In case anybody was wondering about the 'claws' I mention on Lithecore, it's actually his Black Knight Gauntlets melted into his flesh. When Argon hit him with Chaos Firestorm, most of his armour melted off his body with the exception of his leggings (because we still want to keep this series partly anime-esque). As for his gauntlets, they ended up melting into his hands, however the Abyss stopped it halfway when it healed him and mixed the melted metal in with his limbs, pulling some legit William Birkin crap.
Deep whispers of sound stretched around the dark passageways of the shrine he stood in as his gravelly breathing reverberated through the thick steel of his armour. Above him, slow, constant drops of water from an unknown source slapped against his pauldron, a metallic plink adding to the dull roar behind him.
His feet granted him a single step on the old, warped stairs leading to the altar crafted by Ancients, as the blistering flames burning in burly bowls cast his frame in hallowing wisps of charcoal and pasty silver.
To think that his feet had led him here, the nexus that had been the cause of both creation, and eventual destruction at the very same time. The caste of life and death, the pinnacle of change that had turned this chaotic world from passivity to aggressive revolution. It made him wonder if it had all been worth it in the end. If the actualisation of fire in a time of grey had really been necessary. True, he would not have existed to ponder the workings of time if the First Flame had not spontaneously drawn the first beings of creation to its inviting warmth. That being said, would the world have truly gone down the same path of self-immolation if everyone had left the Everlasting Dragons to remain in neutrality? He reckoned that things would have been a completely different story altogether.
However, hypothesizing about the impossible was not what he was here for. What lay behind those impenetrable doors beyond the Lord Vessel, that was his mission.
The Black Knight had thought the Dark Sun foolish when he had tasked him with retrieving the lost army of his father. Honestly speaking, it was an unknown miracle how he himself had even come into being as a sentient existence with free will, never mind how he had still gone on to arrive at the Shining City. Yet, even so, the god had put it in his head that like him, there was a possibility, a certainty, that the remainder of his ilk could also arrive at the same confounding comprehension he had acquired.
And when the Black Knight had arrived at Darkroot's Basin and found his first target, his thoughts had still held onto the same notion it had when he had first awoken to his own state of mind: that finding another such as himself and co-existing would be futile – a wasted effort that availed no merit.
To his astonishment, he had been incorrect.
When he had stomped down the trail leading to a knight sharing his rank, crossed visors with them and stood ready for a reaction, he had not found the hard-wired authority of Gwyn written into their soul to eradicate any sign of life. The halberd in their hands had not jerked to rent his metal body apart, nor had they taken a defensive stance in his presence.
Instead, the soft winds had guided their slow footfalls, the Black Knight had heard the familiar clank of armour, and soon his eyeless sight had found a helm resembling his own – staring back in curiosity as he was appraised. To say that he had not anticipated such an extension of understanding would be an understatement on his part, he had not even expected the knight to understand the reason for his arrival, and yet it had taken a brief moment of silence before his brother in arms had followed his directives to march into Anor Londo.
Admittedly, not every encounter with his brethren had gone that smoothly. The next one he had discovered lurking within the darkness of the Necropolis had been less than inviting, as proved by the immediate swing of his greatsword. The Black Knight had been forced into a skirmish of monstrous weapons, shields and steel fists before a consensus had been reached. He had had to incapacitate the one in the Tomb of Giants with an assortment of heavy-handed blows before he could even express his silent explanation of arrival.
His time back in the Undead Burg had been mildly nostalgic, and his staring contest with an ultra greatsword wielding knight had been increasingly more pleasant than exchanging pleasantries with the end of his axe.
In a grand summary of his travels, the knight could attest to actually finding more in common with his kith than with the silver counterparts he had fought next to in the Great Hall. It felt startlingly different between the two factions, as if he were foreign in the gaze of the castle's guards but family to the silence of his brothers and sisters absently wandering the dead passages of Lordran. They seemed to welcome him without saying a word, even after some challenged him to duels on a whim – like the two on one handicap he had been forced to contend with back in the Asylum. It was a strange thing, something he couldn't even compare to an emotion as he fought the strong breeze below Firelink pushing him back, almost as if a formless hand were attempting to ward him away from the sealed doors of the Kiln.
