Whether it was the fact that Velka seemed to abandon the fight or not, Artorias wasn't really feeling that dark aura anymore.
He wasn't feeling much of anything but the painful spike of rage.
It burned in his throat, unable to be quenched despite his being doused in the blood of these rebels.
He made a spectacular leap into a tower, obliterating a pillar and killing a handful of mercenaries with the ensuing collapse. Sif was leaping around in his wake and dispatching whoever poked their heads out, unable to actually keep up with him at this point.
Velka's chosen quickly decided that retreat was the best option. They fled for the secondary wall, but they were being outpaced by Artorias's long strides and leaps. The screams of his victims drove the remainder faster than they had moved thus far. The gate dropped as the majority made their way to the controls. It clanged shut and locked against the paving stones, leaving eight of their own on the outside.
They didn't last long.
Artorias kept his momentum, and steadied himself to jump up onto the wall.
Pain lanced through his red haze.
He dropped back down to the stones, finding a spear penetrating between the plates of armor on his abdomen. The point just barely showed out his back.
He hadn't said a word throughout this battle, didn't have the clarity to do so.
The steadily growing pain wasn't helping matters.
He growled and gripped the shaft to haul it out, but was stopped by a golden gauntlet on his arm.
Ornstein pried his hand off and shook his Leo helm, breaking the external shaft off with a swift motion of his spear. "This will hurt, Artorias, but at least you won't bleed out." He tossed the shaft over his shoulder. "They'll be regrouping in there. We permit none to live." He planted his spear into the seam of the gate, driving his heel into it to wedge it in. He pulled down hard on his lever, and the gate groaned. Artorias added his strength the task, and the latch snapped loudly.
Panic swept over those inside.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Giroldus sliced into the rebels, careful not to throw himself too far into the crowd as to get mobbed. Strength and skill were wonderful and all, but numbers could kill you pretty easily in most cases. He would have been more comfortable if the silver knight commander had brought more men than just Giroldus with him, but perhaps he was overthinking things. After all, the Hawkeye was hammering the opposition from above, placing thunderous shots where their lines began forming up.
The commander was impressive in his own right. Giroldus was familiar with those in power that would be perfectly content if they never had to be anywhere near the battlefield.
Commander Korde was not one of those men.
His armor gleamed reflectively, hand-polished every day to perfection. A shield was strapped to his back, very similar to the other silver knights' with stylization being the main difference. He usually wore a long white cape with his armor, but had wisely discarded it for the battle. Not many could pull off the whole cape look in Giroldus's opinion, but Korde made it work for him as much as his soldiers did.
The man's skin tone was a shade or two darker than the majority of Anor Londo's residents, and the bridge of his nose featured a distinctive scar running across it. His mouth, visible through the open face of his helm, was set in a determined line as he spun his glaive. He was managing the situation effectively, each motion of the weapon killing a combatant or deflecting a blow.
"You're just showing off now." Giroldus grumbled, bisecting a man and punching another in the face as they tried to get inside his reach.
The numbers of the fighters were thinning out, and the small remainder retreated hastily.
"Yes! Flee for your miserable lives!" Giroldus crowed, throwing a stone after the retreating group. "Tell your friends!"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Artorias lashed out with a hard kick, demolishing another support column with his heel. The tower toppled, and the rebels that had stubbornly holed up in it came tumbling out toward him and the ground. He finished them all with a single stroke of his greatsword, and sidestepped to avoid the tower.
Ornstein frowned. He knew that damage to the city was unavoidable at this point, as the rebels had dug in deep, but Artorias was trying even less than usual to preserve it. He was roving the captured district like a maniac, slaying all before him with the help of his wolf.
Ornstein made analytical strikes, hitting the areas that would prove more strategically useful first, and driving straight to the central tower. He tried to keep an eye on Artorias as he did so, but it wasn't easy.
Eventually, he raised his spear and fired off a bolt of lightning over Artorias's head. "Artorias!" he gestured to the tower with his spear. "Over there!"
The knight took the order in stride, sprinting in his direction. There was a trail of blood droplets that he left in his wake. A Berenike stepped out of a side alley to strike him with a mace, but he lashed out with his shield and drove the edge into the man's neck, breaking it on impact. He didn't slow down.
Ornstein had dashed over to the base of the tower, and noted that it was locked up tight. He was familiar with the design. "Artorias, a boost!"
He leapt up, and Artorias caught him on his shield as he came down. Then, with the force of his powerful arms, he threw the Captain into the air, assisted by him jumping as well.
Ornstein made it to the window with height to spare, driving his spear into the wall above it and swinging himself through the pane. After a few seconds and some noise from inside, he stepped out the gate at the bottom, glowering. "What a mess. They've damaged the mechanisms."
Artorias didn't respond. He had waited restlessly at the base of the tower, and now he tore off to find more rebels. Ornstein watched him go, concern tightening his brow. He had spent a good deal of time with the new Knight, even come to see him as a friend. This current rage coursing through his veins was not healthy for him.
There were healers in Anor Londo that could bring most back from the edge of the black precipice of death, but none of those miracles really touched upon the inner anguish Artorias would be subject to soon.
