#return to lordran

[annelidist]

having a great time doing low level dragon eye pvp with this fucking thing

wurm here can obliterate most other characters in his level range with one or two swings, but he can barely handle the weight of his sword and his armour ranges from "rags he stole off a dead person" to "nude". the goal with both this character and my onion knight are to provide a memorable encounter for other players, and i think this half-dressed freak with a dinosaur head entering your world, bowing politely, and thagomizing you in a single blow qualifies for that

[lastoneout]

AY IT'S RETURN TO LORDRAN TIME, LET'S PLAY SOME DARK SOULS <3

[knihil]

𝔅𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔶 𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔭𝔯𝔞 𝔇𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫.

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༒︎ CONTENT WARNING ༒︎ : noncon, grimdark world, physical violence

Tags: sub fem!reader, dom!capra demon, monster fucking, monster cock, deflowerment, penetration through clothes, slapping, mindbreak, stomach bulge, folded like a pretzel, breeding, creampie, pinned down, size difference, breast play

Two demons felled, a pair of gargoyles slain, and one Bell of Awakening rung. You never expected to make it this far on your journey, to have the makings of such an unlikely heroine. Nor did you expect for confidence to be the end of you...

Escaping the undead asylum and killing the stray demon that guarded its exit had proved to be far simpler than expected. Just the same, besting the Taurus demon on the bridge and felling the two gargoyles that stood guard over the first Bell of Awakening were tasks that were insurmountable only in your imagination. Time was beginning to prove that, in all truth, that knight from Astora who'd freed you from your cell was speaking the truth. You very well might be the Chosen Undead.

But before your fate is to be revealed, you still have one last bell to ring, one found opposite of the first. According to the words spoken to you by the crestfallen knight during your stay at Firelink Shrine, the second bell should be down, far, far below. If his dispassionate guidance is to be trusted, then the path you're set upon will culminate at the base of Blighttown. Steeling yourself for what's to come, you stand from the bonfire of the parish, abandoning the quaint respite it offered you, and make your way towards the lower section of the undead burg. Your thoughts wander to possibilities of what trials might lie in wait for you past the depths, what the path to a lost and sunless civilization might be like.

Your armored footsteps against the stone beneath are the only things that accompany your silent journey. Their staccato rhytm offers just enough white noise for you to lose yourself within your mind, your legs carrying your absentminded body past the steps that lead lower and lower. Hollows, deamons, gargoyles... You've slain all of these monstrosities with more finesse than you thought was within your abilities and while each encounter has proven to be more challenging than the last, you've never once failed to persevere towards victory.

It's almost as if some form of divine intervention is guiding you, as if the threads of fate themselves are in your favor. The thought that everything might be a stroke of luck, a string of events chained together by nothing more than mere causality enters your mind for a moment. They don't linger for long, however. Heroes are often found in the most unlikely of places, no? Who's to say you're not the one who'll manage to restore light to the darkening world of Lordran-

Clumsily, you feel yourself bump into something firm yet cloudy in texture. It snaps you from your thoughts and as you shake your head, returning to reality, you're faced by an imposing door of fog. The familiar sight proves to be confusing at first, prompting a quick turn on your heels to survey the area behind. As your eyes scan the town of the lower burg, you realize just how profoundly nestled you were within your thoughts. So much so, that it's only now that you realize you walked the entire way to the lower burg without even feeling it.

As your surprise fades, it becomes far easier to notice the dilapidated state of things in this part of the settlement. Houses have been reduced to their base structures, the wooden beams that once held the walls now as readily apparent as the bones on a malnourished dog. Speaking of which, the rotten remains of animals and people lie slumped over the rim of a well in the center of town. More corpses adorn the surrounding walls, and the stench that permeates the surrounding air serves as the final touch to complete the macabre sight.

Whatever caused this must lie beyond the fog...

For a split moment, you feel the claws of fear begin to scratch at your heart. However, they retract as soon as they tease to sink in. You recall your previous achievements and with renewed vigor, step through the murky veil that separates you from the next demon you'll slay.

Immediately, you're met by its four glowing red eyes. They examine your shorter frame from above, scanning over your form as the creature's veiny hands fist around the hilt of the two oversized cleavers it wields. He's almost entirely bare, clad in nothing more than a loincloth that's been dirtied with stains which have no doubt come from his previous victims. The rest of his muscled physique is left entirely unclothed, the verdigris skin that's stretched taught around its musculature accented by nothing more than bulging veins and a layer of grime. A huff escapes from the goat-like skull the hellspawn wears for a head and your grip instinctively tightens around your own blade.

The demon is imposing. Everything about it hints at something primal, suggesting that its true nature must be far more animal than anything you've faced thus far. Still, you find yourself surprisingly unafraid. Even as the ten foot tall butcher hunches over in preparation to leap at you, confidence is the only thing you feel. And, as the hint of a smirk begins to tug at the corner of your mouth, you realize that you're not afraid.

You are ready.

Channeling the vigor bestowed upon you by your faith in the Prophecy of the Chosen Undead, you leap forward into battle. The hellspawn matches your temper and unleashes a slash with its two cleavers, attempting to split you in two from shoulder to waist. Instinctively, you dodge the attack by a narrow margin, hoping that it will grant you enough time to deliver a riposte.

It's a maneuver that you immediately realize won't work on this fiend. His swings carry such force that the air he cleaves through sends ripples that buffet and unbalance you. You stumble backwards for a moment before regaining your footing and propping the point of your sword forward from a middle guard, hoping to keep the creature at bay as he readies his next move. Two symmetrical swings from either side, a scissor like motion that aims to sever your head clean off your shoulders. The only thing you can think of doing is to throw yourself onto the dirt beneath.

