Chapter 5: Darksign
'Do what you must to gather the pieces, scraping them into some semblance of a whole, before the will to do so fades.' -Darkstalker Kaathe to the first Darkwraiths, First Dark Age
"Perhaps you've seen it, maybe in a dream…" The words floated half-remembered in a dim corner of his thoughts, one of scant few yet to be touched by the Curse. "A murky, forgotten land. A place where souls may mend your ailing mind." Oh, how honeyed the Crone's words were; how deeply tempting! A balm for the Curse… such would be worth killing for. Endlessly killing, striding from one battlefield to another. It would all be worth it. Unbidden, the elderly Firekeeper's words continued to surface in his mind.
"You will lose everything… once Branded. An augur of Darkness. Your past, your future, your very light. None will have meaning, and you won't even care. By then, you'll be something other than human. A thing that feeds on souls." He recalled learning of them as a child, or perhaps fabricated the memory entirely in his Cursed haze. The pitiful creatures that surfaced at the waning of the Fire, those insatiable devourers of souls. "A Hollow." How fitting, that to ease the Curse, he must take the role of such a monster. What, truly, made him so different than those wretched half-men? He could feel it, with every death, how he became more like them. The Curse, so subtle and sinister, to take his memories yet leave the emotion behind. He knew not why his eyes burned at the sight of Greenblossom cresting a distant hill, nor why he turned to face the sea breeze and half-expected to see a figure awaiting him.
He'd followed the fireflies through ruins and forests, crossing the shattered remnants of kingdom after kingdom. Supposedly, the creatures were messengers from the Dead Lord, sent to guide men's souls back to the First Flame in their time of passing. In the absence of the Flame, with naught to guide souls toward, the faerie lights were bereft of purpose. Thus, in his quest, they found meaning, and saw fit to aid him. And so he stumbled upon the gate to the ruins of Drangleic, that great grove overlooking a half-sunken castle. He'd seen the impossible, as time itself was torn apart under the weight of countless souls, the restless spirits of that ancient kingdom beckoning him onwards. And so he'd reached the fabled lands of Drangleic, that place which had called to him during fitful slumber.
Little did he know, reaching Drangleic was only the beginning of his trials. The woman called the Emerald Herald had set his task in full before him. To ease the Curse, he would need souls. Seemingly simple; in this land teeming with death, caught in an oddity of time, souls sprang eternal. The souls of mere beasts and fallen soldiers would not suffice, however, plentiful as they may have been. Four Great Souls, the Herald bid him seek. The Old Ones, beings with souls older than this Age. Impossible, he wanted to say. How could a mere man, one afflicted with the Curse, kill a being from the Age of Gods? Those with such ancient souls may as well be gods given flesh.
He needed strength. Power enough to kill whatever opposed him. This land offered that strength in abundance, in the form of souls. Arms and armor from myths and fairy tales; sorceries and miracles from bygone ages; an ambrosia capable of healing nearly any wound- all paled in the face of what the Herald could offer. To consume souls in exchange for strength- perhaps the thought would have disgusted him once. Now, he saw it only as a necessity.
With the Herald's aid, he had become more than he once was. From a frail traveler, hardly capable of swinging a longsword, he'd grown into a warrior. Wounds that would end a lesser man were mere inconveniences to him; the great blue blade on his back could be swung with abandon. He'd grown thick with muscle, capable of tossing foes aside with ease. Yet still, he had room to grow. He'd barely tapped the potential offered to him; yet more strength awaited him. Strength he would sorely need in facing his mightiest foes.
Upon his most recent visit to Majula, that ramshackle cliffside hovel… things had not been as usual. The sound of hammering echoed from a dilapidated hut, while the unpleasant knight of Blue was absent from his post. The merchant, Maughlin, seemed lost in his own thoughts, muttering about silken things and scars. Somebody must have visited, to break these people out of their routines. It was of little consequence to him, what these sad vagrants did with the remainders of their lives… But then the Herald had spoken out of turn, broken her pattern of obscure hints and vague directions to give a single, direct warning. Another had come, seeking the Old Ones. A Witch, come to claim what was rightfully his. He'd forgotten the last time such fury raced through his veins, as it had upon receiving this news. He had not struggled against adversity, under the burden of this terrible Curse, only to have a usurper steal his goal out from under his nose! The souls of the Old Ones were his to claim! How else could he be freed of his burden, but to slay those mighty beings?! Any who dared to invade upon his quest would meet the same end as every other foe he'd faced: with a cold length of steel buried in their chest!
