ANOR LONDO
Beatrice glared at the painting, fingers twitching as she resisted the urge to set it aflame. She didn't much care that it had dragged off her companions since the shitty prophet seemed to know what he was getting into. She had broken free not because she was scared of what might lie beyond but because no one would ever force her to do anything, especially not some suspicious artifact left behind by douchebag gods. Now, however, she was struggling to control her temper, as the painting had resisted all attempts to probe its magic. Without that peculiar doll Lex had, it seemed every bit an ordinary piece of overrated art.
"Mother… shit… dick…" she grumbled as she drummed her fingers up her staff.
Eventually, she decided to walk away before she did something she would regret, kicking the corpses of the painting guardians as she passed. As she walked under the gazebo and reached for the lever, she became curious about the stairway next to it. Having nothing better to do until the others finished their journey in the magical land of frozen nipples, she turned and began the descent. At the bottom was a small, dark, circular room with a bonfire in its center. Along the walls were statues of Silver Knights, and on the floor were plaques listing the names and deeds of the Knights who fell in Izalith.
Opposite the entrance was a massive statue of the Lord of Sunlight, his accessories coated in gold leaf and gleaming in the firelight. The plaque before this statue said nothing, for in that time, there had been no need to recount the Great Lord's glory. Now, even the fairy tales were fading, and a woman from centuries ago could hardly recognize the god. Beatrice casually attuned to the bonfire and approached the figure, squinting in the dimness. She scratched at the golden greatsword absently.
"I wonder if I would get more selling the peelings or breaking off the whole thing and trying to find a collector."
She blinked twice, then felt the blade with her whole hand.
"Hold a second. More magic artwork? Piss off!"
She fired a soul spear at it, but the energy just washed over the marble like water.
"Oh, a tough guy, are you? How's some of this?!"
An aura of power surged up about her as she fired a soul geyser. Again, the energy seemed to simply drain away.
"This is bullshit! A brick wall is one thing, but I should be able to pop a statue's head right off!"
With magic not working, she proceeded to beat Gwyn's ankles with her staff. She stopped only when she realized the catalyst she'd found in Blighttown had a pointed end; thereafter she was stabbing instead. While being Undead kept her arm from ever growing tired, nothing could protect from boredom, and so she gave up after a time and turned to sulk in front of the bonfire. After a time, an idea came to her. She clenched her fist tight and focused her power into it, squeezing tighter and tighter.
As the glimmer of soul energy shining between her fingers grew blinding, she twisted her body, extending one hand to the bonfire and pointing her fist at the statue. At last, she roared and opened her palm. The room went white, and she fell backward into the bonfire, striking the sword hard enough to knock the air out of her. She screamed as the fire's energy repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt the back of her legs before she was able to throw herself aside. She lay on the ground panting raggedly.
She dry heaved once, twice, then forced herself to stop as she dragged toward the wall. There she remained for a while, blindly hugging her hat. The room had more or less been destroyed by the blast. The Silver Knight statues were in ruins, and the memorial plaques were shattered across the floor. Only the statue of the Great Lord was wholly without damage, looking over the fire imperiously as he always had.
"No. NO! DIE YOU SON OF A BITCH!" the witch screamed, rising once more.
She gripped her gnarled old staff in one hand and the sleek scepter of the Sealer in the other and began to wave both in a frenzy, soul masses forming a galaxy above her head. At last, she unleashed a pair of soul geysers which triggered the rush of stars and sent a river of power over the statue. The witch was panting, sweat pouring down her face, but the marble Lord continued to stand, oblivious to her power.
"PISS OFF!" she shrieked, hysterical now.
She glared at it, her vision growing dark. Her white, featureless eyes bored into the stone. She bit her lip and slowed her breathing.
"So that's what it is," she said, struggling to keep her voice even.
She approached and thrust the tin banishment catalyst upward, striking the statue in the chest. A faint light streamed out of the staff, and the entire wall flickered and faded away. Ahead was a long staircase. The witch grit her teeth and stomped down the stairs until she reached the bottom, where a long rug led toward a doorway blocked by fog. At the end of the rug was a symbol of some sort, with lit candles forming a square about it.
Beatrice hissed and yanked the end of the rug so that the candles fell over. Soon enough, it came alight, and she stepped over the flames to approach the fog. Just as she reached for it, an androgynous voice emanated from within.
"Halt! This is the tomb of the Great Lord Gwyn. Tarnished, it shall not be, by the feet of men. If thou art a true discipline of the Dark Sun, cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me."
"No," Beatrice said absently. "Kneel before me."
She passed through the fog and entered a long hallway. Pillars bearing statues of Silver Knights lined either side, and sunlight streamed in through the windows between them on the right side. At the far end was one final window shining over some sort of platform.
"What foolishness…" the voice echoed from the end of the hall. "Why trespasseth upon the Great Lord's tomb, whilst thou art a disciple of the Dark Sun? Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!"
"Better men have tried, god."
The deity appeared in the distance, a deathly figure with white robes and a sun-shaped mask. Beatrice lashed out with her staff, firing a soul spear, then stomped forward and fired a second. The god's divine power glimmered, and he disappeared in a flicker of lightning. The blasts passed through where he had stood and continued to the end of their range before dissipating. He should have been hard to see, having teleported quite some distance down the hallway, but to Beatrice's dimming sight, he seemed to have a golden glow about him.
She crossed her catalysts and waved them apart over her head, spreading a score of soul masses as she ran after him. He responded in kind, casually swinging his golden scepter to draw a line of glimmering orbs that rushed toward her and popped her crude sorcery before it had a chance to fire. Now, he drew it back, and when he swung, a small sun made of souls roared down the hall. The witch spun so that it narrowly missed her and fired another spear. This one struck its mark, but the god shrugged it off, firing another wave of homing orbs.