Your sloppily roll to avoid his killing blow and use the momentum to swiftly rise and turn on your heel to face him. As your vision spins around, you find that he's already closed the distance, both of his cleavers raised skyward. Your eyes widen and your heart skips a beat as the sun itself is eclipsed by his towering presence. Almost paralyzed by fear, you shakily raise the flat of your blade in hopes of producing a block or a parry, anything that might save you from certain death.

Its cleavers, powered by the coiling muscles in the demon's arms drop all the way down and through your defenses. Your sword shatters along with your courage. The jagged tip of its weapons crack your breastplate in two, the force of the impact knocking the stability out of your legs. They buckle under the weight of your defeat and your eyes cast a thousand yard glance onto the fragments of steel that lay on the ground.

Before you're even afforded a moment to contemplate your defeat, to process the promise of death that looms over you, you're lifted onto the air. The shock frees you from your trance as the demon hoists you up by the back of your head. "Unhand me! Let go, demon!" You pair your words with a series of kicks and punches aimed at the butcher's torso, but they amount to nothing. You realize now why the creature is so comfortable with wearing nothing in the way of armor.

Even if you had managed to land a strike, it's almost certain that it would have barely scratched the thick hide of its muscles. You feel the familiar claws of fear sink fully into your heart as your pleading eyes lock onto his. They're nothing more than glowing orbs of primal instinct. You've never seen hellfire before, but you're sure that it must glow with the same intensity as this beast's gaze. Your silent pleas for mercy go unanswered as the creature slams you into the ground.

Your body seizes up in terror, your hands clasping around the thick forearm that pins you down. Its eyes roam over you once more and you begin to wonder why it hasn't yet killed you. It's almost as if it is toying with you, waiting for the perfect moment to-

Your heart sinks as you realize where his eyes are directed. The crack in your armor has left one of your breasts exposed to him, the supple flesh peeking through the metal like treasure through a hidden chest. Both of you freeze for a moment. Time seems to stand still as panic begins to take you over, your mind rationalizing the very real possibility that this thing might actually want your body.

The demon's response comes only in the form of his loincloth parting like a curtain to reveal his arousal. Its meat is the most imposing thing you've ever seen. A cock the same length as your forearm, colored the same sickly greyish-hue as the rest of the creature, and decorated with rippling veins that pulse in tandem with the rest of the shaft they coil around. "No... Stop, I-"

You're not even allowed to finish your pathetic plea as the demon's hands clench around the seams of the crack in your armor. You could swear he is barely exerting any force as he finishes splitting sway the obsolete remains of your cuirass. A series of hungry huffs escape from the demon as his calloused mitts palm your now exposed flesh.

You're frozen by the overwhelming feeling of being toyed with by something so much stronger than you, so invincible. Shivers of fear travel down your spine as its cracked fingernails chip against your hardened nipples, grazing and leaving red trails against the rest of your flesh. Your breath comes as a series of ragged and shallow inhales and exhales, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Your eyes, meanwhile, remain locked onto his cock.

It stands proudly over your entire midsection as the creature continues to explore your tits. It's a childish hope, the thought that you might be able to keep its hungry sex away if you simply stare at it long enough. But that hope is swiftly shattered as his hands clasp around your waist and suddenly, both of your hips are in line.

Your heart races against your chest, beating against the inside of your ribcage as you tremble in fear of what's to come. You shake your head, a feeble attempt to deny the reality of what's about to occur as the head of his cock touches your still clothed sex. "Stop! Don't you dare- MMPH!"

Your wail is muffled by his hand, the demon's calloused palm caressed by your breath as he impales you with a single thrust. The seams of your pants part under the force of his hips, and your walls follow suit. You're stretched impossibly to accommodate the butcher's cock. A primal huff erupts from him, delight flowering in his chest as his brutish cock defiles your once virgin hole. Meanwhile, you writhe in a mixture of pain, shock and... Pleasure?

You're not even afforded a moment to process the conflicting emotions as the beast begins to unsheathe its phallic sword from your core. You attempt to draw a breath of relief as you find yourself being emptied, only to taste the musk from his palm. Panic takes hold of your once courageous heart, your nostrils flaring as you writhe and struggle.

The only reward your thrashing yields is the release of your mouth, followed by a firm smack across your face. It's a dizzying strike, one that leaves your vision blurry and halts your feeble attempts at resistance. Dazed, you lie limp on the ground, barely registering the feeling of the demon's meaty hands wrapping themselves around your ankles. Your bones creak as your legs are craned all the way back until your ankles are resting by your head.

You barely feel the strain of your muscles and tendons being stretched past limits you never even dared to scratch the surface of. Your mind is a fog and the only thing that breaks you free from it is the feeling of his cock slamming back into your vulnerable hole. A bellowing roar erupts from the creature as he bottoms out within you, the thrust so forceful that it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

It's awful.

No, not the degradation or the feeling of being rendered helpless so completely. It's not even the searing pain of being skewered by such a massive length that it makes you sure your stomach is bulging. It's the fact that being ruined from the inside out by this thing feels...

Good.

As the demonic wall of muscle proceeds to jackhammer his cock into your soaking wet cunt, a cry of submission drips from your now parted lips. It's a pitiful thing, a sound so indecisive that it straddles the line of both a sob and a whimper. The creature seems to respond in full, growling possessively as it locks eyes with you.

