AS FORETOLD IN THE SACRED TEXT, THE TIME HAS FINALLY COME!
From the title of this chapter, i don't have to tell you what I mean by that. AND I FINISHED IT EARLY NO LESS.
I'm so excited to finally have gotten to this point in the story and to present it to all you dear readers out there. I'm not even going to hold you here with any distractions this time.
So I hope you guys enjoy the newest chapter of the story.
Warning: What the heck are you doing wasting time reading the warning sign for? Get to the story, ya goof.
In the unending night of the painted world, a figure sprinted through the passages cloaked in a mass of fiery shadows. This figure was of course the Prophet. Allowing his pyromancy to trail across his form as he moved forward, concealing almost his entire upper body in darkness.
It had been three days since his initial entry into the Painted World, and he had spent every waking moment of that time pushing forward to the tower that held the way out.
Unfortunately, despite the days that had now passed him by, he had hardly made any progress toward his goal. Every step he took had to be earned though bloodshed and battle. Every instance he thought he could take a moment to rest, he would be reminded that prison would allow no such respite.
The hollows would swarm him in droves, the crows would spot him from their perch and alert their comrades to the dinner that was roaming about and the hollowed archers waiting above on rooftops would always seem to find the perfect time to ambush him.
But the prophet did not mind this never-ending cycle of violence. In fact, he welcomed them all to come and find him. It was more than evident to him that even if he did manage to escape, the only thing waiting for him would be an all-out battle with the gods on the outside.
So he would used these battles prepare himself for what he knew was coming. With each skirmish, he grew further and further aware of his ability's strengths and limitations.
He embraced the wild and chaotic nature of his darkened pyromancy. In this prison containing only enemies, he let its explosive force rage freely. When swarmed by countless enemies at every turn, he wasted no time in utilizing its full capabilities. In his wake, stone buildings were reduced to little more than piles of dust and rubble, hollows fell by the dozens at a time with a single attack and no matter how they tried to attack him all they would find was air and illusion.
However, the use of his sorcery was a different matter altogether.
As he battled and used his magic to survive, it quickly became apparent that the power that enveloped his body was of a finite supply. He could discard and recreate the form of the broken sword as many times as he wished, but he couldn't form more than six at any given time. No matter he tried to will more into being, it didn't feel like he was making any headway in overcoming such a limitation. It was somewhat irritating to know that while Velka could create a multitude of magic weapons, he could only form but a few at a time.
Of course, he wasn't given much of a choice but to worked with what was given to him nonetheless.
Sprinting forward past the empty buildings around him, the Prophet, for the umpteenth time, was in the process of being swarmed by hollows at all sides. At this point, he could scarcely find a reason to take them seriously. As such, instead of using his pyromancy to deal with them all with but a few attacks, he chose to purposefully handicap himself. Deciding to rely solely rely on the use of his sorcery.
Though the hollows weren't much of a threat, they without question exceedingly convenient means for him to practice and hone himself to a fair degree.
"Go…"
With that silent command, as if the shadow of his cloak had suddenly come to life, a shrouded mirage of the Prophets form broke free from his person shot forward like a ghost with magic weapon in hand and slit the throat of the nearest hollow.
Following immediately after it and planting himself directly in the center of the mob, the Prophet wasted little time in working in tandem with his mirage to cut through each and every one of them. A cut to the jugular, a thrust through the heart, a pierced eye socket, a stab beneath the jaw. Using a variety of alternating methods, he fluidly cut down a total of twelve hollows before willing away his mirage and using five magic blades methodically pierce the heads of the remaining six that were left.
Then, without so much as a backward glance at his fallen enemies, he charged forward once more.
Frankly, he felt no accomplishment in such actions. These encounters and movements felt tedious and boring to him. The undead here did not present any sort of challenge. He wanted something to push him and allow further development of his skills. Something to aid in his growth. But so far, he hadn't encountered anything of the sort.
After a while of moving through the prisons confines and killing any hollow that got in his way, the Prophet found himself approaching upon a new sight.
As he walked into what appeared to be a courtyard of some kind, his surroundings opened up and widened around him. Granting him a great deal of breathing room. Sweeping the area over for a moment, he didn't know what exactly to make of this place.
To his right was what he could only describe as a mass graveyard decorated with a multitude of gravestones buried into the snowy earth and an even greater number of frozen corpses impaled upon spears all throughout the graveyard.
But above all else, what caught the Prophets eye was the tall, snow covered statue that sat squarely in the center of the courtyard. Though its likeness had long since deteriorated and it lacked her wings, he'd recognize the face it bore anywhere.
"A statue of Velka….but what's the use of putting something like that in a place like this? A warning maybe?" The Prophet mused to himself as he gazed at the effigy before him. "I guess it probably wouldn't hurt to place a reminder of who would be waiting for them if the prisoners ever tried to escape. But wouldn't it be better suited near holding cells or even the exit? Sitting it next to a graveyard in a wide-open place like this doesn't seem like very good use of intimidation."