He supposed this was but another one of Gwyn's paranoid contingencies. He had done everything he could to ensure the Chosen One walked the hopeless path his traitorous hands had carved, going as far as to shroud the entrances to the Great Lord's with almighty walls of lightning to ensure they set the Lord Vessel in its cradle before the real part of their journey even began.
This unseen ward set upon the Kiln doors was similar, he suspected. A last resort to repel any force that found this sacred – and depressing – altar of hypocrisy.
From what the knight had heard before his life had succumbed to an ashen soul trapped within cursed armour, Gwyn had taken with him the last battalion of Black Knights with him on his voyage to the First Flame. After he had sacrificed himself, those loyal cavaliers had remained within the Kiln when its doors had been sealed – their oath to protect the old King resolute as they waited for his successor.
The Black Knight breathed deeply through his armour, the sound rattling within his pseudo-body and filling the whispering breeze with something to echo along its walls. It was a shame such power had been locked inside a snowy crypt when the world needed it most.
He stared at the monolithic stonework of the doors. There was no way he could enter them, none could when the required souls did not sit within the holy bowl to unlock it. And even when they were, he doubted anyone but the Chosen Undead could even enter. That was just the way the Sun God had designed this quest. A lonely path to the greatest misery.
That being said, he had been wrong before.
Walking forward, the Black Knight gingerly placed his hand against the wet stone of the Kiln door. He gave it a hard stare, feeling the freezing draught slip through the slit in the centre. Did he really think it possible to open an entrance not even the Abyss in all its fetid glory could squeeze through? Then again, he would be cutting himself short if he didn't at least think he could do it. He was a walking contradiction to the order of the gods after all, perhaps that also placed him in league to bypass the obstacle before him? What was he even expecting to find on the other side of these doors in the first place? Would the knights he assumed were inside be willing to follow him, and would they even be remotely alive for that matter?
As the brewing storm of doubt and certainty swirled within his helm like a powerful maelstrom, the Black Knight failed to notice the presence – or stench – of another being suddenly popping their large head out from the endless dark cavern above him.
"Hm?" Frampt churned the thick saliva dribbling in his mouth between his teeth as he stared down at the profile of the Black Knight. The serpent took a moment as he appraised the servant of Gwyn, pondering on the reason why such a character would be extant, patrolling Firelink Altar of all places when he took note of the knight's gauntlet pressed up against the Kiln doors.
His bloodshot eyes went wide and his mouth opened wide, allowing a rather large globule of slime to detach from the drool smearing his stained teeth and splosh against the moss-encroached stonework below.
The Black Knight turned his head to the sound of something disgusting spilling onto the floor behind him before the deep, nauseating drawl of the Primordial perverted the very air with its ichor.
"What in the gods are you doing?" he barked. The knight tilted his head skyward and found the cause of his sudden annoyance as Frampt gnashed his jaws together in panic. He had almost forgotten about Gwyn's penchant for seeking soothsayers.
"Remove your hand from that door this instant!"
Frampt had been like what a retarded stalk of wheat had been to a harried harvester: an utter nuisance. Whilst many had not known of his existence, the classification of his stink had exceeded even the Age of Ancients itself. While at first he had come to the Lord of Sunlight as an outcast of his kin – to which little is known – his unwrinkled knowledge of time and the future had tickled the Great Lord's curiosity. In time, what had originally been a congenial meeting between Primordial and god have devolved into a morose dependency of the snakes foresight, with each devastating event in history further depleting the strong composure of the Sunbringer to such a state where his image seemed to just… fade away.
Frampt, of course, had been there to lift what he could of the procrastinating Lord's courage – eventually leading to the day the entire world was shaken to its core: the sacrifice of the Lord of Sunlight.