Ornstein picked a bowman out of a tower with a bolt of lightning. Himself, he had been born in bloody conflict. Knew nothing else for quite a while, really. When he had been chosen for his position there had been more conflict, but of a different sort. The sort he had not been equipped to deal with. Politics and interpersonal relations off the battlefield. Even then, even now, he still identified himself as a warrior. The warzone was just a little prettier.
But Artorias…
The Knight and his wolf decimated a squad of Berenike in passing.
Artorias didn't seem a warrior born, despite his obvious prowess. He was sympathetic to all off the battlefield, and sometimes on it. He would often spare his enemies death, and take great care around buildings. Even human buildings demanded his respect. He had a genuine nature about him.
Ornstein didn't hesitate to name him a hero.
Only in his thoughts, of course. It wouldn't do to make the man full of himself.
There were these fits though…
Artorias tore into a wall nearby, almost taking a score of pikes in his shoulders for it. Ornstein threw himself into the fray, pushing off a wall and sweeping his spear through their ranks.
He had seen the man like this on only one occasion before, when he believed Serafina captured by Velka's chosen. That made the obvious cause of each Serafina.
One could hope this would fade.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The city of Izalith was an interesting affair, a multi-tiered mass of high balconies, wide marketplaces, and secretive alleys. All miles below the ground.
Some might be appalled at the sheer amount of rock above their heads, but not many of those stuck around here for very long.
As much as Anor Londo was a massive site of business, Izalith was a city of trade. Exotic materials parted from the depths were exported hand in hand with gossip. Law wasn't as firm down here, and the overall mood was correspondingly loose.
That had been before Velka's push.
The lack of a tight screening policy at Izalith's gates meant that the rebels had gotten inside easier. However, they hadn't counted on being so easily identified.
The people here were largely part-humans, the rest of the population being filled out by various giants and deep-dwellers. The air virtually rang with numerous tongues all day, especially in the marketplaces.
There was another tongue that wagged only for the select.
There were a thousand names for it, even within this one land, but Queyla's favorite was "Kelto's Cough". She enjoyed the way it sounded.
The Cough was known to the Witches and their chosen alone. It was a complex system of sign language and social prompts that went unnoticed by the untrained eye. The requirements to communicate changed every day, and could change even swifter depending upon the circumstances.
A choked sob interrupted her train of thought, bringing her back to the present.
Qayleb flinched as his servants cleaned him as best they could. He had been born the latest of the Witch's brood, and the birth had not been perfect.
He had the same gift as they all did, his just had teeth.
Sores covered his gaunt body, and he hugged his legs to his chest. They had been nothing more than slight discolorations at birth, but had grown steadily worse despite his family's best efforts. The sores themselves only made for a physical deformity. If that were the only problem…
He cried out again as a fresh glob of molten lava seeped from a sore, searing his flesh. She focused intently on it, working her magic to draw as much heat as possible away. It was a strange thing indeed. She could easily permit a normal human to wade through magma naked under her protection, but the cursed lava that Qayleb's body produced was slippery to her gift, hard to contain.
She laid a hand on his cheek, feeling the patchy stubble growing there. Her heart ached for him, but a small part of her had begun whispering that there was no way to cure him.
She silenced it and stroked her brother's face.
He met her eyes as if in response to her inner dialogue and gave her a pained smile.
The sum of what Qayleb could do would likely remain a mystery, as he was mute since birth. No comprehensible word had ever escaped his mouth. He gave her a complicated set of hand signals instead, using the Cough.
He was smart, if hard to reach.
This was a bad day for him, made worse by the stress of the rebel's threat.
As soon as they had made it into the city, he had sensed them. No more than ten minutes after the rebels had begun their immersion, the Daughters had identified several of the members themselves.
Part of the fun of this city was that you likely wouldn't know it if you ran into a Daughter on the street, unless they wanted you to know. The various human-giant half breeds in this city made their heights unremarkable, and their skills in the art of disguise took care of the rest.
They had sensed the menace of the equipment the rebels had carried, and not given any sign away. Only the Cough had relayed the situation to the Witch.
She had opted to wait patiently and see who would answer the rebel's recruiters, then deal with them as a whole. She had even sent Quelaria to infiltrate the group, posing as one of the rebels. She did not envy her sister for her extended proximity to that equipment.
Qayleb gave her a cue. Quelaag approaches, your sentence is finally completed.
She signed back, smiling sincerely. It isn't an inconvenience to be with you, brother. Get well.
She was almost out the door when Quelaag stalked in. Her sister's features were sharper than her own, and no less beautiful.
"This rebellion is a pain, sister mine." She lifted a glass of wine from a nearby pedestal and took a sip. "I wish mother would let us incinerate the lot of them."
Queyla arched her brow. "Her reluctance might have something to do with our sister being in their midst."
Quelaag took another appreciative sip of the wine. "Mm. The fire would not harm her."
"But the debris, or Velka's champion, or the rest of their cursed weapons might." She counted off on her fingers. "Trust mother." She cut off her sister as she scowled. "I know, I'd rather be doing other things too."
It was Quelaag's turn to arch her brow. "I'll bet all of my gold that the honorable Captain Ornstein of Anor Londo just appeared in your head."
"You…wouldn't have lost your gold."
Quelaag smirked into her glass. "You could have anyone, you know. Gods know I still do. Let me tell you about last night, for instance, you won't believe who joined in…"