Though words are beyond its capabilities, speech isn't necessary for it to communicate its thoughts. The mixture of his crimson gaze along with every plunge of his hips tells you everything you need to know. You belong to it now. The thought of being claimed reverberates throughout your entire being, echoing around within your skull as the demon marks you from the inside out.

With every wet slap that emanates from each meeting of your hips, every whorish moan that escapes from your widening mouth, you sink ever downward into a spiral of lust driven lunacy. The feeling of your insides molding around the brute's hot cock, your cunt clenching around every vein and ridge of his breeding pole; it's enough to drive you mad. How could such a thing exist? And how is it even possible that your body is accepting, let alone enjoying the feeling of being so thoroughly defiled?

It doesn't matter in the end, not when you feel his massive cock begin to twitch and throb within you. "A-are you going t-to...?" That's all you manage to squeak out before he answers you with one final thrust. It's searing hot. Not even the warmth of Estus can compare to the primal heat of the creature's cum. It's thick and Gods, there is so, so much-

"Ghhh-AaaAaaaAAAA!"

A scream rips from your throat as you cum from the feeling of being used as nothing more than a breeding tool. The feeling of being filled by cock, by cum, the feeling of being pinned and slapped and fucked and used within an inch of your life...It proves to be too much.

Your orgasm takes you, sending tremors and jolts across your well-used form as you spray your pleasure on the demon's cock. You let go completely. Your toes clench, your body trembles and your eyes roll back into your skull until your vision is swallowed by a darkness that clouds your senses.

You go limp as small jolts course throughout your broken form, timid reminders that you're still alive, though only barely. Everything begins to numb, the veil of unconsciousness suffocating you. What will become of you now? Will the creature dispose of you? Will you become a slave to its needs? As the last whispers of wakefulness leave you, only one thing becomes certain.

You were never meant to be the Chosen Undead.

[go-go-devil]

FOR THE ASK MEME… talk about priscilla i love her

I too love this crossbreed abomination ����❄️

There are many things Dark Souls fans like to view Priscilla as, but for me personally she will always be this game's equivalent of the Minotaur: a hybrid of a god and "beast" that is locked away from a world within a prison devised by a brilliant inventor (or in this case an artist), all because those in power fear her very existence.

Unlike the Minotaur of the classic myth, however, she is no hungry monster. All of the exiles who get "sacrificed" to her painted world are treated with kindness, and for the longest time she tried to rule her labyrinth as a peaceful kingdom. She even found the way out, and may have ventured out herself, but for whatever reason she returned to her ruined world, preferring the stillness of it all to the turmoil of Lordran.

Despite her wanting peace, however, I do also very much think that she not only has killed in the past but even wished to use her lifehunt abilities for the sake of her kingdom. There is no doubt in my mind that she was a key figure in the failed Occult Rebellion, since her powers were feared by the Gods and for the simple fact that occult magic runs through her very veins (her tail cut weapon being proof of that, as it does occult damage!). Her black fur on the lower half of her body does seem to imply another clear connection to Velka as well.

It's also heavily implied that she was the one who killed Xanthous King Jeremiah since his corpse & armor set is right outside her boss room. My guess was because it was his disease that infected the majority of Ariamis's residents, but considering the interesting contrast between the crow folk & the pyromancers he could have even tried to usurp the painted world. It would explain all the bodies everywhere in this supposedly "peaceful" world, plus his black phantom spawns in a field of bodies impaled by spears. Clearly her world was only once peaceful, but war and disease had desecrated this refuge for exiles into a cold, lonely warzone.

All in all there's a LOT going on with Crossbreed Priscilla and her weird dragon/god DNA, and that's why she's so cool ;-)

[animatorweirdo]

Imagine being a knight from Lordran and helping Luthien on her journey

(Another Dark Souls piece I wrote and left to gather dust in the storage. It might seem a less edited, but I hope you like it)

Warnings: mentions of dying, fighting, blood, violence, imprisonment, escaping, the C & C are the regular jerks, muteness, reader somehow ends up as that one therapist.

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- Imagine after Luthien escapes, she wanders through the outer borders of Doriath. She ends up encountering you, a person wearing strange armor, battling a terrifying creature she had never seen in her immortal life. 

-It was so horrifying – she hid in the shadows and watched the battle between you and the monster. 

-You skillfully evade the attacks, rolling away and using your shield to block. 

-However, you were getting exhausted. The injuries had started to take their toll on you, and you had no estus flasks left. You were going to die soon if you didn't finish the creature, and you couldn’t let that happen.

-There was something wrong. You couldn't feel the connection to the flame. It vanished ever since you fell into that mist with the creature. 

-For the first time in years, you were afraid of what was going to happen if you died. Even as an undead, something bad might happen. 

-You found your chance to attack when the creature left itself open and quickly plunged your sword into its chest, finishing it off and letting its blood dress the grass beneath you. 

-The creature screamed in pain as its body turned into dust, and you were left standing, victorious and alive. 

-But, your victory was short-lived as your body began to collapse from all the wounds and exhaustion. 

-You fell on your knees, your vision going dark. 

-As a last resort to stay alive, you tried to dig through your bag and find the black sprite of humanity. 

-You found the sprite, but you fell before you could crush it. Your body refused to move, and your mind was falling into the darkness. Unable to save yourself, you accepted your fate. 

-You stared at the blue sky in wonder as you did not remember Lordran to possess such beauty before succumbing to the darkness and letting the fangs of death take you once more. 

-Luthien came out from hiding after witnessing your victory and battle. She was quick to come to your side and feel the life inside you vanishing. 