While standing in place and gazing up at the oddly misplaced effigy, the Prophet suddenly heard something moving beneath the snow at the foot of the statue. Once he got a good look at what it was, he could only shake his head.
"Well, you guys are about as cliched as it gets hiding out in the snow like that." The Prophet said as the head of a hollow slid free of the snow with a dry, scratching moan, followed by that of six identical others. Only when they slowly made their way free of the position, was he able to see that they were different from the other hollows he had faced.
For lack of a better phrase, the creatures seemed to be nothing more than masses of flesh that looked as if they had been melted and fused together, with the only thing seemingly normal enough about them being their heads and arms. Though incredibly disgusted by the sight of them, the Prophet turned his attention past their appearance and focused instead on the weapons that were held in each of the monster's hand.
As they split away from the snow and slowly shambled towards him, he could clearly see that they each held a sturdy spear in their right hand and a large leather shield in the left. Not to mention that it did not go unnoticed that they all appeared coordinated enough to move together in a close nit formation and use their shields raised to protect themselves.
It was almost a shame that, despite this coordinated formation and flawless positioning of spear and shield, that they all moved at a snail's pace.
Releasing a sigh of annoyance at being met with yet another disappointment, the prophet quickly will a softball sized ball of Black Pyromancy in his hand before throwing directly at the right of the group of hollow abominations. With a ferocious crash, the enhanced ball of flame erupted violently the moment it contacted the creature's shields.
With their sloppy and meaty bodies unable to brace against the force blow, the fiery explosion annihilated the leather shields and ripped their flesh to pieces. With only a single hollow on the farthest left remaining relatively unharmed.
The final hollow in question could only stare blankly at its now annihilated formation. Even for a hollow, the surprise on its face was evident. Directly next to him, those that were caught up in the explosion couldn't even roll thought the snow to put out the flames thanks to their deformed bodies and could only scream as their flesh charred black and they suffered the excruciating pain of burning to death.
"Sorry, but I'm not a nice enough guy to wait for you guys to make your way towards me." The Prophet explained plainly to his remaining foe. For someone such as himself, who currently had more power than he knew what to do with, it was the natural course of action. Yet…he did still feel a twinge of pity for the hollows here.
They probably weren't anything more that humble guardians who patiently and dutifully guarded this statue. Judging by the snow that was previously piled over all their bodies, they must have spent an eternity waiting for someone, anyone, to pass by and allow the to prove their worth.
Then finally, someone capable enough of surviving so long in the pits of this prison and looking to delve even deeper had appeared before them. It was quite possible that even in their hollowed state, they were eager to finally to be able to do battle with someone worthy and prove their dedication. But then, before they could even begin to fight, their opponent obliterated all but one of them with but a single attack.
"Keep in mind, probably could have killed you with the rest If I wanted. But I needed to make sure one of your spears didn't get destroyed. Once I take it from you, you'll follow after your buddy's there." The Prophet said coldly, not even certain if the thing before him could understand his words.
Though it must have been capable of doing so, for the remaining hollow suddenly held a bloodcurdling expression upon its face as it turned towards the Prophet. Though it only released a dry, growl from its throat, the Prophet got the feeling it was attempting to say something along the lines of "How dare you, you bastard!"
In what could only be described as an act of defiance towards its foe, the hollows held the spear above its head, cocked its arm back threw the weapon with all its might directly towards the Prophets chest.
Unfortunately, with the attack being as slow and telegraphed as it was, the Prophet was easily able to turn his body to the side and allow the weapon to firmly stab into the earth directly next to him.
"Heh, didn't think you'd just hand it to me, but all right." The Prophet said with a smile as he wretched the weapon from the snow-covered earth and examined it nonchalantly.
Spear
Standard spear used commonly by soldiers.
Long reach, and can be used with shield up.
Effective against hard exteriors, and can hit
for high damage at the right moment of an
enemy's swing. But the hit radius is small,
and it is easily blocked by shields.
"Okay, now let give this a try." The Prophet said to himself as he held the weapon in his hand and stared at its form. He wasn't exactly certain how the whole mimicking a weapon with magic thing was supposed to work, but it couldn't be too complicated a process to learn, could it?
So, with the fleshy form of the last hollow still groaning and slowly making its way towards him, the Prophet took a deep breath and focused his thoughts on willing his magic on cloaking the weapon. Soon enough, a sort of misty, blue aura snaked from his hand and covered it completely. Then, with only a small amount of light to show that the task was done, the aura faded. Leaving the Prophet with the feeling of somehow gaining something within himself.
Wanting to confirm that his sorcery did as intended, he willed a small ball of magical light to fly before him. Focusing solely on the memory of the spear that was now imprinted upon his soul, his sorcery reacted to his wishes by extending its body and sharpening one end to a deadly point. A perfect ethereal copy completely identical to the spear that still sat in his hand. Not two seconds after, did he will two more to appear directly in front of him for a grand total of three.
Though he did attempt to form more, it seemed his magic did not wish to comply.
