"Log 1-A

Route Summary: Preparations to travel to Lordran from Vinheim have commenced. I've packed all supplies necessary for the trip, including rations allotting me at least six weeks time and a talisman blessed by a Thorulund cleric allowing me safe passage home. I've wrapped the catalyst in cloth enchanted with shielding sorcery strong enough to resist even the most harmful of blows. As Lordran is known for being incredibly dangerous in itself, I am taking a short-blade and my own war-catalyst for protection.

Accompanying me is my dear friend, a young street urchin named Beatrice. She shows much potential in magicks, yet refuses to join my colleagues and I at the Dragon School."

Albin put his pen down and looked up at the sky. The sun was barely visible through the thick layer of clouds, with only a few sunbeams illuminating the surrounding area. The road to Lordran was rough, and, for the most part, untrodden. Albin recalled the few times where he and Beatrice had thought to have come to the end of a path, only to find a new one beginning a few meters away.

"Excuse me, Albin, but how exactly do you plan on safely making your way into Lost Izalith without a guide?" Beatrice inquired politely, her pace quickening a slight bit in order to make pace with Albin, whose walk was now brisk.

"I'm sure some fanatic daemon-worshipping crazy in New Londo could help us," replied the sorcerer in an annoyed voice. "It's truly, truly remarkable as to what you may find among the cobblestone streets of that ci..." His voice trailed off as a rather large drake flew overhead. "Damned buggers. The drake tamers must have let once loose again."

"Drake tamers?"

"Yes, Beatrice. You must be some kind of shut-in. You'd think a street urchin such as yourself would fill her head with outlandish fantasies. New Londo is quite famous for its legendary drake tamers. There seems to be a certain air around the place, I think. Something that makes them tame. Perhaps its those kings? Who knows." Albin's voice mumbled a bit more and Beatrice looked away, adjusting her cap.

"You'd think the sun would be brighter here," she remarked quietly.

"Come again, Beatrice?"

"Nothing, Albin."

With that, the duo pressed on, eventually coming to a small grove. A road marker with faded text marked the area as Oolacile territory.

"Oh, great! Oolacile." Beatrice giggled with delight. "I think we should press on, it's not far, and New Londo isn't far past that, either!"

"Calm, Beatrice. I would like to rest here. I've been walking for ages carrying everything and to be quite frank, I am tired."

"Fine." Beatrice kicked a stone over, sighing. "Will we still travel to Oolacile?"

"Do you really think I want to travel there?" A lone fire burned before them. Neither of them really paid much heed to the conversation at all; complaints aside, they knew they had to pop in to Oolacile one way or another.

"Oolacile allows those filthy undead, as well." Albin spat the words with a harsh venomous tone. The sky had grown darker than it was before. "A plague to our land, they are."

"Right..." Beatrice's response wasn't so strong.

"Fortunate for us, they're developing an Asylum for their kind. Up in the North, I think. How wonderful it would be to ship the whole lot of them out there to die... or, well, undie. Whatever you call it."

"What do you have against the undead, Albin?" Her tone was suddenly spiteful.

"Why the harsh tone, may I ask? Do you sympathize with them?"

Beatrice shook her head, placing her hands against the fire to warm them. The sky was almost completely dark and the temperature had dropped well below comfortable levels. "I don't sympathize with them, but is it really their fault they were branded with that... that accursed mark? The darksign, I think is what it's called. Jolly good times when people notice an innocent child cursed with such a thing."

"Inquisition is a necessary evil. We do not know if those infected can spread it like a disease, but we shan't take a risk."

"I still don't think it's fair, Albin."

"This world isn't fair."

Albin looked to the sky. She was young, but her head was strong. She would make a wonderful addition to the the sorcerers of Vinheim- that is, if she would actually consider joining. She was only a few years his junior but the difference in age was very noticeable; her being seventeen made her aura young and reckless. He, on the other hand, was merely twenty-four and was already world weary.

"Life isn't fair..." he mumbled.

Clank, clank, clank.

March, march, march.

The sound of marching armor and hooves awoke Albin and Beatrice, much to their chagrin. Beatrice groggily rubbed her eyes and shot Albin a look that asked what it was. Albin nodded and got up, peering over the bush that had hid them from the main road. Black knights with towering greatshields and horses that were even taller than that clumsily strolled ahead, struggling to carry the weight of the great knights.

"Who're they," asked Beatrice, peering over his shoulder. "Some kind of army, yes?"

"I honestly have no idea, and to be quite frank, don't care to know. Get back down."

Obeying, Beatrice sat back down and looked at the flame, which had gone out the night before. Not even a wisp was left, and the few ashes that were left seem to have been already gathered up. Presumably by Albin, no doubt, as he collected them for study.

"Why are you so interested in fire? Fire doesn't do anything, Albin, except burn."

"You'll understand later on, Beatrice. When we get to the ruins, you'll see." He flashed her a quick smile and gave a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes. "You're young, you wouldn't understand. Fire is incredible; you can do so much with it!"

Realizing that he could have alerted the knights, he covered his mouth and ducked down almost inhumanly fast, as if it was a reflex learned from his childhood.

"Some mouth you have, Albin."