather clothed knee and Argon grunted out, fighting his way between the sword clash and Lithecore's impressive balance. He was about to jerk his body out of the way when the sadistic twin slammed his head into Argon's nose, breaking cartilage and sending him reeling back.
The undead gasped as he tumbled back, tripping over his own two feet before rolling on his back and into a crouch. He glared up at his smirking doppelganger, left hand stretching out toward Manus' catalyst and the staff flew into his hands eagerly.
Lithecore anticipated the action and raised his right gauntlet, a black shield of abyssal magic expanding out that deflected the powerful soul arrow sent his way. He grinned down at Argon through the transparent layer of darkness and the undead growled, taking a well-deserved sip of Estus before standing back up again.
"I don't think I need to state the obvious, but sorcery won't work on me."
"Gee, did you figure that out all by yourself?" Argon retorted, earning him a wide grin.
"What is it you plan to do next, hero?"
The staff in Argon's hand vanished and he twirled the sword in his hand, the stiffness in his wrist popping. "Figured I'd turn your ass crispy this time around."
"Plan to burn your problems away, hmm?"
Argon shrugged. "I've always like to play with fire."
(* Queue Play With Fire by Sam Tinnesz *)
Lithecore started moving even before Argon's hand flared red, sprinting forward like a maniac on a mission. Argon paid him in kind by flinging a large ball of flame his way. The wraith didn't disappoint as he kicked his feet out, sliding under the orb. Argon leapt over the swing aiming to sever his knee, lowered into a crouch, sword arm cocked back, abdominal muscles coiled like a snake before he struck. Lithecore jerked his head to the side as the sterling silver made a neat line of red on his cheek. Unfortunately, he only noticed Argon's glowing palm on his breastplate a moment before it was too late.
BOOM!
Down went the Darkwraith as the Chosen Undead ran forward. Lithecore coughed out specks of blood as he stopped tumbling, looking down at the symmetrical hole burned through his armour before he looked up again, saw the undeads blade arc toward his skull – and raised his clawed gauntlet casually.
CLANG!
His arm shook slightly as he held Argon's strength back, impressed by the destructive force his twin applied to cleave him in two. He was about to say something snarky too, but then the undeads fist impacted solidly against his face.
CRACK!
The joy of receiving so much attention from his other half eclipsed the pain of a broken jaw. Nevertheless, Lithecore pushed himself off from the ground as Argon ran toward him yet again, dark matter and abyssal energy already repairing the damage dealt.
Lithecore stepped away from the backhand Argon started with, replied with an elbow that his twin shouldered, absorbed the kick against the broken portion of his armour. The armament flaked off his chest in pieces as he fought. He grabbed one of the melting metal collars near his hand and broke it off, holding it in an underhand grip before slashing at Argon's neck. The undead stopped his swing with his forearm instead of jumping back. The Darkwraith admired his ability to improvise before hooking the arm under his own and spinning around his twin, opposite hand firing off three successive palm strikes against his lower back.
Argon gasped from the pain, growled and flung his head back. Lithecore howled as his nose broke from the impact and let go of his arm. The undead used the moment to twirl round, lift his left leg and connect the tip of his boot with Lithecore's temple.
The wraith flew to the side from the kick and Argon curled his hand, chaos flame bursting into existence in his palm. He watched his twin roll onto his feet before he threw the fireball with purpose. Lithecore's vision was too blurred to see it coming as it slammed against his midsection before spreading over his shoulders and stomach.
The wraith let out a guttural scream as he was torched alive. Argon wasted no time in punching his fist into the floor as it was happening, filling the ground with more Pyromancy. A large dais of orange-red lit up under the Darkwraith as his breastplate melted off his roasted skin. The undead stared back at him dispassionately as the Abyss did its work, repairing the burns in record time and peeling off the black steel, those black veins extending in tendrils of vines like some symbiotic parasite.
He looked up at Argon with a smile, cheeks rosy with a disgusting blush as his eyes glowed in excitement. Argon clicked his fingers at the site and Lithecore screamed his lungs out as he was immolated, body filling with flame from the inside out as his blood turned to vapour and his eyes glowed red before bursting open from the demonic fire.