"Hmm, I can make six broken swords, but my limit with spears is only three?" The Prophet thought to himself as he gazed at the assorted weapons that twirled around him and put a thumb to his chin. "Why is the number for this weapon more limited than the other. Is it a difference in size and mass that determines capacity? Or maybe a problem of needing more concentration? Hmm…"
"GRAAAAAH" the hollow groaned as it continued to slowly make its way toward the Prophet, seemingly intent on seeking revenge for its comrades. Even if the only thing it had left was its shield.
Turning a sidelong glance at the creature, the Prophet nonchalantly willed all three of the spears to split into different directions before sending them crashing into its body. Two of them spears easily pierced into the mass of flesh that was its body, with the final one stabbing it directly through the head and killing it without much trouble.
Without speaking a single word further one the matter, the Prophet made his way past the statue and the corpses now littered around it. His eye's glanced over the leather-bound shield the hollow held as he passed by it. It had indeed occurred to him that maybe he could possibly form a copy of it similar to how he did with weapons, but the seeing that the actual state of the shield looking rugged and none too sturdy, he decided against it. He may have been able to mimic it appearance, but he kept in mind that whatever he copied would always be weaker than the original was.
Was there really any point in forming a useless magic shield that would no doubt crumble at the first opportunity?
Discarding the thought from his mind, the Prophet walked across the courtyard until finally coming upon a large steel door that blocked the way forward. Staring at the impeded passage in confusion for a moment, he stepped closer and attempted to push the doors open to no avail.
"Okay then…"
BOOSH
Of course, his second reaction was to try and force it open with his pyromancy. But once again, this seemed to have no effect on the metal that barred his way, much to the Prophets annoyance.
"For fucks sake…" the Prophet said as he turned back the way he came. The way to open this thing must have been around here somewhere. Or at the very least, there had to be an alternate path he could take. But as his gaze swept of his surroundings, he saw that there was only the graveyard, which ended in a steep downward cliff, and stairway that lead to the inside of a large building off to the side.
Not really seeing much of any other option, he decided to try his luck with the building. Maybe it has a switch to open the gate or held some way for him to work his way around it.
Quite honestly, he'd take anything that didn't force him to backtrack the way he'd came. For all he knew, it would take another handful of days to find a way around that way.
Making his way up the stairs and traveling inside, the Prophet found that the building was just as bare and empty as the cell he had rested in when he got here. After noting this, he began to proceed with his search.
He didn't need to roam the building very long before stumbling upon a back room that held the quite the eerie sight.
It was a ladder that lead down into a pitch-black hole.
"Huh. A dark hole in the middle of an empty build inside a prison for monsters. A bigger red flag, there has never been." The Prophet said as he gazed down the hole with a raised eyebrow. There was no reason for him to take the risk of going down there other than the small chance that there might be a way to get the gate open down there or at least get past it. "Well, its leading further down, so maybe there's a good chance. Maybe…"
With nothing more than that flimsy logic and his desire to not have to travel back the way he came; the Prophet descended the ladder.
Once he finally reached the bottom, the first thing that greet the Prophets senses was the pitch black darkness and the fact that the floor beneath him was flooded with freezing, cold water that came up to his ankles.
Pausing to allow his sight to adjust, the Prophet could make out rows of thick pillars scattered throughout the area, each one covered in a thick layer of green moss and mold and spaced out at regular intervals.
He could have used his pyromancy to try and brighten his immediate surroundings, but he knew that doing so would have the drawback of drawing the attention of enemies that might be near as well as blinding him to anything that wasn't relatively close to him.
So he decided that it would be better to let his sight adapt to the dark and use it to his advantage should the need arise.
Stepping further inside, the Prophet made sure to keep himself sharp and ready for any sort of surprises that might jump free from the darkness around him. As such, he was content to simply slosh through the cold water as he searched for a possible path that would lead him past the gate.
CLANG
It was only after searching for a handful of minutes did the Prophets foot suddenly kicked against something beneath the water. Something with more than a bit of weight to it. Once he got a good look at what was at his feet, an amused smile came across the Prophets lips.
"Nice." He said in an impressed tone as he leaned forward and picked up a large scythe from the ground.
It only took him a moment to understand that something wasn't right with the weapon, as his arms suddenly began to emit a blue aura. He had no idea why, but it appeared that his magic was reacting all on its own to him holding the scythe in his hands.
"Hm? What's going on with my mag-UUUGH!"
Suddenly, as a tidal wave of crippling pain suddenly washed over his body, the Prophet muscles clenched and strained uncontrollably. The blue aura around his hands and arms slowly faded into nothing as what could only describe as a gnawing feeling enveloped his body completely starting at his hands.
As he clenched his teeth tightly and struggled to keep his mind straight, the Prophets mind repeatedly shouted to his body to drop the goddamn scythe. With one last mental push, he wrestled control of his body back from the pain, opened booth of his palms and allowed the weapon to fall back into the water with a resounding splash.
His body still pulsating with pain and his vision against the darkness, the Prophet swayed back and forth before allowing himself to fall to a knee as he brought a hand to his head to somehow try and lessen the pain. Only to find that his hands were now covered in seemingly open cuts and were trailing blood across his arms.