While Beatrice took cover behind one of the pillars, the god pulled an elaborate golden bow from his robes and with his dextrous fingers, nocked five black-fletched arrows at once. The instant the witch left cover, his fingers danced across the string, causing phantom images to fire the arrows in sequence rather than at once. Beatrice was narrowly able to avoid this attack by rolling under it, but a second stream of arrows followed without pause. Trapped, she quickly tossed Logan's floppy hat into the air in front of her, dulling the blow a little before the arrows stabbed into her shoulder. She roared as she regained her feet, running to get into range with total abandon.
The god raised his scepter again and vanished with a spark. Three figures approached from the far end of the hallway. The idiot patrol had returned, apparently, and were rushing to meet her.
"Beatrice, are you quite all right?" Siegmeyer bellowed. "I'm sorry for losing you back there."
"Pay attention, you shitheads!" the witch hissed, trying to remove the hat from her shoulder if not the arrows. "There's some jackass god in here.
"Oh Beatrice, are you fighting with Lady Gwyndolin? She has been a most gracious host."
"What would you expect?" Oscar jabbed. "She's all ill-tempered, ungrateful witch."
"Whatever," Lex sighed. "Let's just tell her so we can get back to business."
"Tell me what, ki-?"
A beam of soul energy wrenched across the room. Beatrice threw herself to the floor as it seared overhead. When she looked up, the trio hadn't moved. Worse, they couldn't move, flesh and steel turned to stone. A fourth figure walked down the long hallway, a trail of souls draining from his mouth like smoke.
"I'll be taking my hat back now," Logan said flatly as he approached.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Beatrice spat, rising. "Those goody two-shoes didn't have shit to do with taking your hat."
"Oh, they'll be fine," Logan continued. "It will take more than that to do away with Undead who surmounted Sen's Fortress in the blind pursuit of some greater good. You, my dear arsonist, don't seem quite so determined. The color has already gone from your eyes. Tell me, how much longer do you have before you hollow?"
Beatrice glared at him with blank eyes. The humanity she had been hoarding roiled beneath her skin.
"Not afraid?" the old sorcerer hummed. "You should be. Could it be that monsters can't feel fear?"
He struck Lex's petrified body with uncharacteristic force, shattering it and sending pebbles and dust spraying across the hall.
"So confident," he said. "Perhaps I should destroy your little friends again and again until they hollow themselves. Hm? Does that scare you?"
Beatrice growled and slung both arms forward, blasting him with a pair of soul spears. The old man simply extended his hands and caught them, dispersing the souls as he closed his fists.
"Everything could have been avoided if you had just come along quietly. They needn't have died."
The witch turned to see blood oozing out of Oscar and Siegmeyer's armors. The countless pieces of Lex strewn across the floor dripped with gore.
"They had people they cared about too, you know? Those poor souls who died in the blaze."
The hallway had changed. They stood in one of the Dragon School's dormitories, tongues of fire whipping about them as the building collapsed. The air was black with smoke, and the shrieks of those trapped echoed throughout.
"Don't give me this shit!" Beatrice snarled. "You bastards started it!"
The hall was gone altogether now. They stood outside a small cottage in the woods. The whole building was alight, and it was rapidly spreading to the dead trees surrounding. Beatrice had shrunk some, and her eyes were a vivid green. She glared at Logan with such intensity that his face melted, and he became a different person altogether.
Gone was the matted gray hair, hooked nose, and tired eyes. In their place was the grin of a jackal, sharp features, and the strength of youth. This sorcerer had a few of his fellows by his side, all dressed in the black robes of Vinheim's secret order of sorcerer-assassins. Beatrice's trademark robes were gone, and she was dressed as a simple peasant, though she clutched her hat tightly.
"A shame about the old witch," one chuckled. "Just one of the risks of practicing that pyromania nonsense. Accidents can happen."
"Now that's not fair," another said seriously. "She was awfully old! Maybe she just knocked over a lantern!"
With that, they started laughing again. Beatrice ignored them, eyes still locked with the man who was no longer Logan.
"Don't give me that look," he said teasingly. "The old bat didn't have to die. You're just bad luck is all. A monster who kills and devours everyone around her."
The fire overtook the wood, and the sorcerers were washed away in the heat haze. Their leader melted again and became a bald, hook-nosed betrayer. Beatrice had shrunk again, now a girl of perhaps a dozen winters, wearing rags and an open-faced helm much too big for her. They stood on a ruined field, and all around them were corpses. Rats and vultures feasted on their rotten flesh while humanity swirled about them.
"Don't take it personally, love. It's just business is all."
"No! This is-! This already-!"
The putrescent smell was overwhelming, and Beatrice vomited, the helmet thrown from her head as she heaved. When she looked up, the scene had changed again. She was much smaller now, and the horrid smell was one of disease. A thin cloth covered a body riddled with sores while moans of pleasure echoed in the background.
"Mama?"
Overwhelmed, Beatrice lost control of her senses. Her humanity bubbled close to the surface, but before it could spill out, a gentle hand restrained it. Her head rocked as she relived the scenes again and again, gradually forgetting the sunlit hall in which she had begun. At last the burden became too much, and she collapsed at the foot of the stairs.
"How foul," Gwyndolin commented, slithering toward her on his dozen snake's tails. "It seems as though there is no end to human wickedness. Thea, this Undead is not Father's successor. Dispose of it. Ensure the mad Duke lay not hand upon it."
The Fire Keeper of Anor Londo genuflected before him.
"As you command, my lord."
The knightess collected Beatrice's limp body and threw it over her shoulder before beginning the trek up the stairs. The god's eyes followed her.
"No servant of the Darkmoon," he whispered. "How terrible these men have become to have forced entrance."