There are a great many things that are easier said than done.
For example; a quick exit from the corpse of Izalith during the dawn of the Demon War.
The Knights and company had left their hiding place, venturing down corridors and alleyways ravaged by demonkind, doing their best to elude detection. It seemed as though the demons had a tendency to swarm, which was fortunate. Usually this meant that they only encountered stragglers here and there, which they were grateful for, on account of their precious cargo.
Elityr peered around a broken column, clutching his halberd tightly and wondering how he had ended up in this situation. A few years ago, if someone would have asked him to serve under the Great Lord of Anor Londo, he may have stabbed them. Now here he was, throwing in his lot with Silver Knights. He looked back over his shoulder, watching one such being half-carry, half-steady a dazed looking old man. The knight had been bitten severely where the neck meets the shoulder, and had the bloody puncture marks to show for it. Yet you wouldn't know it by the way he carried on.
Maybe he wasn't with such a bad group after all.
A short distance away, Giroldus approached Ornstein.
"Captain, do we mean to leave the city with the civilians and come back to look for the Daughters?" the Berenike shifted uneasily.
Ornstein looked down at the knight with a startling expression of apathy. "Have you seen any signs of either of them? Their brother either?"
He was caught off guard by the response. "Well, no, but I—"
The Captain gestured to the people with them, numbering a mere thirty-five out of the thousands who had inhabited Izalith. "Lay your eyes upon them. I say we've got ourselves a good twelve whom are capable of a decent clip, the rest dazed, wounded, or near death."
"There's a chance—"
The Dragonslayer's red eyes stared flatly from his skull. "Not one that I'm willing to take. We move now. This mission has already been a disaster, I see no reason to tempt fate anymore."
Giroldus dropped back with the other volunteers, a troubled expression on his face.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Quelaria wrung her hands as if straightening the knots out of her fingers could untangle this situation. Four of her sisters, gone. It had happened so fast, without any apparent warning signs apart from Qayleb's cries.
And Qayleb himself…
He had formed some sort of connection to the Witch to keep an eye on her while they were worried for her. When the energies she had contained had erupted, that connection had been his doom.
She idly twisted one of the many rings on her fingers. This one had been given to her by Giroldus. She had taken it in an amused fashion at first. After all, he was hardly her first or last human. After a while though, it had remained with her. To her surprise, so had Giroldus.
Qayleb's ring though, had been more of a utility item than jewelry.
The Witch had fashioned it for him when she had realized his condition, to stave off the burns and sores. It had worked for years, but his condition appeared to have outgrown his ring. It helped, but did not prevent his discharge anymore.
She knew it was certainly doing no good right now.
As Ornstein had vaulted the balcony, her brother's skin had begun to split apart. She and her sisters had poured their power onto him, attempting to hold him together by pure force of will.
His ring had fallen off in his struggles.
As their power had broken, monstrous creatures were spawned of the ring itself by the connection Qayleb had last formed.
They had barely escaped, the last Daughters of Chaos.
She had cried heavily in the last few hours, hearing the screams and yells of the nearby battle and knowing those monsters out there were her people. She had passed them on the street, bought produce from them, shared the occasional joke. Gods, some of them out there were probably the remnants of Velka's little recruitment force! A fitting end, she thought.
But this was not a fitting end for her. Cowering in some tent while others fought and died for her mother's mistake.
She looked over at her remaining family. "Sisters, I cannot take this lying down."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The heated battle on the plains of Izalith against the demon horde had gone better than expected, but that still meant that hundreds of Silver Knights lay dead, far under the earth. It seemed that they were losing interest in a meal that could fight back as tenaciously as they had. They didn't need to know that Korde doubted they could last more than an hour more. Gods, but they were hardy beasts!
The farthest back ranks of demons had begun peeling off and returning to the city, no doubt hoping to find some left over beings that wouldn't struggle so hard. This was both relieving and problematic. On one hand, the worn-out Silver Knights would get their much-needed respite.
On the other hand, they were going to run straight into the party that had journeyed there to collect survivors.