"Wha?" the Prophet said in confusion as the taste of iron fell upon his tongue and smallest trace of slide down the side of his mouth.
After touching his cheek and seeing that it was indeed his blood that he was tasting, the Prophets eye's hardened.
Wiping the small trail of blood from mouth, the Prophet look down at the scythe with a more firm and cautious air.
Lifehunt Scythe
Scythe born from the soul of Priscilla, the
stark white crossbreed trapped inside the
Painted World of Ariamis.
Even the Gods feared Priscilla's Lifehunt
ability, and in the hands of a mortal, its
power will turn upon its wielder.
"Lifehunt…" the Prophet said, letting the word roll of his tongue for a moment in thought as he put two and two together to deduce just what had happened to his body just now.
His magic had reacted on its own the very second he touched the scythe. Knowing that he had the ability to passively weakened magic near him, it was probably safe to assume that it was trying to protect him from whatever "Lifehunt" was but became overwhelmed.
Being careless and not watching what he touched almost cost him. He needed to be more careful.
Deciding that he had had more than enough of being in this place, the Prophet turned to head back towards the ladder and leave.
However, before he could get more than two steps, the water near the pillar just to his right stirred.
"..Lau..trec..?" he heard a faint, hoarse female voice say. Startled, the Prophet looked over towards the pillar at his side. He was certain that he wasn't so distracted that he wouldn't notice someone right next to him. Yet there was indeed something sitting so close nearby yet had gone completely unnoticed.
The "something" that had just made its presence known squirmed slightly as it struggled to look up to him from its seated position against the pillar.
"A…person?" the Prophet said as his eye's focus through the dark just enough to know that the thing slumped against the pillar was indeed a person.
The pure whiteness of its form made it easier to distinguish a feminine form from the shadows of the labyrinth. Taking a closer look, he could see that her body was covered in deep and brutal injuries. Especially her leg, which look to have gashed and cut with the intent to cripple. From the shallow and painful sound of her breathing, he could guess the damage was probably a lot worse than what he could see right now.
Her pure white hair dangled limply in front of her face, much like the ghost from a certain famous horror movie. Still despite her haggard appearance and her hair covering the better part of her face, it was still clear she was quite beautiful.
The Prophet stiffened in surprise; he hadn't expected to bump into another person in a place like this. It seemed the girl was just as surprised to see him too, as she was staring at him with dumbfounded shock.
"…Who…art thou?..."
The question, though spoken lowly, echoed around him. After a moment of silence, he took a few breaths to steady himself and then simply said…
"Nobody important."
With that, he turned and proceeded to walk back towards where he knew the ladder would be. But before he could, the pale, white haired girl called out to him once more. Her voice was hoarse and weak, most likely due to the pain of her wounds, but the desperation was clear.
"W-Wait…! Please…! Come back…"
"No thank you." The Prophet replied curtly, then returned his attention to the exit. A truly heartless reply.
"W-Why… Please…D-Don't go…Search thine heart and show mercy..." She really was desperate. Though she could barely move her body, she still raised her face up to look at him.
But even then, the Prophet only gave a simple, unwavering reply.
"I'm guessing that scythe belongs to you, right? That must mean that you're Priscilla." The Prophet stated coolly beneath the shadows of his hood. "If the few seconds I've experienced holding your little toy is anything to go by, you and your little Lifehunt ability spell nothing but trouble for me. I bet you're probably waiting for the first chance you can get to use it on me. Thanks, but no thanks."
It was a fair argument.
However, the Prophet was not so devoid of sympathy that he did not pity her to an extent. But that pity did not extend so far as to blindly try and go near her. He would not forget that this place was made to hold with the worst of the worst, nor would he even allow her the chance to try and trick him. Whatever happened her, she'd have to figure her way out herself.
Though he had refused her bluntly and his form had long since been lost in the dark to her, the girl continued helplessly calling out for help.
"No! Cough…I-I'm not anyone bad...! Please wait! I…"
She could hear his footsteps getting farther and farther away. She knew that the exit wasn't too far, and that soon enough she would be alone here in the dark once again. She had to say something to convince him, but her mind could find nothing to say to change his mind.
After seconds, she began to feel the stillness begin to creep over her once again silent. She couldn't breathe. It felt as if the dark was beginning to choke her. She was being left to die again.
In one last bid of desperation, a choked cry for help forced itself up from her throat, and she felt a drop run down her cheek.
"Please…I did nothing wrong…I don't want to die here…"
As he heard these final resigned words, the Prophets footstep came to an abrupt halt. Had he been a bit faster he might not have heard her crying and begging the way that she did.
She sounded so helpless. It did not help that as he stood in place, he could hear her begin to weep in the dark behind him. And so, he stood frozen in place. The minuscule light from the opening of the ladders hole was all that illuminated the darkness within. Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Finally, he released a tired and somewhat irritated sigh as he frowned unhappily to himself.