Through whispers and small pockets of information barely circulated within Lordran's black market back in the day, Frampt was apparently responsible for either offering Gwyn the idea to keep the First Flame burning for another lifetime through the offering of his life, or weaving the deceptive lie of a successor that soon led to him creating the Undead Quest, leaving his lastborn to pick up the slack Gwyn had left behind after his death.
In any case that the Black Knight thought about, the image of Frampt remained the same as it always did. He didn't trust the scheming serpent, and he never had. Why would he when the self-proclaimed advisor of the Sun God was nothing but a bitter outcast from a clan nobody even knew about? His guess was that Frampt must have been as pitiful to Lordran as he had been with his own kin, which had led to his exile and subsequent meeting with the Lord of Light in the first place. He was like a child if the knight had to be honest with himself. A petty youngling, seeking vengeance against his very own family by using rebellion to turn the tide of events his homeland were aiming for.
If that were the case and he were right, that would mean Frampt's family were the harbingers of this Dark Lord people spoke about so freely. Perhaps they were the cause of the appearance of the Abyss in the first place? The reason why the Age of Fire had fallen as quickly as it had arisen? It would explain much to do with the current happenings of things, the knight agreed, however he preferred not to leave his final decisions to mere speculation. The snake was barely important to be paid attention to, anyway. Better to continue to the matter at hand.
"Halt, knight!" Frampt spat. The Black Knight turned his head back to the stone doors in front of him in reply. "What do you expect to accomplish by approaching the Kiln? Do you honestly seek to open that which time itself could not erode?" The Knight heard mirth creep into the smug atrocity's voice as he placed his other hand against the smooth stone. He didn't blame the lying traitor. He wasn't expecting the doors to open for him either. There was no possible way they could when all four Lord Souls hadn't even been placed into the Lord Vessel yet. Even so, he had to try. Not because it was a matter of pride or duty, but because he felt an odd sense of confidence fill him as his decision aligned with those very doors. They were old, ancient works of architecture. What they desired most was to be opened, for their contents to come spilling out. He was of the same mind, he wanted whatever was within this ancient tomb to be released unto the world at large. If not for the sake of protecting Anor Londo and following Gwyndolin's strong yet desperate plea for help, then at least for the sake of showing this cocky snake up and gaining a distressed reaction.
"You poor fool," the snake shook his head, the fleshy appendages on his face swinging about like removed intestines. "To think that a mere ghost would attempt to touch the property of the Chosen Undea-"
Frampt heard a loud groan as the knight put his weight into shoving the vast doors open. Even as his barbed words sat against the black lining of his filthy tongue, he felt a biting cold mix in with the air before his eyes captured a sight more shocking than the death of his Great Lord.
"W-Wh-What is… how is it you… this can't be possible…"
The Black Knight's arms strained slightly as he took his first step forward, the strength behind the doors were immense, as if Gwyn himself were holding a finger against the opposite end. He was relentless, nevertheless, intent on putting this to bed. It was about time he proved to those that looked down upon others that these so-called legends and prophecies were just that, tired old wives' tales.
CREEEEEAAK.
The Kiln doors slid back an inch, a sudden rush of strong wind flying out from the gap with the force of a dragonslayer arrow, yet the knight felt as if something were pulling him in as he separated the doors further from one another.
"St-Stop!" Frampt squealed in desperation, head bobbing around in search of anything to stop the Black Knight but finding none. "Cease this act of sedition, before the Quest is defiled more than it already has been!"
The Black Knight refused to listen. In the hour of Anor Londo's need, under the command of a god the sentient armour truly believed in, he would break any order or sacred rite to come to its aide. That included breaching the door of the First Flame. Although now that he thought about it, he didn't suppose the Chosen Undead would mind all that much. He was only here to collect his kin, after all. It would be in the undeads favour if he did – erasing the difficulty of having to kill something even the demons of Izalith feared to approach.
Frosted flakes of snow expelled from the growing gap as the knight pushed harder, taking another step forward. The grey doors of stone groaned and grated against the floor as they opened to his will, dropping dust and crumbled sand onto his shoulders before the strong winds blew them away with their sharp whistling.