If possible, Korde would hold the demons here for an hour more if need be.
He roared as he sliced a demon's head in two, kicking the body out of the way as a hulking brute bowled toward him. The body didn't quite get out of the way in time, and it was thrown against him in the Taurus's charge. Claws raked against his side, and a terrible grip closed around his arms.
He saw the roof of the cavern, quickly replaced by the ground as he flew through the air.
A cut had opened across his forehead. It bled heavily, getting in his eyes. He couldn't spare time to clear them.
He speared forward blindly, feeling the blade of his glaive sink into reeking flesh. He levered himself to his feet, twisting the blade and hauling it out for another stab. He kept at it until he met no resistance.
He finally swiped at his eyes with the back of his gauntlet, confirming his thoughts.
He had come out to the front lines to shore up a portion that was breaking. There had been a great deal many of those strange bulbous floating demons that spewed crimson flames from their mouths to blacken the armor of many a knight. It wasn't as simple as just stabbing them. If you did, they would simply spill the fiery contents all over you. He had seen too many go down screaming, ablaze in those chaotic flames.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a terrible cloud of those very demons floated in his direction.
"ARCHERS! THEIR HEADS! THEIR HEADS!"
The heavy arrows of the Silver Knights soared in their own deadly cloud, striking the bizarre creatures. Their heads were small targets, and not many shots connected. A few were punctured, and the line defending against the howling horde was bathed in flames. A few screams went up, either from those burned, or those that blocked the flames that met the claws and teeth of their foe.
Tongues of flame leapt from the survivors' mouths arcing down to those behind the front lines as they floated overhead. Korde brought his shield up, feeling the flames wash over it, an oddly heavy feeling, like blocking a flow of water.
The line broke with a despairing cry.
"BULK UP ON ME!" Korde's voice was strained. If he survived this battle, he doubted he would be able to speak for several days.
A serpent demon shot forward, and he stabbed his glaive into its eye. It gave a weirdly human cry and continued past him, apparently not too badly hurt. This motion wrenched his weapon from his grip, caught in the demons' eye. It coiled around him, the spines on its back squealing as they scraped against his armor.
His arm poked out between the coils of this cursed serpent, and he reached wildly for his glaive, before it could—
Pressure unlike anything he had ever felt squeezed down upon him from every direction, driving several spikes into his side.
He yelled out, losing a great deal of his breath in the process. His arm broke with a sickening crack, hanging uselessly outside the horrid scaled coils. There was a creaking that he felt more than heard in his torso. Blackness stole in from the corners of his eyes, but not fast enough to see the snake's head above him. Its mouth was opened frighteningly wide, teeth continuing down its throat…
This is it. Gwyn knows I've fought hard.
There was a hoarse cry, and Korde had the sensation of someone pressing a piece of blessedly cool metal against his cheek.
He managed to crack an eyelid. The pressure was already slacking off.
A sword blade had pierced the rugged hide of the creature, just barely missing his own head. He would recognize a Silver Knight sword anywhere.
Another such blade hacked into the side of the already half-blinded snake, and it uncoiled itself completely. Korde fell bonelessly to the stones beneath.
His men.
"Sir!"
He saw dirty silver boots before his eyes. Hands grabbed his shoulders to help him sit up, and pain throbbed deeply at the touch. Another sound left his lips, sounding more like a deep groan.
"Commander! Can you hear me?" A blurry gauntlet waved in front of his face, the motion turning his stomach. It was replaced by a few faces.
Someone had removed their helmet. He wanted to tell them to put it back on, they were in a battle, but he couldn't seem to draw the breath to do so. Something grated inside his chest.
Something was being pressed into his remaining hand, and he tried to loll his head to see what it was.
A knight had brought him his glaive, closing his fingers over the haft.
His eyes drifted to the breastplate of one of his faithful knights. It had maintained much of its shine, and he could see himself reflected in it. It wasn't a pretty sight.
How long could he hold his breath? He couldn't seem to remember when he had taken a breath last.
The heads around him were all helmetless, bowed to their chests.
He hoped his face conveyed his pride in them.