No matter what she said, he shouldn't have stopped there. No matter how he sliced it, she was exceedingly dangerous. Dangerous enough that even gods like Gwyndolin fear her. And there was no proof she wasn't simply trying to deceive him either. In fact, it was likely she was just some evil creature trying to deceive him so she could drain the life from his body.
He had every justifiable reason to simply leave this place and let her fade from memory. There shouldn't be any reason for him to hesitate…and yet he didn't.
"Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?" the Prophet sighed to himself as the thought crossed his mind.
He scratched his head uncomfortably for a moment, before turning around and walking back towards the girl's position. Of course, he still kept on his toes while he did so.
Once she heard footsteps approaching her from the shadows once again, the girl could only stare forward in silence a few moments as the man came just close enough for her to see him again.
"T-Thou…Thou returned…" she said whispered lowly, the surprise written all over her face. "Thank-"
"Don't thank me." The Prophet said calmly as he turned his gaze away from her for a moment in thought. He was somewhat frustrated with himself. What he was doing was stupid, wasn't it?. He didn't know her, he sure as hell didn't trust her and he was needlessly putting himself at risk by staying near her. Yet still, here he was standing here without a single clue why. "Your scythe. It tells me that you were locked inside this world because of your Lifehunt ability. Explain to me exactly who you are and what it does."
She stared fixedly at him through her dirty white locks, reptilian yellow eye's gleaming in the darkness. He began to grow impatient at her continued silence.
"Hey, are you listening? If you don't want to explain, then I'll just leave." He said brusquely and turned on his heel. The girl came to her senses with a start and quickly began speaking, even going so far as to repeat her name. Which he clearly already demonstrated he knew.
"The name that was granted to me is Priscilla…My father…wished to use me...to attain something new….but my power was not what he wished…. And could not be control initially…I was deemed too dangerous…but because of what I was capable of ….they were too frightened of too attempt to kill me….so they decided to send me here instead….and I accepted their decision…"
She spoke haltingly, but desperately, her parched throat making speech difficult. The Prophet sighed as he heard her tale, but he caught the fact that she had told him just enough without going too far into specifics. The hesitation in her voice when she mentioned her "father" was a telling sign that there was more to this story, but he decided to ignore it for now.
"That still doesn't explain what Lifehunt is or why people were afraid of it." The Prophet said simply. "Tell me the whole truth."
Priscilla averted her gaze for a moment in thought, clearly contemplating carefully exactly what she was going to say. After two seconds of solemn contemplation, she grunted in pain as she slowly raised her hand to the pillar behind her.
The very instant her fingers touched upon the stone did its surface begin to break down and decay.
"I was born as the antithesis of life…I am capable of sapping the essence of anything at my touch…But if I remain sound of mind, I can deny such effects from occurring…" she explained to the man, expected his reaction of be that of fear or panic.
But he had surprised her with his nonchalant response. Instead of showing any sort of additional fear or caution, he simply put a thumb to a thumb to his chin in thought.
"Hmm, I see. So you steal life from things close to you and they locked you here because of it." The Prophet mused lowly in an understanding tone. "So that's the power they were afraid of?"
Seeing that he did not show fear or hesitation, Priscilla felt a bit of the trepidation in her chest leave her.
"Yes, but…it was also because of my ability to meld with my surroundings If I so choose….and the fact that those with even a smidgen of life in their being are drawn to me …with minds eager to receive my touch…"
At this, the Prophet tiled his head and raised an eyebrow toward her.
"So not only do you drain life from others with only a touch and can go full chameleon, but your body is catnip for living beings too?" he said offhandedly, suddenly finding himself somewhat less on edge now that he knew what he was dealing with.
Having to focus on dealing with Gwyndolin, a god who could form anything he needed with but a thought, the prophet honestly didn't feel too concerned with Pricilla's ability's now that she had explained them. He felt he had plenty of options to avoid and counter something as simple as her touch if he needed too.
Not to mention that, despite what she said to the contrary, the Prophet didn't feel like he was drawn to touch her in the slightest. Since he was a living being, he should have felt the urge to do that, right? Seeing the questioning look suddenly appear in her eye's, he could tell that she had just realized much the same.
After thinking it cover for a moment, he thought that maybe it was the protection his magic granted him that prevented such a feeling? It seemed capable of fighting off her scythe's effects for a short while before giving out, so perhaps the same could be said to the invisible "attraction" that surrounded her.
"…Please, save me…" she begged softly as she watched him sink deep into thought. This last plea would be the final step in their discussion, and she knew it. Turning her eyes towards the weapon on the ground between them, she spoke her next words in a gentle tone. "My scythe…it is tethered to me….If you allow it to partake in thine flesh for but a moment….it will mend my wounds…"
Hearing this, the Prophets eye's suddenly hardened as he looked the her liked she had asked him to offer his life for her own. But Priscilla did not retreat from his gaze, knowing that doing so may send the wrong message of her intentions.
"If that's all it takes, then there are plenty of those birds and dead things outside of here. Why wouldn't you ask me to use them instead?" the Prophet said in an almost accusingly voice.
