Chapter Three: Vessel of the Lords

My second day in Majula began rather extraordinarily.

Not that I was unfamiliar with the uncanny. I had, after all, just escaped captivity inside an enormous sewage pipe with nothing but a useless stick and a similarly obstinate rear decoration.

Still, opening my eyes with a sudden, irresistible compulsion to shout "I know my name!" cannot be considered a normal start to the day, and it certainly shook myself up just as much it did Carlai, and the rest of the sleeping campsite.

Having apparently dozed off right by my side, Carlai received the full reverberations of my declaration, and when her eyes flashed open, they lacked the cohesion and lucidity that I had come to associate with them, resembling swirling spirals rather than colourful circles. Brushing her hair from her eyes, she tried to focus her gaze on me. "What?"

To my immediate shock, I realised that I had barely even registered the shout that had just bounded off of my tongue. The residents of Majula had no such trouble, though. Already, I could hear the mumbled grunts of Aldane, Reckan and the Faraam knights as they attempted to move on an astounding hangover.

Slowly, the clarity returned in Carlai. Before I had a chance to speak in justification of myself, she was sieging me with a wall of questions. Was I alright? What happened to me?

What did I mean?

For once, I had actually had an answer, but not for any of the questions she was asking me.

"Carlai," I interrupted softly. "I think I remember what my name is."

Her eyes go wide. "You do?"

I nod. "I saw it. Some kind of vision, incited by that dreadful Effigy you gave me."

Carlai looked as though she was hung on every one of my words. "Go on. What did you see?"

I paused as I realised that the memories were foggier than I had anticipated. "I didn't see anything. It was an aural experience. There was... a woman screaming... I... didn't recognise her voice, but she I think she was calling to me..."

"And what did she say?"

I closed my eyes as the mist parted, and the word came back to me, delivered on a silver plate. "She said 'Ellis.' And I think that was - is - my name."

Carlai looks away from me for a moment, apparently to check on the status of Aldane and his baboons. For a moment, I wasn't certain that she believed me. Something mysterious crossed her face. It almost seemed like... disappointment.

"Did you see anything else?" she bombarded moments later, before correcting herself. "Hear. Did you hear anything?"

I shook my head. "No."

Carlai reaches out and touches my arm. "Well, that's still great! Your memory could be coming back. You're one step closer to returning home!"

Her words are mention to offer gentle encouragement, but I can't help but feel embittered by the frustrating lack of solid information I could gleam from my experiences. I was still lost in a world which I was yet to understand, and all this talk of an undead curse did not exactly enamour me to my new surroundings. In this case, perhaps remaining unmindful would be preferable - not that I seemed to have any control over the matter.

The sound of a heavy set of boots behind me alerts me to the arrival of Aldane. Despite his long hair being awfully raggedy from his sleep, he looks surprisingly fresh for a drunkard. He eyes me with the same suspiciously amusement that characterises his introduction, and asks me if I slept well. But not exactly in those words.

"Bed bugs bite ya tail, Gutter?"

I decided to ignore the egregious tones in his voice, and answered with dignity. "I haven't slept that well since the pit. Or at all."

Carlai chuckles lightly, but Aldane just wriggles his upper lip. "Did ya ever wake up early down there? Start shouting at the top of ya lungs to the rats?"

I only realise then that I was the one in the wrong in this situation. I'd been so enthralled with my newfound revelation, I'd nearly forgotten that it had woken everyone up. I nearly felt guilty, but then I noticed he was burdening his greatsword over his shoulder - the very same metal menace that I had become well-acquainted with yesterday. The image of Aldane snuggling up to the behemoth as he slept entered my mind, and I had to choke down a giggle.

"Sorry," I muster. "But I think I might have remembered my name."

"Oh yeah? Thrain Piddlepants, was it?" Reckan had arrived to provide chiding support to his brother. I ignored him, as is the way to treat thugs of his kind.

"My name is Ellis," I tell them. "But that's all I know. At the moment."

Aldane yawned theatrically. "That's nice, kid. Can we go back to sleep now?"

"Better not, brother," Reckan interjected. "We have a tough journey ahead of us today. It would be wise to make preparations and be off."