(*fight song ends)
Argon sighed out as he fell to his knees in a heap, sweat pouring from his body. Using so many successive casts of magic and Pyromancy had drained him, irrespective of how vast his reserves were. Although he had used underhanded tactics, it had worked in subduing his foe. He breathed a sigh of relief, slowly getting up and drinking from his Estus flask.
The mental warfare aside, that had ended quicker than he expected. An incoming wraith charged toward him and Argon side-stepped his thrust, sliding his blade across the monster's throat and sliding back. He watched the atrocity gag and retch, hands dropping its sword to clutch at its throat as it fell to its knees. The undead let it suffer for a few minutes more before plunging his blade through the back of its head and twisting. The retching stopped and he withdrew his blade – walking toward the untouched marble lift as another concussive boom emanated from the Great Hall, followed by another burst of magnificent soul sorcery.
Maybe it was his disbelief, but he couldn't believe he had killed Lithecore. His past self had warned him, explicitly mentioning the relentlessness of his true enemy. So why had he fallen that quickly? Was it because Lithecore was simply a pushover, or was Argon being too confident in his abilities? This was the commander of the League he was talking about.
Then again, perhaps what he had seen was simply reality. At times, even gods didn't live up to their fearful visages depicted in stories, why would the like of Lithecore be any differen-
TEAR! RIP! SQELCH!
"Agh- AHHHH!" pain ignited in Argon's spine like a supernova of nerves as Lithecore's black gauntlet pierced through the undead, his steel plated fingers constricting around his spinal cord, rendering Argon's body useless.
He heard Lithecore's perverted heavy breathing in his ear as his eyes rolled to the back of his skull.
"I have to commend you, my twin. I was prepared to do anything to get you to play seriously, and I mean anything," he placed his other hand on the undeads shoulder and steered him around, walking toward the clash of wraiths and Darkmoon phantoms still raging on as he smiled.
"I had planned to disable the bishop, pluck out the eyes from the false god… even take my time peeling the skin off your tailed atrocity. But instead, oh but instead, you chose to come at me with your bottled-up wrath freely!" he tightened his grip on Argon's spine, eliciting a response from the undead in the form of a pain-filled scream.
" AAAGGGHHH!"
"You spoil me Argon, you truly do." Lithecore chattered, mind ablaze with a maddened ecstasy as he steered his other half to nowhere in particular. "But I feel that I should pay you back, don't you agree? After all, when someone treats you to such arousing pain, it's always courteous to reply in kind ."
Argon heard the wraith's insane cackle, felt his body grow numb as he was taken somewhere his mind couldn't remember. All he could think about was pain. White hot, skin tingling, nerve sparkling, mind breaking PAIN.
But what clouded his judgement more than that, was the fact that he had failed. Now he understood what the past him had meant. Lithecore was insatiable, a freak of nature that could tank anything. Argon had assumed he had been winning when he had fought his sick twin before. But he had been wrong. Lithecore hadn't been beaten when Argon had burned him alive. He had been allowing Argon to fight back. It was hopeless. How had he ever thought he could win against such a broken foe?
Word Bank
1. Chiaroscuro – (n.) the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting. An effect of contrasted light and shadow.
2. Evigheden – (n.) eternity; forever; never ending; infinite time; furation without beginning or end.
Part 2 of Jekyll and Hyde is official. Much thanks to Carlos Inferno for the pm's. It leaves a warm feeling in your heart when you realize people are looking forward to the stuff you write just as much as you are looking forward to people reading it.
- heart burn.
What?
- you're talking about heart burn, aren't you? That 'warm feeling' in your chest?
Yeah… what about it?
- it's called heart burn.
No, it's not dammit!
- here, take an antacid.
Get those pills out of my face, I do not have heart burn!
- then why is your chest burning?
Bloody hell, I said WARM FEELING, not HOT FEELING.
- there's a difference?
Oh, just shut up! Take care of yourselves and God Bless!