"They are not truly alive as you are…those of flight were created of nothing, as was I…..and the undead are merely caught in the waves of some distant force…It brings back their bodies back, but not their essence…They cannot heal me as you can …" Priscilla explained in a pleading tone. "Please….I only require but a small cut…just a small piece of you…"
"Hmm…" was all the Prophet said as he stared at the girl unblinkingly. She stared right back. They spent what felt like an eternity gazing into each other's eyes. Finally, the Prophet scratched his head awkwardly and breathed a long sigh. He then bent down and kneeled in front of the scythe, before mumbling to himself for a moment. "Dammit, I knew that ladder was a red flag."
"Ah." Her eye's opened wide as she realized what he was doing. He ignored her and continued prepping himself for what he knew he was a about to do.
Why was he helping her? What possible reason did he have for giving a piece of his "essence" to heal her? The Prophet honestly didn't have a good answer. Even knowing the danger she presented and knowing the severity of giving her what she asked, leaving her to die just didn't feel right.
It seemed that even if he wasn't completely himself, he still couldn't go against his moral nature. Even when concerning someone as dangerous as her.
Knowing there was little point in delaying the decision, the Prophet laid hands upon the scythe for the second time. Predictably, his magic reacted immediately in the same manner as it had done before. Forming an aura of blue light across his hands and arms to stave off the weapons abilities.
Knowing he had only a few seconds before his sorcery gave out, he reached up and quickly dragged his palm across the scythes blade, drawing blood and giving the girl what she wanted.
The effects of doing so were instantaneous.
The Prophet magic might had helped stave off the effects from touching the scythe, but it could do nothing to fight against a direct cut to his flesh. Little by little, he could feel a part of himself seep into the blade.
But this time he was ready for the pain that swept over him.
Just as his magic faded into nothingness and the blood from his wounds began to trail from his arm and along the weapons body, he quickly released his hold upon it and allowed the ravenous tool to fall back into the water with a resounding and wet splash.
Even as he released the weapon from his grip, the Prophet could still feel a pulsating echo of pain surge through his body. With a doggedness that surprised even himself, he took deep, strained breaths in an attempt to regain himself.
Looking down at her, he saw that for some reason Priscilla was inhaling just as deeply as he was while holding a hand to her chest. Which he felt was strange considering the wounds that were once all over her body were now completely nonexistent.
Not caring about the cold water flooding the floor, the Prophet sat down on the pillar next to her. He was still panting heavily, finding it incredibly difficult to catch his breath. It seemed that giving her only a small piece of his life force had exhausted him greatly.
"I…huff…hope that's enough...cause that's all you're getting out of me." The prophet said as he slumped his head forward and raised a hand towards her in an unconcerned manner.
Unfortunately, before he could let the offending hand slacken and fall, the girl beside him suddenly reached her hand up and firmly grabbed hold of him.
The Prophet wasn't aware of it, nor would there be a reason he would be aware of it, but his essence was far too…intoxicating to her. Irresistibly so, even.
Her body reacted in a manner she had never experienced before and screamed to her to take more of such potent nectar. The urge to devour his entire being was all consuming. This insatiable feeling overwhelmed her sense of self, driving her body to react on its own and seek out the source of this sudden euphoria. She needed to have more of it, she needed to have all of it.
For his part, the prophet immediately became aware of the mistake he'd made and the fact that something was wrong with her. For but a moment, he had become far too comfortable and carefree. After helping her and deciding to put a bit of trust in this stranger, his thoughts had defaulted to thinking that she was to be considered something other than a passive enemy. This thinking led him to lower his guard and caused him to sit next to her, heedless of what she could still do to him.
A mistake worthy of death.
Taking a sharp gasp of air, his eyes quickly snapped toward hers. What he saw in her gaze could only be described as pure and ravenous hunger. It was the look of a predator who had just locked eyes with its prey. Coupled with the feeling of dread that came with knowing that she had a direct hold of him, the Prophets mind blared loudly for him to kill her before she killed him.
At this mad, instinctual thought, three ethereal broken swords immediately came into existence above her head. But…the Prophets thoughts came to a sudden and abrupt halt.
Perhaps it was because his magic had just been put through the wringer from cutting himself with her Scythe, but as he stared directly into her eye's, he suddenly found himself almost swooning in her deep pools of yellow. No matter how hard he tried or how his thought screamed to him, he could not break away from her gaze. In fact, as the seconds ticked by, he found himself wanting to be lost even further inside of them.
Fully and truly, she had him right where she wanted him.
But then, as abruptly and suddenly as it had come, the hunger in her eye's was gone. The predatory feeling she gave off faded away into nothingness and before him once again was only a helpless girl.
As she continued to stare into his eye's and regained herself, the look of sudden realization of what she was doing, as well as the look of confusion as to why she was doing it, came across her face.
The Prophet could only watch as a wealth of emotions swelled within her reptilian eye's. Then, in a small and trembling, yet powerful voice, the girl conveyed her feelings.
"I'm sorry…I did not mean to do that."