This Witch, then, this Bright Soul… she would die. If her death proved less than permanent, he would kill her again. Again and again and again, until she submitted under the weight of his will. The Will of the Sovereign could not be denied. She could flee into the depths of the earth, seeking refuge with her fellow vermin… And he would hunt her down.
The Bearer had heeded the Herald's warning, descending the Pit in Majula. He'd passed by petrified statues and mummified corpses; the Witch's handiwork in her pursuit of the Old One. Smoke drifted from deeper within the tunnels, carrying sickly sweet tones of wood-fire and cooked meat. Deep below a series of interconnected caverns, he found the source of the smoke in a massive heap of burning wood, far below a stony precipice jutting into empty air. The collapsed wooden structure presented an obstacle, though lines of silk affixed to the walls enabled him to continue his descent. Amazingly, the silk had supported his weight, armor and all. Had the Witch intentionally left this path open to him? Was she, too, eager to face him in combat?
At the bottom of the cavern, the burning pile trapped countless Undead within. They reanimated, only to be consumed by flame once more, eerily silent as their lungs failed to capture air. A cycle of torment, one they lacked the strength to escape. The Bonfires the creatures called home must have fallen alongside the Hollows, forcing the creatures to resurrect within the flames. Small wisps dotted the ground, treasures left behind. Mostly rubbish, but some scant useful items. Titanite chunks, smooth stones, and the like. He collected what little valuables he could, before continuing on.
The next cave proved... difficult. In the near pitch black, sparsely illuminated by a sickly green glow, he encountered poison-spitting statues, malformed monsters lurking in deep puddles of pitch, great armored serpents dwelling in tunnels... The Bearer met his death more than once in that cavern. How the Witch had passed through this area, he knew not.
He'd settled on a solution, time-consuming and resource-intensive as it was. The statues could be smashed, while resting at a nearby bonfire forced the poison from his healing body. Sips of life-affirming Estus, that quintessential golden liquor, kept his flesh together between resting. The pools of pitch were lit aflame from afar by well-aimed fire bombs, the explosions echoing in the dark. The creatures dwelling within set his ears ringing with their dying screams, though the satisfying hum of souls filling his body garnered more attention. The armored worms proved more difficult to deal with, retreating into the tunnels at his approach only to explosively emerge, throwing him over the edge of the tiny outcropping into the deep chasm below. After a few attempts, he'd discovered the creatures to be nearly blind, relying on his own footsteps to pinpoint his location. So he'd stood perfectly still, just outside of the creatures' tunnels, sword at the ready. When a bulbous, plated head emerged, he swung down with great force, his great blade biting deep into the purple flesh beneath. Though not quite decapitated, the creatures succumbed to their wounds soon after.
Insignificant, all of them. Paltry obstacles, easily overcome. All things could be overcome, given time and the will to do so. So long as death eluded him, the Bearer had endless amounts of both. Certainly enough to see his way through the black caverns, finding himself in the end at the foot of a great barrier of mist, impenetrable to the eye, stretching from cave floor to ceiling.
As he stood outside the gate of fog leading into the unknown beyond, he reflected on what might await him. Both the Pit and the caverns below had born unmistakable signs of the Witch's progress, cobwebs and corpses painting a clear trail. Yet here, in what he imagined to be the final stretch, no such trail existed. Had she discovered another path, gone around the obstacles he'd overcome? No matter.
He turned his mind towards more practical concerns. Petrified spiders and the scent of ash occupied the early tunnels, while all throughout, cobwebs littered the walls. The spiders, he suspected, were servants of the Witch, given that the creatures had clearly followed her through the tunnels. As for what had petrified them, he could only guess. He'd collected a small assortment of medicinal herbs, kept in an enchanted pouch on his hip with other valuables. Some of those herbs, he knew, could counteract petrifying magics and dull the heat of flames.
The rings upon his fingers ought to help, as well: from hardening his flesh and strengthening blows to hastening his recovery and lessening the impact of falls, the magic of his rings were powerful boons. Though he'd tried, once, to bear more than four, the results had been... painful. Magic, he'd since decided, was best treated cautiously.
As for the webs, surely he could cut through them. Spiders were mere nuisances, hardly fit to slaughter. He scoffed at the idea of this Witch relying on such weak minions. Why had she not enlisted the aid of birds, or hounds? Though the Bearer knew little of witches, those creatures stood out in his mind as more respectable familiars. To associate with vermin was to be vermin oneself.