-She took the strange sprite that lay by your side and with her own magic, used it to heal you, unknowingly reviving you from death itself. 

-You were surprised to awake from the darkness and even more surprised to find a beautiful maiden kneeling by your side. 

-Luthien was glad and spoke to you, speaking about the battle between you and the monster and how she managed to save your life. 

-You were amazed by her beauty and even more amazed that she was not an undead like most people you have encountered so far. 

-Luthien asked for your assistance to help her travel outside and find her lover, Beren, who she sensed was in grave danger. Your sword skills had impressed her, and in return for saving you, you decided to swear your blade to her. 

-You did not speak, but Luthien understood your gesture, and that is how you two set forth to find her lover. 

- You never spoke or said anything, barely made any sound, so Luthien took you for mute. It did not bother her since your bodily gestures, like nods and shaking your head, were obvious enough for her questions. 

-In truth, you had no idea about Middle Earth, elves, orcs, Sauron, or even Morgoth. 

- However, since phantoms from other worlds were possible in Lordran, you guessed you had somehow traveled to another world, which would explain the disconnection to the flame and the fire link shrines. 

-You did not have much of an opinion about the elven princess. Luthien was quite talkative, talking about the plans and sometimes ranting about the situation with her lover and her father’s pride price, which could get her lover killed. 

-You did not know how to offer comfort when she was having these moments since you were rather closed off from feeling emotions and empathy, so the best you could do was lend your ear and a hand to hold for comfort. 

-Luthien did not know how to feel by your silence, but she found comfort in your company and in the small gestures you did. You provided odd companionship, but it was enough. 

-You did everything she asked, but one thing you refused to do was show your face beneath your helmet. It was a bit odd, but she stopped asking when you gestured that wearing the helmet was a personal choice. 

- When you two were found by Huan, you reacted with aggression as you didn’t have great experiences with undead dogs from Lordran. You took out your sword, ready to kill the beast. 

-Luthien was lucky to calm you down and prove Huan meant no harm. 

-You wanted to trust her intuition, but still, you kept a careful watch on the hound as he led you two to his two masters. 

-You were skeptical of the two Noldor princes, Celegorm and Curufin. There was something odd about them, especially how they looked at Luthien when she revealed herself and spoke to them. 

-You have met a fair amount of people with tongues like snakes, so you knew something was off when they denied meeting Beren or him ever coming to Nargothrond to seek aid from its king, Finrod Felagund. 

-They promised to give their aid if you came to Nargothrond, but when Celegorm offered to give Luthien a ride on his horse, you grabbed her shoulder and shook your head. 

-An uneasy feeling rose within Luthien when you gestured for her not to accept the ride. You knew there was something else about the princess that she should be cautious about, so she declined Celegorm’s offer. She claimed she wanted to walk with you since there weren’t enough horses, and she did not want to make it unfair for you. 

-Celegorm sent you a glare that did not go unnoticed, and it was now more clear to you that the elven prince had something else in his mind than aiding Luthien. 

-Despite his insistence, Luthien declined and walked with you to Nargothrond, becoming more suspicious of their words.

-You faithfully defended her when beasts ambushed from the shadows, resulting in your sword losing its durability and breaking after the fight. 

- When you reached Nargothrond, Curufin offered to have your sword patched by the kingdom’s blacksmiths, and despite your reluctance to leave Luthien alone with the princess, you complied when she insisted and convinced you to have your gear fixed. 

-If you had found a bonfire, you could have repaired your sword and gear with its flames, but since you were in another world. You were unable to do so. 

-You met Curufin’s son, Celebrimbor, who seemed intimidated by your presence but agreed to repair your sword and some of your gear. 

-You concluded Celebrimbor was not bad like his father after watching him repair your gear and listening to him talk about things. He seemed to be rather naive to his father’s secretive nature. 

-Celebrimbor was intimidated by your silence and how you watched him but then found an odd pleasant time talking with you. 

-He was impressed by your gear and fascinated with your weapons since they seemed to be enchanted with ores he was not familiar with. 

-He took you for mute since you only answered with nods and shakes, but you gave a different answer by drawing the name of the blacksmith who enchanted your weapons to the ground. 

-The uneasy feeling about you within him vanished, and he even talked about personal things such as the ongoing thing with his family and how his life seemed to go so far. 

-You didn’t know how to feel, but you offered comfort by awkwardly patting him on the back. 

-However, when he mentioned a mortal man named Beren recently arriving in Nargothrond to seek the aid of King Finrod, who had left Nargothrond in charge of Orodreth — you became alerted. 

- The realization that the two princes had indeed lied about Beren ever coming to Nargothrond sparked a flame of anger and fear since it meant Luthien was in danger. 

-Celebrimbor was startled when you suddenly grabbed your repaired gear and weapons and marched out of the forge. 

-You walked through the stone halls but hid and carefully listened in the shadows when the two Noldor princes came to your sight. 

-They talked about having Luthien’s hand in marriage and gaining her father’s alliance for their war against Morgoth. 

-Celegorm was certain he could gain her affection even though she had greatly refused. He would even do it by force, but in the meantime, he would allow time to soften her up while keeping her locked. 

-They had however one problem, which was you. They had to find out how to get rid of you since you would no doubt help Luthien escape if you found out. 

-You were infuriated by their plans to force Luthien into an unwanted marriage and the realization that they had tricked you into separating from her by having your gear fixed. 