"You're leaving?" I ask. "Already?"

"As much as I enjoy Majula's jewels," he laments, casting a very unsubtle, advantageous glance at Carlai. "I have a duty to my king to fulfil the task he has entrusted with me."

Before I could stop myself, I implored further. "Oh yes, I heard you talking about it yesterday."

Reckan smiles venemously. "Ah, you like eavesdropping, do'ya?"

At this point, I should have just shut myself and my assertions down, but my curiosity sapped at me like a great thirst, and I was drawn to quench it. "Well, you do talk very loudly. What is it that you say you've found?"

The Faraam knight looks incredulous. "Do you really think I would tell you the intimate specifics of my expertly-formulated plan? A halfling that I've never met? Bah."

Aldane steps in, cutting across his brother. "It's not really that important that it remain secret, Reckan. If we succeed, we will save this land."

Reckan gives his brother a very stern look - apparently trying to will him to melt into a gloopy puddle on the floor. "But if we fail... Then the dark will have an omnipotent new weapon."

I was beyond baffled by this point, but when I tried to press further, Reckan went for his belt, unsheathing a small ivory dagger and pushing it menacingly toward me.

"What are you doing?" I exclaim, eyeing the sharpened blade from a most uncomfortable distance.

Reckan grimaces. "I don't know you. Therefore, I don't trust you. Not to mention you have all the qualities of a halfling, an agent of the enemy!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I asserted between raspy breaths. "I got here yesterday!"

"Just stay out of our way, kid," the Faraam knight ordered, before spitting viciously and striding away. Aldane continues to watch me, daring me to speak. When I do not, he waves his hand dismissively and heads off in his brother's wake.

I look at Carlai for moral support, but for once she has nothing much to say. She shrugs, as if to say 'your guess is as good as mine.' "Faraam has never been renowned for its hospitality."

I search her eyes for understanding, but I do not possess her powers of deduction, and her soothing blue pupils remain an azure enigma. I spend a few moments carefully considering how to phrase my next words, fearing another backlash from this world where I am nothing but a stranger.

Eventually, I find my voice, trapped deep as it was in a pit nearly as deep and dark as the Gutter. "Do you know what they are seeking?"

Carlai nods gently, but her pupils dart about like fish in a bowl. I gather the impression that - like Reckan, but farther more politely - she is withholding some of the finer details at all times. "They're looking for fragments of an ancient vessel. If they can gather of all the pieces, supposedly there is a wondrous power that may be unlocked. It's only a story, really... But Faraam believes it very strongly. Restoring this vessel - a window into the power of ancient lords - could bring prosperity back to Drangleic. And that is what we are all hoping for..."

As I listen, I watch the Faraam knights loading up their steeds in the horizon.

"For a folklore," I begin tentatively. "They certainly seem to be impassioned in its defence."

Carlai looks out over the sea, her hair flapping like a weary flag in the breeze. "Their kingdom - along with all of them - is falling into ruin. The curse will overcome us all in the end. In a world like this, hope truly is the strongest of emotions."

Strangely, I am comforted by her speech, and I do not make any attempt to reply, letting my ever-expanding knowledge of the world soak in silence. Following the rare moment of calm, Carlai takes my hand suddenly and exclaims.

"Come on then, Ellis. If Majula is going to be your home for the foreseeable future, you should come meet the rest of us!"

She tugs on my arm again, and I allow her to lead me forwards. At this point, I could only hope that my new neighbours were unlikely to put a sword against my throat.

But Majula was just that kind of town.

I have to hand it to him - Maughlin's sword was the most elegant of the blades that was put to my neck that day. A curved weapon - known to the experienced as a Monastery Scimitar - with a bejewelled hilt, I was enamoured to its glimmer from the moment it was pressed against me to the second it was withdrawn. It's owner did not possess the same regality as his weapon, and demanded several times that I put my furry flagella away, lest he cut it off.

Maughlin himself was a peculiar little fellow. His face was mostly obscured by a foggy white beard that reminded me of the clouds above, but I could tell that he was an old man - that was discernible from his eyes, which told more tales than any singular mouth could. He wore brown rags, yet had one of the finest interiors of any house I had visited in Majula that day. Golden and silver flashes all around me caught my eye - but I daren't not investigate, lest I further incite the armorer's fury.