The prophet wasn't sure he could ever express the sheer indecision and confusion he felt at hearing those words. He sat there quietly, his hand in hers and his eye's never leaving her own. His weapons still hung directly above her head, ready to skewer her at a moment notice.
He tried to remove his hand from hers, but every time he attempted to do so the look in her eyes took on a look of absolute panic and terror, before tightening even further.
He was almost certain that she hadn't noticed his blades above her head, so that meant she wasn't keeping hold of him because she was afraid he was going to kill her. Noting this thought, it crossed the prophets mind to wonder how long had she been here sitting in complete darkness alone and covered in injuries. If the time he'd spent was anything to go by, she'd must have been stuck down here for days. If so, it was a wonder that she hadn't gone made.
One part of his mind continued to scream "You idiot, you're going to get killed because you're looking for a reason to pity her. She obviously not right in the head. Take her down while you still have the chance.", but even with these thoughts going through his head, the Prophet made no move to kill the woman before him.
After a few minutes of nothing but her staring directly at him, he decided that he would try a different route of approach.
"So…are you going to say thank you or are you just gonna be rude about me helping you?"
At this question, Priscilla's eye's focused that much further into his own, as if she was searching for something hidden meaning behind what he'd said. After coming to terms that there were none, opened her mouth and spoke in a gentle, low tone. Expressing a clear and desperate wish to make amends for what she had almost done.
"…Thank you…"
With that, the two reverted back to the silent staring of once another. Even after bit of time had passed, Priscilla still hadn't let go of his hand, nor did she show any inclination towards doing so. Her hold hadn't even slackened. Keeping in mind the knowledge of what she could do, the Prophet decided that it was best to not try and force himself free.
So after confirming for certain that she wasn't trying to kill him, the Prophet decided to relax himself. There was no reason to get all excited over a little hand holding, right?
Putting on a friendly and nonchalantly smile, he gently squeezed the girls hand back to show that he wasn't afraid right now. Startled, she turned her eye's towards his hand in confusion at what he was doing before shifting her gaze back towards him.
"Don't think I've actually introduced myself yet, have I? My names Kaylen of Demacia, but friends call me Prophet." The Prophet said with a nod of his head. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Priscilla."
"…Yes…" the crossbreed replied deafly before fearfully glancing at the darkness around her, then back to him. "…Can we leave this place…please?"
As she asked this question, her grip tightened around his hand that much further. The Prophet had to restrain a small groan that threatened to escape from his throat as his hand felt like it was being crushed in her hold. It was evident that she was a lot stronger than her feminine appearance gave away.
It came as no surprise that he response was spoken in a tone that desperately tried to hide the pain he was currently being put under.
"U-Uh, sure. We can leave right now if you want."
Needing no further confirmation on their course of action, Priscilla stood to her feet and, much to his great relief, her hold on the prophet's hand slacked as he followed suit.
Standing directly beside her, it came as a bit of a surprise for him to see that she stood almost twice his height.
"Whoa. She's freaking huge…" the prophet thought to himself for a moment as he watched her awkwardly bend over to retrieve her scythe from the ground, refusing to release his hand all the way, before they both made their way to the ladder that would lead them outward.
At this point, she had no choice but to let go of him to climb the ladder with scythe in hand. She hesitated but submitted to this reality and did as such, proceeding to step forward and climb the ladder faster than the Prophet himself thought possible.
Pausing only a moment to shake his hand to will away the soreness he felt, the Prophet followed her up soon after and was met with a surprising revelation.
"Oooooooh, shit." Was all he could think to say as he climbed to the top of ladder and stood in front of her.
In his defense, it was pitch black down in that crypt where they talked. Dark enough that things were more than a bit out of perspective. True, he could tell that she was dressed in an extremely white gown and her hair was similarly colored to said gown and her eye's were a bit strangely shaped and colored, but considering the snowy landscape he found himself in it wasn't the strangest thing he'd bumped in to.
What caught the Prophets eye now was the fact that Priscilla looked like she was ripped straight from the pages of a fantasy book. And not the child friendly kind…
Even in the dark, he could tell that she was quite the beauty, but seeing her up close only reinforced that truth. She was of fair complexion, long wisps of milky white streaked with highlights of ivory that seemed to gleam when they captured the light just right. She had the kindest pair of sunflower yellow eyes trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Lovely eyes, yet somehow gentle, that held a tiny warmth within them. Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted lips, as if crafted by angels themselves; standing this close to her I could see them clearly, glistening attractively with the barest hint of cherry that added further snowy color. All these features set together on a delicate almost, angelic face.
But even still, it was all her inhuman traits that managed to capture his attention to the greatest degree. The milky white scales covering her neck, shoulders and face, the yellowed, reptilian irises that seemed pierce right through him, the small horns the protruded from her forehead, it was all almost enough to make his hear skip a beat just by looking at them.
But the coup de grace of her entire image was the thing that danced and flowed freely just behind her leg. The lithe and supple trail of fluff that was her tail mesmerized him from the moment he laid eyes on it. He was able to get a goo look because she was turned somewhat sideways towards the doorway of the room and himself.