-You wanted to spill their blood and see their pathetic life leave their very eyes, but you knew that you needed to be smarter and free Luthien first from her captivity. It will be difficult since you can’t kill like you could in Lordran. The elves were living, not undead. 

-Not only that, you needed to find out where Luthien was kept while not alerting the princess since you had already left the forges. 

-You became cautious when Huan appeared to you from the shadows. You were ready to kill the creature, but when the dog laid down in submission – you hesitated. There was something in its eyes that told you not to kill it, not yet, at least. 

-You had an odd feeling that the beast was on your side instead of its master. However, since dogs can’t talk — you decided to break your silence and ask where his masters had hidden Luthien. 

-The dog stood up and motioned you to follow him. Reluctant but in haste, you decided to trust the dog— after making it clear what you would do to him if he betrayed you and Luthien. 

-You guessed the beast took your warning seriously as he then led you through secret paths to the room where Luthien was kept. 

-You knocked on the door to confirm her presence and were slightly relieved to hear her voice. 

-Luthien was glad to know you were behind the door and worried since the door was locked and said you had to find a key, which was most likely with Celegorm. But little did she know that you possessed a set of keys to everything. 

-You grabbed your master key from your bag and opened the door without a hitch, surprising Luthien and Huan on the go. 

-Luthien did not expect you to open the door quickly but was glad to see you, and you three then made your escape. 

-Huan decided to come along despite your obvious dislike toward him, but then you were found by the two princes, who quickly learned about your disappearance and Luthien’s escape. You picked Luthien up and set her on Huan’s back so you could run. 

-your high endurance made it easy for you to keep up with the dog’s speed, and you nearly made it through the front entrance only to be stopped when the two princes alarmed the guards and claimed you were kidnapping the princess. 

-You got surrounded, and you had the attention of all who were in the main entrance, including King Orodreth. 

-Celegorm boldly claimed you had done something to his hound and his guest, claiming you were doing evil’s work because why else would his own hound assist you. 

-Luthien was infuriated and told the truth about how he and his traitorous brother had lied and locked her up, intending to force her hand into marriage, sprouting everything that happened. Why else would his hound betray him instead of helping him with his evil? 

-King Orodreth and all the other bystanders shared mixed looks, uncertain of which side to take. 

-Celegorm claimed she was confused, and when you saw one of his servants approach her from behind – you acted, taking out your sword and cutting his hand. 

-The elves were frightened when the servant screamed at his severed hand. 

-Luthien pleaded you not to kill them, but you acted when the other guards came at you. 

-You fought all of them furiously, avoiding their attacks and striking back with force powerful enough to send them flying. You did not give them a chance to lay a single wound on you. 

-You heeded Luthien’s plea and did not kill any of them, so you only struck them down, too injured to fight you. 

-Celegorm and his brother grew pale, and the elves of Nargothrond grew frightful as you fought like an undefeatable warrior in their eyes with the strength and speed of a beast. They could not tell if you were either an elf or a man beneath the helmet. 

-You turned your gaze upon the brothers after defeating all of the guards, making them prepare for a fight. 

-Celegorm said he had never lost a swordfight even though there was uncertainty in his voice. 

-You grabbed something out of your bag, a pouch of paper that seemed to contain dust made out of charcoal. 

-They watched as you held your sword before you, wrapping the paper and the charcoal around the metal, before gripping and pulling the pouch across your sword, igniting the blade in flames. 

-The brothers were startled as you held your flaming sword, ready to fight. For the first time, they were uncertain if they could win a fight as they had never witnessed such a thing before. 

-However, Celegorm had his pride, and despite the odds – he was ready to fight you, unwilling to lose and have Luthien escape his grasp. 

- King Orodreth quickly ordered the fight to be ceased, wanting no blood to be shed on Nargothrond. 

-He turned toward Luthien and told her he believed her since you had heeded her order and not killed any of the guards. 

-He did ask her and you to leave and continue your journey alone since you had severely wounded his and Celegorm’s people. 

-Luthien agreed even though she demanded Celegorm and Curufin pay the price for the crime against her. 

-You felt disappointed by the outcome as you would have loved to set the two on fire but faithfully followed Luthien along with Huan out of Nargothrond, leaving a forever frightful expression upon the brothers and the elves that witnessed your terrifying might.

[baeddelicto]

28. What boss did you struggle with the most?

30. Rank the games you’ve played!

32. What are your opinions on PVP?

35. What ingame faction would you belong to?

28. Hmmm ok so i tend to play conservatively which for sum bosses is gr8, take your time, manage distance, strike the openings... sumtimes violence of action is the way to go. I usu ply with my gf nd she just swings away lol so if i hav trbl shes usu bttr and vice versa. That being said gargoyles were annoyn for me but lik rlly fun, i imagine 4 kings wuld b(hehe nvr actually fot them), the abyss watchers, shit like that. I also tend to never summon and nvr go human or ember bc im stupid and hate feeling lik im being wasteful...

30. Ds1>ds2>elden ring>ds3

It feels weird to put otogi in that rankin but it is dear to my heart

I havent plyd but hav watched a good amount of sekiro nd bloodbrn(i plyd psx ig) nd thy also wuld feep weird rankn w these games diff beasts imo

32. Fun! I want to do more of it tbh(mostly havent been able too) i rlly liked my xp of return to lordran a few years back (i killed a vagrant!) Elden ring pvp was knda meh to me but tht was back when patches were comn out constantly nd i was mostly racing(dnt do this) to beat the game(i didnt)

35. Blade of the darkmoon bc um uhhhhh...... >_<

Tnxoxoxo 4 the ask!!!