With a final shove, the Black Knight stood back as the Kiln doors opened one last inch – making just enough room for his body to pass through. Light spilled out from the sizable partition, staining the Black Knight's armour in crisp whiteness that sent a glare off the axe resting against his spine. He breathed in deeply, red glow that served as his eyes turning crimson as he stepped through the crack he had made, leaving an aghast Frampt to sputter behind him.
He had opened the Kiln doors. No… it would be better to say that the Kiln doors had opened for him. Oddly, it felt as though there had been a yearning when he had touched that ancient stone, and an even greater hunger displayed as he descended the white stairs, passing the walking gist's of his brethren, slowly striding into whatever afterlife resided opposite this plain.
Whether it was due to the Kiln seeing his conviction as worthy, or if this had just been a convenient fluke, the knight didn't decide to choose. He was merely grateful that this unfathomable miracle had been granted to a twisted form such as himself. And even if there were a god still looking down upon his journey that had allowed such an action to be possible, he would unashamedly bow in thanks.
What mattered to him was not this world, nor the many lives contained within it. He had lost that sense of duty when Gwyn had decided to deceive all of creation out of greed and paranoia. No, what he fought for were those that attempted to right wrongs, to subvert calamity when the entire globe was in a state of decaying dystopia. And although the many questions still bubbling within his armour would go unanswered – including the reason why he was the way he was currently – he would place them on hold for the sake of doing what was right.
Gwyndolin had taken him in when he had come seeking nothing but an end to his miserable existence when the truth of his awakening had been shrouded by fog. And in the god's time of need, he would honour his new master with the same kindness that was shown to him.
As the Knight crossed over the arch hanging at the entrance of the Kiln, he crossed gazes with a female Black Knight who stomped toward him brusquely. He clasped his metallic fingers together in a fist. He would return to Anor Londo to pay back the debt he had earned. But only after collecting what he could from this depressing tundra. Despite not being a religious being, a part of him wanted to send off a prayer that the knights here would be as accepting of his request as the others had been. Then again, he supposed the only way the properly check was to intercept one first.
The Black Knight walked toward his sister in arms. She possessed the same armaments he had when he had first donned the dark set and cleaved horned heads from fire-proof shoulders. Her form, despite being the same height as him, was evidently lither.
Where his breastplate, leggings and vambrace had been made to buff his intimidating presence, hers had been tailored to almost fit her like a second skin. Even now, he could easily imagine the long, yet toned curve of her calves as her boots meandered and turned to form a supple set of legs his human self would have taken a moment to appreciate. Her arms were small, her armour marginally thicker as they reached the gauntlets, whilst her torso and breastplate took a decadent swerve in shape, perfectly outlining what would have been a rather attractive athletic build. The helm was always the same, however, the same twisted, antelope-like horns. The same deeply shaded helmet. The same burning red eyes displayed within the slits carved out for sight.
She was a perfect picture of beauty and terror. And whilst her size was small, there was no denying the monstrous power that held that pristine greatsword in a vice-like grip. The Black Knight took another metallic breath through his armour, drawing his greataxe as the knightess began a short sprint towards him. It seemed this one, like the others, needed to be brought to their knees before he could bring them to their senses.
Running to meet her, the knight dragged his axe behind him to build up momentum, the bloodied blade slicing a neat line through the snow – or ash – as the female knight in front of him poised her sword hand back in an attempt to run him through. He liked her pluck. At least she exhibited confidence before another of her own kin.
Clenching the axe hilt tighter, the Black Knight swung his arm up a meter before the point of conflict, weapon arching beautifully as the knightess noticed and immediately flung out her shield.
His axe shrieked against the sturdy shield, marring the mural of the black canal on the front with a wicked scar before his opponent slid back from the impact. The Black Knightess righted her footing and lifted her helm, red eyes attempting to burn a hole through him as she shot forward, sword raised above her head.
The knight looked up at the sword and stared back at his foe. It was a powerful attack, he would admit. But to someone like him, this was little more than elementary.