As his final measure of preparation, the Cursed one drew a small wicker figure from his pouch. He knew not what about the childish figurine enthralled him so, but staring deep into the flimsy bauble gave rise to bitter-sweet feelings of nostalgia. He held the figure close against his chest, much like one would a child, until it dispersed into particles of light, flowing into the Dark corners of his soul. While the effigy could not completely restore what was lost, a touch of Humanity returned to the Undead's flesh. Mottled, diseased green reverted to healthy tan beneath layers of armor.
Deeming himself properly prepared, the nascent Sovereign strode through the barrier of mist. His heart thudded powerfully in his chest, bloody red consuming his sight as the stench of a powerful soul occupied his senses. He cast his head about in search of the Witch, helmet restricting his view. Crude female statues dotted the high cavern walls, resting in roughly carved alcoves illuminated from below by a baleful orange glow. The Witch... was nowhere in sight. Instead, a great figure loomed over flaming pools of pitch, the incandescent flames searing his eyes after so long in the dark.
The creature was horribly lop-sided, great in stature but lacking familiar human curves. Like a doll crafted by a child, it bore some of the right parts- a head, torso, and arms- but none of the correct proportions. Crooked protrusions studded its body, waving in the fire-light, as the monster cradled a statue in its massive, lumpy hands. The Cursed one recognized it as one of the many statues dotting the caverns, half-formed. Was the creature responsible for assembling, or merely repairing the stone figures? No matter.
As the Undead's steps echoed on the stone floor, the creature turned its bulbous head in his direction, revealing a great cage, connected by heavy iron shackles crossing its body. Now fully illuminated and facing him, the creature was revealed to be a ghastly amalgamation of Hollows, held together by chains and foul magic in the crude half-shape of a man, their legs and arms acting as fingers, dragging the monster along. A great cleaver, twice longer than his own body was tall, was clutched between too-long leg-fingers. The beast loosed a cacophonous roar, a hundred mouths expressing a communion of wrath as spittle and bile dripped from a hundred more gnashing, lipless maws and a hundred more sobbing throats.
THE ROTTEN
The Undead hefted his blade to meet the creature in battle, charging forward with purpose in stride. As the golem drew back its foul cleaver, blue crystal drew a line in the fire-lit air, arcing towards necrotic flesh. The Sovereign's blade bit deep into the multitude of bodies... and stuck there. Moments later, a great weight crashed into his own body, smashing rather than cutting and launching his freshly-dead corpse into a pool of burning pitch. His death-cry was silenced by oil filling his mouth, until finally his body fell apart into ash.
YOU DIED
Moments later, the Cursed one clawed his way out of the nearest Bonfire's embers, taking in deep breaths as his heart returned to a normal rate. That creature... was far too powerful. His great blade had never failed him, not once. And yet, for all that it had sunk into that monster's flesh, it had barely done any harm. In return, he'd been swatted like a fly, a child before a giant. How, then, could he slay the golem?
And the Witch. Where was she? There was nowhere to hide, no other path to be found. The only path through Black Gulch led directly through that creature's chambers. How, then, had he reached the Old One before her? No matter, he decided. He would take this opportunity to slay the creature first, take its soul, and continue on his journey. Her death could come after.
...First he would have to kill it, of course.
Fighting his way through Black Gulch had become routine, by now. No longer did he waste precious fire-bombs on the pools of pitch, no longer did he carefully smash the poison-spitting statues. Instead, he'd watched, experimented, and learned. The statues maintained a line of fire, lines that he had memorized and carefully avoided, dashing through when he could not evade. The pool lurkers were completely blind, he'd discovered, much like the cave worms; by tossing stones, he could bait the creatures out and slay them from behind.
Far below, the groans of some greater beasts echoed. Whatever their source, the creatures were no obstacle to him, and had no bearing on his goal. Thus, they were left alone, while his efforts remained focused on slaying the Old One.
Time and again, he'd passed through the fog gate, meeting his demise at the hands of his greatest foe yet. Impossibly strong for a pile of shambling corpses, the monster had pried him open from within his armor, tossed him into the fire, drowned him in pitch, crushed him beneath its weight, and split him apart with its great cleaver. After every death, however, the Cursed one learned. He studied its movements, identified patterns, probed its defenses. Each time, he survived just that little bit longer, learned to avoid its killing blows. And yet still, he had not managed to kill the beast.