[lucatielenjoyer]

MY SONS, THEIR LORE, AND WHY YOU (the one reading my dumb shit) SHOULD LOVE THEM.

Imma just talk about the most lore-heavy boys from each game, and then maybe make more posts about the others later.

DS1: Lysandre, the Thief- Lysandre, as you can guess, was a thief. He was also my first playthrough of any souls game ever. He hails from Astora, and originally was going to be a knight before his Father fell ill. Leaving his duty to care for the dying man, Lysandre was labeled a deserter, and resorted to theivery and assasination to make ends meet, which got harder after the death of his father.

Lysandre discovered he was cursed after a botched assassination attempt against an Astoran noble, when he woke up at home after remembering VERY CLEARLY that he was ran through with a pike. Still a good man at heart, he left his home and ended up being caught by an undead hunter, who sent him to the Asylum.

He ended up in Lordran, as they all do, and quickly attempted to salvage his image, masquerading as a Knight. He only came to terms with who he was after being forced to use his old tactics to save Rhea from her hollowed knights, and linked the flame to seek atonement. He never ended up joining any covenants, believing that they all had an agenda of some sort, which he was technically correct in that regard.

DS2: Mardus, the Hexer- Mardus was a student of Melflan, the DS2 equivalent to Vinhelm for those unfamiliar. He originally was a dedicated sorcerer, following the teachings of his masters and wholeheartedly thinking damn near every other type of Magic to be an abomination, especially pyromancy. He was unaware of the existence of Hexes, and had he learned of them before Drangleic, perhaps his path would have been different.

When he arrived in Drangleic, he originally continued his study of Sorcery, taking Carhillion of the Fold as his new tutor. This all changed when he found the 'Emit Force' Miracle, and thinking nothing of it, began to further his aptitude for Miracles.

This was when he met Felkin, the Outcast, and was told of the Churning Dark within his being. Mardus, being a curious man, delved into it, and like so many Hexers, let it consume him entirely.

He pursued the discipline of hexes with rabid fervor, favoring duplicitous means of defeating enemies, which led to him using Dark Fog near constantly to slay his foes from afar.

It culminated in him being taken under Grandahl's wing, and becoming the truest of all Dark Pilgrims. He relentlessly pursued all those with powerful souls, hunting monarchs and monsters alike with ravenous hunger until the end.

Upon defeating Aldia, his reason returned to him, and seeing the cycle of fire for the Farce it was, and wishing to be able to preserve the legacy of Lucatiel, he left the throne to seek a true cure for the curse.

imma make a part two because damn this post be long

[gecko1011010]

"Brother! I have another present for you!"

And so the Lord of Blood returns to bestow more garments upon the Grace-Given...

Much to Morgott's ire, Mohg had been emboldened by the flame of determination ever since the day he came to Morgott with garments fashioned by his own Bloody Fingers. An intricate design, reduced to tatters and scrap.

This was something that had lasted for several months. And Mohg had gone far and wide to find Morgott the perfect set of clothes.

Boletaria. Lothric(or some say Lordran). Yharnam.

The last set that Mohg had presented was the Desert Pyromancer Set, which... Suffice to say, was instantly turned down.

And yes, it was the corset version of the set.

But now, Mohg came to present Morgott with something truly exotic, quote-unquote, straight from Drangleic. And...

stubborn twins

why did he give desert pyromancer set to morgott in the firstf place lmfaosddp

[moonlight-eternal]

[A recording is attached, seemingly picking up in the middle of a conversation.]

–is unimportant to me right now. What doth matter to me, and to thee, shouldst thou truly be a past or alternate version of mineself, is one thing: Was I followed?

I believe not, though – followed by what? The portal opened, and did attempt to pull me through, while you passed the other way. We did collide in the middle, and both fell upon this side, and then the portal was gone.

By anything. The Dark. The Abyss. The monsters spawned of the deep. I come from a place with no allies, no Blades, only me and the lands I can hold as the last, shrinking enclave against the encroaching Dark.

This doth worry me greatly, for in the Lordran I come from, the Age of Fire persisteth – though only through great effort and sacrifice. I pray my world may never end up like yours, but so long as you are here, in Kalos, you are safe.

Kalos? Never have I heard of such a kingdom. How far have I traveled? I saw a portal open to destination unknown and, through desperation, leapt into it without hesitation. My expectations were none, and yet still I find them subverted, for never could I have predicted the sight of another self, as I did appear in an Age now past.

We are in another universe. One cannot travel between Lordran and here by land or sea, only by the whims of such arbitrary holes in reality. Tell me, how many centuries of age are you?

Thirty-six.

I have seen thirty-eight centuries, and this is cause for celebration, for it proveth we are not the same. My world is not destined to become yours, nor I to become you in time; we are separate branches diverged from a common root.

You are safe here. This land is peaceful, its inhabitants kind–

So too said Priscilla when I entered her painted prison to beseech her aid, ere the "peaceful" inhabitants did drive me from that snowy waste with spear and claw.

Here, it is true. Stay by my side and experience these lands as I have these past months. Stay, and train, and get stronger, and should the portals one day deign to allow return, you will be better equipped to cast away the Dark.

...Very well. Show me, then, the ways of Kalos.

[Recording ends.]

[katyspersonal]

Some DS1 girls thoughts

So I asked @val-of-the-north where Dark Souls 1 yuri, or just ANY relationship between female characters, was at (for a second time gfgfjf) and here is what we figured:

* Elizabeth and Alvina actually would make such cute silly old ladies couple? Especially since they more or less share a daughter figure (Dusk). It is FUUUNNNYYY tho how they're both not humans!! Feral yuri!