Thin trails of wind followed her blade but she cut through nothing as the knight skipped back. His feet sunk into the whiteness for a second before bursting out. The knightess' body language indicated surprise as he leapt into the air, two-handed his axe and barrelled down on top of her. She would surely receive a nasty rent through that sinisterly mystic armour, but at least it would silence her long enough for him to express the reason for his visitation.
In an odd twist of fate, the Black Knight found himself at the end of a feint as the knightess turned her body perpendicular. His axe cut through the snow with a mighty slam that caused a tremor through the dark stone underfoot, blinding him as white filled his vision. He heard the whistle of metal and brought his left arm up in response. The result was the knightess' sword grinding against his vambrace – straining in earnest to reach the base of his neck.
The Black Knight turned his head unhurriedly, a single red eye staring up at the knightess above him. This one was stronger than the others he had found. Which was good news, he would expect nothing less when it came to his unforgiving brood.
Finding strength in her prompt reactions, the Black Knight shoved her greatsword away with his arm. She recoiled, teetering on her heel before gravity made her take a step back. He saw his chance and spun around, grabbing the hilt of his axe with both hands before rising to his full height and lifting his weapon to meet the knightess' unguarded left side.
The grip on her shield slipped as his axe wrenched it from her fingers. They both watched as the crest shaped armament careened down into a lower slope of the wavy plain. She turned back to him and breathed hard, swiping at his chest with her greatsword but meeting the shaft of his axe instead.
She placed both hands on the hilt of her blade and pressed her assault. He stared back impassively, allowing her to lean into the attack before overpowering her with a strong shove. She was knocked back a step and he capitalised, grabbing the sword by the blade and yanking it away from her capable hands leaving her defenceless. For some reason, he debated that she would be better suited with a halberd to effectively execute her strikes.
The knightess stared back at him quietly as he placed his axe on its resting place between his shoulders. Maybe now she would acquiesce to his request about aid-
She ran forward suddenly and his hands snapped up in response, catching her hands in his before their clawed fingers interlocked. The Black Knight struggled against her strength as she fought to warp his wrists off. She was far fiercer than he had ever anticipated. Oddly enough, he found it pleasing. Honouring her challenge, he pushed back against her, body hunched as he applied his own strength to fight her.
They stood in this gridlock for a full minute before simultaneously slamming their helms against each other. Red eyes stared into red as they extended the time of their unarmed duel. With it, the Black Knight expressed his offer to her in the silent language only fellow Black Knights could understand. He found that her grip only tightened in response to his request. Even so, he refused to back down.
Her sworn duty had been to protect the Kiln, as he had once sworn to watch over Lordran. There was no right and wrong between what they both wanted, it all came together in an effort to follow what their Great Lord and creator had instructed in the end. The only difference was that the Black Knight was not held by the same constraints that she was anymore. He had been reunited with the free will to follow the orders of his pathetic king in his own way, not allowing the oppression of divinity to overcome his actions. In doing so, he had freed his brethren in the lower levels of the kingdom of the same constraint, had removed the singular error within every other Black Knight's processing that sought to simply kill as an excuse for the deed of protection.
And so, he urged the knightess to reconsider, passed to her his findings of this world and the current events of things as he stood in limbo with her. He trusted that his attempt was in earnest to rid her of utilitarianising her existence, in order to rightfully direct her wrath and that of their comrades toward foes much more deserving of a swift end rather than the idleness of waiting around for an undead that had his hands tied.
He spoke to her the troubles of the current king, reminded her of how their duty was to abide by the ruling of the castle, not the stale and outdated commands of a forgotten monarch. Expressing the troubles that afflicted Anor Londo as they clashed, the Black Knight told her of the aid sought by an honourable son of Gwyn, preying on her devotion to the King of Lordran to accompany him instead of wrestle endlessly.
In his efforts to convince her, the Black Knight found the tension gripping his hands lessen and the knightess lowered her head a fraction. He tilted his head before pushing down. Her legs buckled and she fell to one knee, head lifting slowly so that her burning eyes could peer at his own.