Striking at its torso proved worthless. Though the bodies constructing its torso could be killed, those same bodies then served as fleshy armor, harmlessly absorbing his blows. The chains holding it together could not be broken, thick as his thighs as they were, not even by bombs. Bombs themselves, then, had little effect. Some magic permeating the creature's flesh rendered it impervious to flames, the tongues of fire washing over it like a gentle breeze.
After dozens of attempts and just as many deaths, the Sovereign had grown desperate. Once more, he entered the fog gate, blade at the ready. His chest-plate and helm had been removed, left by the Bonfire, proving too restrictive. The creature could carve through armor like paper, and thus the extra weight was unnecessary. No effigy was consumed, as a single blow would mean his end regardless of the strength of his flesh. He entered the arena Hollowed and defenseless.
Right away, he stormed forward. As the creature was still readying its cleaver, he sliced through the limbs along its lower torso. The grasping arms and legs served as its only source of mobility, and were completely unprotected. As the beast growled and whirled around, cleaver swinging along the ground, he swung upwards, blade sinking into its left shoulder. He held there, and allowed himself to be safely carried along its path. With a vicious downward ripping motion, his blade was released.
He danced in rings with the creature, hacking at its ambulatory limbs while staying clear of its perilous attacks. As the creature was finally pruned of limbs, rooted in place, he allowed its blade to come dangerously close, nimbly stepping out of its path. The cleaver sank into stone, locking it into place for a bare moment as the creature struggled to rip it free. Taking this opportunity, the Sovereign furiously chopped at its fingers, reducing its hand to a mere stump. Thus, the creature was denied mobility and offense. Still, it was possessed of means to kill him, and it would do no harm to remain cautious.
As the beast recoiled in pain, the Sovereign circled about. Without its cleaver, the creature had only its weighty fists as tools of battle. However, the Undead bodies which composed the monster were not so flexible, unable to reach what was not in front of them. Thus, when the Sovereign drew a spare knife and sank it into the creature's back as a makeshift climbing pick, the only resistance offered was ineffectual flailing.
His reasoning came from dozens of attempts on the creature's life. Damage to the body was painful, but not life-threatening for the golem. The beast was constructed of hundreds of Undead, yet acted as a single, uniform being. Lastly, a single body perched upon its shoulder mimicked its every movement, a moment before the main body moved. Thus, he reached a single conclusion: the golem was a mere puppet, one he lacked the means to destroy, while the controlling body was the sole weak point. The creature would die with that body's destruction, he was certain.
As he reached the crest of the creature's shoulders, hands weakly grasping at him from beneath rusted chains, the Cursed one heaved himself upwards. The Undead torso perched there twisted to face him, mouth wide and toothless. Before it could enact any last-ditch attempts at preserving its own life, he gripped the wretch's scalp and drew the knife edge along its throat with a violent jerk, cutting through tendons and muscle. Now loosened, the head was easily torn off and tossed into a pool of pitch.
The creature shuddered and groaned, the remaining Hollows offering soft sighs as the golem collapsed. He'd been proven right: the beast was no more.
As the monster dissipated into streams of soul-light, a familiar sound reached his ears. Not the hum of souls, but the drone of a fog gate allowing passage. His head twisted, catching sight of a cloaked black figure entering the arena, gold artistry shimmering along their form in the hellish light. He sniffed the air, eyes horribly dilated by adrenaline, and knew. This was the Witch.
WITCH-QUEEN Q̸̧̨͖͉̙̥͇̼͉̩̺̦̟̝͈̭̦̻̒̔̆̉̑͋U̴̧̡̡̫̹̲̥͎͔̤̠̯̳̜̫͕̅̀̋̇̈́̔̆̎͐̕E̵̡̹͉̭̜̝̗͈͈̭̞̋Ḩ̸̨̨̬͉̻̘͇̳̤͎̜͊̉̋̃̀̿̾͊̑̓̽͘͜Y̶̧̠͙̫̤̱͖̱̞̖̬͖̝͕̖̺̯̰͐̂͒͛̀̅̔͘͝Ḑ̸̨̢̥̝̣͇͙̦̟͎͎̰̥͐̑͂͑͛̾̾̎D̴̗̪̥͓̯͈̗̣̹̱̿E̵̘̜̥͕̼͇̩̟̩͇̔̎̈́͑̐̾̍̒͛̿̍͛̓̿͝ͅ
A/N: Check this story out on SB! That's my preferred website for not only publishing this story, but reading others as well. Hear needlessly detailed blurbs on my personal life, commentary on the story, and enjoy more interactivity with your fellow readers! Enjoy chapters a whole TEN MINUTES before FFnet! Do it for your waifu!