* I came up with the idea that since both Reah and Sieglinde are captured because of Seath's people, what if Darkmoon Knightess was the one to rescue both! Or Sieglinde could have rescued Reah since she is around those parts! But Darkmoon Knightess will lecture them anyways hfgghfh

Darkmoon Knightess: I told to not snoop around where Seath's people are hunting!

Sieglinde: You mean literally EVERYWHERE? 😭

Ggfgyfyg but also imagine if Reah and Sieglinde formed a significant bond! They could even have adventures together all along! Sieglinde is probably still a competent fighter except for exactly one fiasco since she got to Lordran on her own, and Reah is a healer XD Besides Sieglinde would sure do better work protecting her than SOMEONE :/

She also could take Reah to her home at the end now that Reah doesn't have place to return to anyways!

* Darkmoon Knightess is quite bound by duty for the time being and has her own struggles with slipping Humanity, but she works well like third wheel a cool friend to always return to! She and Sieglinde can still instantly clock Petrus from exactly 1 sentence about him from Reah and kick him to half death in the alleyway tho hfhfhhcn

* I took closer look at Anastasia as I still needed to figure her out, and came up with the idea that the worst thing a Firekeeper logically could've done, deserving self-mutilating, self-loathing and self-isolating had to do with envisioning Age of Dark! Think of it: Firekeepers didn't have their eyes removed until DS3, but removing her tongue would still imply speaking of "dangerous" things. And considering the implication she either isolated self or fully agreed with this as punishment, maybe there were tangible consequences to what she was speaking of!!

I grasped to this line of thinking but was not quite sure what could the "consequences" be, and Val suggested maybe she accidentally gave Kaathe his ideas by simply sharing her vision and concerns. Since apparently Primordial Serpents are Just Vibing and only care about anything by personal choice (like how Frampt just was a good friend to Gwyn). So.... she'd feel guilty for Oolacile and New Londo. It wasn't her fault, but she FEELS this way, and honestly, most people would probably agree.... т.т +We agreed that back then Firekeepers envisioning Dark was an exception rather than the rule, probably because the cycles haven't worn down this badly yet.

* That puts a massive roadblock in the way of Anastasia finding any love ever, she is stuck in endless guilt and self-hatred, and many would agree she got what she deserved. I am just giggling at how sometimes I try to think of a ship and end up developing the character lol

* Like I said before, Pharis and Beatrice have potential for both doomed yuri or sad found family that fell apart! (Yeah Pharis is female not just in NPC model apparently, as confirmed by surprise throwback in DS2, didn't have pronouns in Japanese but English always defaults to 'he' in this case *looks at accidental he/she Lady Maria*) The latter idea is good on the account of using Beatrice's cut child version (damn I wonder what WERE Fromsoft planning for her....)! And also could explain why she was so reckless with the Abyss stuff; whereas she is herself connected with Oolacile magic rather than how sorcery is now, if she was just a kid she'd be clueless about the horrors, and not listen to her "mom"'s warnings in classic fashion!

OR they could have been two "moms", because imagine if Pharis and Dusk dated! So not much was salvaged, but Beatrice was.. Dusk died earlier than Pharis (just assuming Pharis is an Undead if she is still alive though she knew Gwyn's Knights). Maybe after that, Beatrice started to really slip away from any attempts to protect her as Pharis was bad at it on her own.... so she'd lose both wife and daughter figure in short timespan....... guys.....,? *sobs*

* Another cute idea is sort of rebound ships with Ciaran who had her heart broken having lost Artorias to the Abyss! Either Pharis or Dusk work within the timeline and context! Dusk one is of course less tragic since they likely died around the same time. Pharis though is screwed no matter what.. 🙄 truly a Soulsborne character lol

Ciaran does give me an impression of someone that would be too struck to move on, just some 'happier' thoughts

* There are also less apparent characters, like iirc Carmina and Yulva were around the same time? For the context; Carmina was an apprentice of Salaman who was an apprentice of Queelana, Yulva was one of the three people that sealed the Four Kings but she left to become a healer (likely too much guilt for people in New Londo that had to get sacrificed). Both are 99% long dead by the time Chosen Undead steps in, but clues for both are found in the same game area.. who knows

* Also it is apparently a popular interpretation that Velka adopted Priscilla, I absolutely believe this

* I am probably not finished but basically having many thoughts and HATE it because instead of multishipping like a normal person I have mentality of "choosing"....... when I am incapable of choosing 🙄 I am yet again asking for Val to tell me what to think lol

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

👤+ Laurentius!

Yes, a heretic, but also a sweetest friend. Better a kind word and a stolen flame than ritual purity and a distant sneer.

Fearsome pyromancer, bearing the accents of the Great Swamp. Fear of him is diluted by fear of everything else: Hollows, the Dark itself, and the curse with its promise of a mindless end.

Whatever the Swamp made of Laurentius, he is now also undead. Now also trapped in Lordran. None of us asked to be here (all right, one of us asked to be here, but Laurentius, for all his fire, is not mad.)

But he is more than a fellow-traveler. His voice is kind. His hands are warm. He is utterly worth defending.

Laurentius may be seeking after a greater fire, but is not Ifsahan also?

In this hollowing place, we take every scrap of goodwill we can find, amplify it and return it, that it might survive.

That is, after all, only human.