The Black Knight breathed out loudly, warm steam expelling from the links in his chainmail before being pulled away to accompany the wind. He had managed to get through to her after all.
Pulling her up to her feet, he spared one last look at her helm to make sure she was certain with her decision. When she nodded back curtly, he let go of her hands and brushed past her. Her helm followed his form as he trod through the thick snow until he reached her shield. Bending down to retrieve it, he heard the loud clanking of heavier armour and lifted his head. Standing a foot away from him was another Black Knight, ultra-greatsword resting on his shoulder as he took in the sight of the newcomer.
The Black Knight tensed and straightened. He had almost forgotten that there were more of his brethren within this freezing crypt he would potentially have to fight before he could communicate with them.
Feeling motivated after convincing the first knight he had found within the Kiln; the Black Knight drew his greatsword from its resting place and squared off with the opposing knight. As he did so, his sight found another of his kin appear in the distance behind the ultra-greatsword wielder. This one was female, like the first he had duelled, with the exception of her carrying a battle axe like his own.
So, he would be fighting at a disadvantage this time around? Not that it mattered, he thought as he lowered into a fighting stance. He had faced similar odds before in the Undead Asylum.
As the second knight approached, sliding down the snow with ease, he found the horizon dotted with another Black Knight, followed by another, and another. Before what stood before the knight was an entire battalion of his brethren hoisting an assortment of devastating weaponry in their hands.
The Black Knight breathed in as he weighed his chances. It wasn't likely that they would attack individually, and his chances of survival had lowered into the single digits. However, the knight didn't feel like backing down. He had already sent half a dozen of his kin toward the Shining City. As small a number as it was, they could still manage to affect the tide of battle greatly, even without him present. Besides, dying at the hands of one of his own sounded better than at the grubby fingers of some wraith – as if he would ever give them the chance.
Flipping the shield in his hands into the appropriate grip, the Black Knight prepared himself for one of the knights before him to initiate the battle when he felt a light weight clink against his shoulder. Turning his head, he found the Black Knightess from earlier stare at him quietly. It took him a second to realise that she was appealing to him not to attack his new allies.
Silently thanking her, the Black Knight lowered his axe and returned her shield to her. When he looked back at the battalion, they all stared back with equal gazes of determination. It seemed his efforts had paid off better than anticipated.
Then that settled it. Shouldering his axe, the Black Knight turned and strode toward the entrance of the Kiln, the knightess and her battalion following immediately behind. He had succeeded in conglomerating the nightmarish army of Anor Londo. Now all that was left to do was to recruit a few undead to his cause. After all, if Argon was fighting this war alongside Gwyndolin, he would be needing his own set of allies to even the playing field.
Didn't expect this Black Knight POV to be this long, but that doesn't make it feel any less awesome. Additionally, that Black Knightess encounter was just so cool to write.
I know I just took canon and snapped it in two when the Kiln doors opened, but I hope that with time and the content of this chapter, you'll find it in your merry heart to forgive me… Pretty please? I'm beggin' here!
Ahem.
The idea was that the Kiln itself isn't actually tethered to the Lord Souls or even the Lordvessel for that matter. I thought of it more like the vessel and the souls being physical mechanisms to open the door manually. Think about it, the Lordvessel is a massive bowl, definitely weighing a healthy number. In the same way, so do the Lord Souls (in this case both literally and figuratively). Now, what if those pieces just made up a pseudo-key that actually unlocked the Kiln in the first place? There's already a whole debate that the Undead Quest is a pointless journey to kill all other Great Lords so that the line of Cinder can once again reign supreme, so in the same way, I'm using that to justify how the Black Knight can open the doors so easily. I mean, if all you needed to open the doors was a lot of weight, the Black Knight's strength should be more than enough.
Of course, there are other variables that I mention in the chapter that relate to why the doors actually open. They're all left to your interpretation, I just wanted to change things up a little. Hope it entertained you.
This was more like a filler chapter before the main action. Look forward to Chapter 39 being posted in the first month of 2022 alongside Chapter 40. This climax is really hyping me up, y'all!