"Oh, that's…Maybe…Maybe it wouldn't be weird if I just touched it for a second. Just for a quick second…" the Prophet thought as he continued to stare at the tail as it.
But, like a red stop sign appearing within his thoughts, he remembers what she had told him when the spoke below.
"…those with even a smidgen of life in their being are drawn to me …with minds eager to receive my touch…"
Repeating this memory in his mind again and again, the Prophet climbed his way free of the ladder and gave a small shake of his head to clear his thoughts.
"Catnip. She's catnip. This aren't my thoughts, it's just her body's natural lure for the life within me." The Prophet told himself as he put together a small theory in his mind.
What if her attraction relied on him actually being able to see her? It would explain why he was experiencing such thought now that they were out of the crypt. Was his magic incapable of shielding him from a something like this?
Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eye's, he attempted to will away any sort of thoughts that involved getting close to her.
"Okay…Just relax for a second. You've dealt with mind tricks before. I wasn't controlled then, and I won't be controlled now. Just take it easy and you got this. Panic is the enemy. You are strong. Through strength of will you shall overcome." The Prophet said, speaking directly towards his inner willpower in a resolute and determined tone.
Opening his eye's and gazing upon her white form for but a few moments more, the Prophet watched as the barest hint of frosty wind came through the room and accentuated her fur in a manner than made appear much more prominent to him.
Coupled with the fact that she was currently looking at him with an expression that seemed disarmingly innocent and curious as to what he was thinking, the Prophets willpower could only speak a single phrase before it walked out of the room and left him to dry….
"You're on your own, pal."
WAIT! WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! JUST HOLD ON A MINUTE BEFORE YOU REVIEW!
Now I know what some of you are thinking, and all I'm gonna say is give me a god-dang chance to see what I'm working with here.
Dispite her popularity, it became very apparent to me that Priscilla has surprisingly very little facts surrounding her lore or who she is. So i have to be careful with keeping her to character while keeping in mind her experiences with Lautrec and keeping the Prophet in character as well, even with him not really being himself at the moment.
Speaking of the Prophet, regarding why he was initially so harsh towards Priscilla, keep in mind that he's got no clue who the heck she is and he's be fighting and roaming in a place he was explicitly told was filled with the worst Anor Londo has to offer. So he would obviously be cautions and heedful of her at first.
Also, I'm just going to put this out there for all the non-believers of Supreme Gamer, you guys have nothing to worry about regarding our resident crossbreeds growth. I am most definitely not going to turn her into a pitiful, wet blanket, damsel in distress. She will have personality, issues as well as her own motives that will be explored due to her encounter with the Prophet.
And I'd like to say that, as a minor spoiler, she held back a few secrets from the Prophet regarding what makes her Lifehunt ability really so dangerous, so look forward to hearing that discussion in the next chapter guys.
Also, for anyone worried about the overpoweredness of Priscilla herself, I want to say that no matter what character i write in this story, I never consider anyone unbeatable or unapproachable. Just like in the Dark Souls games, everyone has faults and can be beaten. Every gods of death like Nito can be beaten by a strong enough undead human. Priscilla's abilities are uniquely strong and will be written as such, but from what I've played of Dark Souls and from everything I know, she's not much of a fighter. In fact, without her invisibility, she's pretty much just flailing her scythe around if you choose to fight her when you meet her. But again, her powers will be explored further in greater detail the coming chapters.
And finally, I FINALLY DID IT, GUYS! I KNOW WHAT THE PROPHET ORIGIN STORY WILL BE NOW! And to add to my excitement, after re-reading everything I wrote for previous chapters, I've already laid out the bread crumbs for the origin to make perfect sense. The only thing I can say without spoiling it is that not even the prophet himself is aware of what he truely is. At the moment, the only two people who might have an idea of the truth of his power would be Yuria the Darkwraith and Priscilla. The only two people who have experienced and noted the overwhelming potency of his soul. But dammit, I can't say anything more than that without giving away the surprise. (You guys got no idea how much of a mindfuck I got planned for the prophet.)
But anyway, I've definitely yammered on for long enough now.
As always, feel free to leave a review and tell me what you guys thought about this chapter of the story? Was Prophet willingness to abandon Priscilla a little too out of character for him? Is it reasonable for the Prophet sorcery to repel Lifehunt, even if only for a few moments? Was Priscilla's reaction to the Prophet reasonable considering what she went through with Lautrec?
Honest opinions are always appreciated as I'm always looking to improve my style of writing to make this story a bit more interesting for you guys. so don't be shy in telling me your thoughts about how things are going so far. Outside opinion will have a huge effect on how this story will play out.
This is Supreme Gamer, Signing out.
P.S. The Prophet is still a weak lad right now, guys. So if you have any idea's for Sorcery or Pyromancy you want to send my way, feel free to have at it.
P.S.S. Handling of the fluff is a delicate matter, my friends. As such, I must limit myself to only so many fondle jokes per chapter. (Please, pray for me to hold to my strength and not make the next chapter about the prophet perving on Priscilla's fluff, guys.)