I had to let Carlai do the talking. As it turns out, her powers of enchantment extend beyond simply myself. Before my eyes, Maughlin drops his sword, and bends down to kiss Carlai's silken white hand - a token of his understanding.

"Forgive me," he implores, only half-addressing me - the one he actually offended. "My shop was attacked by bandits not long ago. They took everything except this shield!"

The armament in question was a rather-pathetic little shield. Although it was made of brass, and offered decent protection from most attacks, it was only just bigger than my head, meaning that it was more suited to an expert in parrying - someone who would aim to deflect hits, rather than soak them up. In the centre of the shield was an insignia of a phoenix, a legendary creature that supposedly is reborn from the ashes after its death.

"I take it as a sign that my enterprise will be successful again," Maughlin explained. "Here. Tell your friend that he may have the shield as a token of my apology."

I thought briefly about lecturing Maughlin on the ill-effect that his good intention would have on his economy, but decided against it. There was little reason to make enemies unnecessarily in this hostile, and alien world. I took his shield with the biggest smile I could muster, and held it aloft to the sky. I was surprised to find it was very light, which immediately arose fears in me, and yet as I held it I felt much safer and durable than previously.

Maughlin watches me examining the shield, before his eyes are caught by something else, sheathed in my buckle.

"What's that?" he asks me, fingering my useless stick.

"I'm not certain," I admit. "But I believe its a clump of wood."

The armorer folded his arms. "If you're going to take that kind of attitude about it, them you can forget such clemency in the future!"

Realising that I had been unjustly rude to Maughlin, I apologised.

"It's all just so confusing right now," I told him, half-wondering how the man who had just put a scimitar at my throat was now due the apology.

"I understand," the armorer replied. "But I don't believe that your stick is so useless after all..."

I look at Maughlin, but his eyes are focused solely on my belt.

"May I see it?" he asks timidly.

Nodding with slight amusement, I passed the slab of wood into the hands of the armorer, who then proceeds to cast his eyes across every nook and cranny. As he continues, I notice his movements becoming increasingly erratic; his hands have started to shake, and a gleeful chuckle emerges from his mouth every now and then.

Finally, he looks back at me. "Do you know what this is?"

I resist the temptation for a snarky retort. "No."

Maughlin grins like a Cheshire Cat, holding my stick out in front of him like a sacred artefact.

"It's a catalyst!" he declares.

He pauses, presumably waiting for me to have some kind of awe-inspired reaction. When I do not, his face falls. "You have HEARD of catalysts, haven't you?"

I shrug. Maughlin looks incredulous.

"My boy, have you any idea what this means? Sorcery! Magic is returning to Drangleic!"

Of course I had some preconceptions about what magic was at the time. I pictured white rabbits, produced from tall black hats; boxes containing people being sawn in half; larger-than-life stage performers with capes disappearing in a flash and a puff of wispy, grey smoke. But, like most of my assumptions thus far, I was profoundly mistaken.

I will explain. In Drangleic, magic is a weapon that is borne of intelligence rather than brute strength. It is wielded by the gifted, often as a primary weapon, and cones in many shapes, forms, colours and distinctions. As I would learn later, certain magic types, known as hexes, became the most feared tools of warfare in the land. Rather than relying on the power of the caster, hexes would draw their power from the lifeforces around them, consuming souls and stealing breaths at a whim. For this reason, hexing became outlawed in every known land. But the practice continued under the cover of darkness, which lead to the assassination of the Queen of Olaphis - or so the tales told.

Maughlin seemed to think I was a mage, and that this was why I was found with a catalyst. My oaken branch, it would seem, was actually a magical vessel of the highest power and prestige. According to the armorer - who professed he was no expert - my catalyst had been hued from a mystical tree, said to be the spawn of all sorcery in existence. In short, this meant that I was one of the most powerful magicians alive.

Unfortunately, I had no clue what he was on about. Carlai seemed to be equally - yet less audibly - excited about the prospect. Supposedly, the king of Drangleic at this very point in time had ordered the cremation of all magical objects and sorceries, so as to purge the filth from the practice and purify the land. Of course, this had not been well-received by his people - it was practically subjugation for the magically-inclined. This was the first catalyst Maughlin had seen in twenty years.

"If you wish to discover yourself, there is someone that you should go and meet," Maughlin tells me. "His name is Straid. He was once a sorcerer, but he was captured and beaten, and all of his magical prowess was sapped. He can probably still teach you a few things."

Now, even I was excited. Was I about to find the answers that I sought? Discover who I truly was

"Where might I find this man?" I asked energetically.

Maughlin exchanges a straight face with Carlai, and I literally feel the air turn colder as he pivots back to me.

"That's the catch, you see," he says calmly. "Nobody has seen him in years, but the last time that we did, it was in the Tower of Abhorrence."

I would later learn, that this was a very bad thing indeed.

Crestfallen Saulden was having a pretty awful day.

First of all, he'd had to trek all the way down to the Forest of Fallen Giants to fetch a pail of water for his bath. The water in Majula had stopped running years ago, and the path down to the sea had crumbled away, leaving liquid as a scarce and fragile resource. The walk had been mostly peaceful, save for a few hollows who were quickly and mercilessly dispatched, but now his legs had began to strain under the effort. He needed to rest, but he also knew that night would fall in a few hours, and that would make the journey back home an absolute impossibility. He'd heard stories of twisted abominations that preyed upon travellers that walked this road, creatures of the night that took an abstract pleasure from dismembering the living, and adding them to the contents of their stomachs.

But his fatigue was only one of his problems. He now believed he might actually be lost.

Normally when he walked along this road, he would pass a large round boulder off to the left side. When he saw this rock, he knew that he was but a few feet from the entrance to Majula - that he was on the home stretch. Usually it would only take him a couple of hours to reach that rock, but now he had been pattering on for five, and there was still no sign of the boulder.

Saulden wasn't ignorant. He knew that he was an older man now, nearly in his sixtieth cycle of the sun, but he'd made this trek mere days ago without ailment. Something had changed, not just in the path, but in the air itself. Something sinister hung in the wind, and every gust was one of its raspy breaths.

An owl hooted in the distance, and Saulden finally came to a stop. He had to rest - even if it were just for a few minutes. Carefully minding his aching legs, he plunked himself down on a log nearby.

As he looked about himself idly, he saw a shadow upon the ground. Instantly startled, he pulled out his sword. But it was only a reflection of himself, cast by the setting sun through the trees.

The odd thing was, it was moving, apparently completely of its own accord. As Saulden continued to follow its trajectory, he was alarmed as a pair of enormous, glowing red eyes punched their way out of its head, and stared ominously at him.

Now, he was running. He heard the splash as the water from his pail was knocked over, and five hours of tedium were soaked into the earth, but he didn't look around. Despite his state of fatigue, he didn't slow once until he was safely behind a large, sickly-green tree. Panting hard, he glanced behind him.

But he was not being pursued. He was safe.

He let his breath return to his body, before reconditioning himself, and stepping out from behind the tree.

Saulden's eyes widened as the gigantic sword was thrust through his chest, emerging from the other side to impale the tree which had previously - but ineffectually - concealed him. At the end of the blade was a phantasmic knight, silhouetted in black, and bearing a helmet punctuated by piercing red pupils.

Saulden's shadow had caught up to him.

The knight rose into the air, as though carried by it, and Saulden went with him. The sword began to glow white at the tip, slowly travelling along the body until it finally struck Saulden's rigid body.

The Crestfallen warrior could barely manage a scream as he felt his whole body tearing away. Tendons broke, and blood spewed across the surface of the sword, but the knight held fast.

Finally, Saulden's eyes rolled shut, and consequently out of their sockets and onto the forest floor. Calmly, the knight prised the dead warrior off of the end of its blade, before tossing him aside like a ball of paper.

The knight looked to the sky, which was spattered with a generous collection of stars. On a clearer night, Majula would be unreachable - but tonight was perfect.

One had already stained his sword - another would soon join him.

The knight stood upright, before disappearing inside a black mist.

As for Saulden, he'd had a pretty awful day.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What's this? Three Dark Souls stories in three days? Don't get too used to the pampering :D