[a-real-chicxulub-vibe]

not that i think Shanalotte and Lucatiel would ever have had much reason to speak or be around each other. a daughter of dragons, ruthlessly vetting undead who might have the strength to take the Throne and relieve her of her duty. a knight of common birth who fought tooth and nail for everything she had in life, suffering the same slow inevitable fate as all undead drawn to Lordran, whetted to a husk. Shanalotte would have no use for Lucatiel and Lucatiel would rather die than start a conversation with a stranger. but I think if Shanalotte stood on her tip-toes to give Lucatiel a little welcome-back kiss every time she returned to Majula than Dark Souls II would have been the best game of the trilogy

[lastoneout]

Have you tried/do you think you'll play portal revolution ?

IT RELEASED??????

[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Dark Souls Chain 4

Prompt: The Demon War from the perspective of a black knight @fateoftheundead

There was a lurching feeling in my dreams, my formless dreams, uncomfortable.

 Voices as well- a high drawling one that echoed yet with malice, and another that was deep and resonant, the voice of a burgomeister or aged inquisitor. Their words were unclear, at least until the lurching became more concrete. I felt myself lifting through some dense sand or powder, puffs of it launching off into the darkness that crowded within very close to my vision.

 “Your power, my lord, and your prerogative,” echoed the deep voice.

 “We shall see.”

 I felt lighter, the lurching seeming to taper as I became less solid, owing to leaving the crumbling substance behind and seeming to float in the air.

 I was floating in the air, a feeling of limbs flailing, but of limbs having fallen asleep, heavy and prickly. The light in my eyes increased, marginally so, to reveal a kneeling figure before me. It was clad head to toe in heavy plate armor, blackened by some unknown conflagration and topped with an imposing horned helmet. The lurch returned and I felt myself floating towards the figure, slowly, then faster now, and faster again, until I thought I would collide, but…

For a moment I saw charred bone behind the visor of the helmet, but the moment I touched the figure the world shifted, and I realized that the figure was me.

 With a body now, I felt muscles knit together in mute agony around my bones within their metal coffin. Senses returned. The helmet was claustrophobic, and I could taste now. The powdery stuff- not sand. Ashes. As my protesting muscles cramped and pitched me over sideways, I heaved. Dry, again and again.

 “Are you done, sirrah?” The high voice somehow combined friendliness and contempt. “I have things to do.” On my side I found I could summon the strength to nod silently then attempted to rise.

 The agony persisted but I found something in myself, a hot core of determination, unfamiliar as if it had returned from a long journey. Inch by inch I shifted position and lifted myself, first to my knees, then to one knee. Obeisance. I would rather have saluted but I was not vertical enough. The plates of the armor clattered when I first shifted but they were so finely fitted to my body they were otherwise silent.

I summoned more strength, raw determination, and lifted my head to gaze upon the one who had wrenched me from my sorry state.

 A human! Despite sitting on a low throne seemingly carved from scoria our faces were level, even with my kneeling. Despite my confusion and… tinge of disgust, I still felt the habit to remain at rest before a superior officer.

 The human was garbed in unfamiliar uniform over unfamiliar armor. Both were perfectly fitted, but battered and filthy. The top coat was ripped in a particular way, and I could see that there had been insignia and braid once, now ripped off. Before seeing this I would have guessed the human was some gentleman officer, discharged upon his side losing the war, but now… A deserter. I fought the urge to spit since I still knew very little about this person.

 “Do you have something to say, sirrah? Out with it.”

 “Leftenant Vittorio reporting!” My brain was foggy and yet it knew what to say. Something was bothering me about the situation- beyond everything else that seemed strange.

 “Vittorio?” The human looked to his right and my eyes followed.

 There, looming in the inky dark, was a serpent.

 I had met one before- there were several who had appeared at various times throughout the latter history of this land. They appeared as if some mad demiurge had put a dour mastiff’s head atop a snake’s body the size of a full-grown oak. Its horrid face grinned and I knew it to be the owner of that deep voice from before.

 “A disgraced lineage,” it boomed, “squires from an estate in the far western reaches of Lordran. Of this specimen I know nothing.”

 “More than I needed to know, Prunt. Thank you.” He made a dismissive gesture and leaned forward in his throne. “What do you remember, Leftenant?” I couldn’t tell if he pronounced my rank facetiously.

 I searched my memories and the first that surfaced was from my time as a ghost. Or was I just a memory myself? I had been drifting in a fugue, wandering the ashen ruins in what I now knew was my armor, or the ghost of it. My focus had a short span but I noticed something alarming: the door to Lord Gwyn’s tomb was wide open. The ash crunched as I ran through the doors into the rough-hewn space.

 There was only the briefest glimpse of the Sun God's form dead on the ground, before it faded into a few short-lived sparks, and standing over the vanished corpse was the human who stood before me now, wielding an enormous- for a human- broadsword. Still wielding it, he had turned to the center of the tomb and examined its bonfire. The first bonfire, fruit of linking the sacred flame.The human had gazed upon it, and I had felt a momentary burst of excitement- he was going to do it! He was going to link that universal flame and carry on Lord Gwyn’s legacy.

 Instead, he had kicked it apart in a shower of sparks, putting the fire out like he was breaking camp. At least he hadn’t pissed it out like an irregular.

 The memory ended there. My hesitation seemed to irk him and he rapped impatiently on the arm of his throne. I was grateful for the helmet concealing my slack jaw. “My Lord, I-”

 “I’m no Lord, soldier. Remember that.” He pointed a soot-stained finger at me. “And close your mouth. I meant, what do you remember about your last posting.” The helmet had concealed nothing. And my mind seemed as transparent to him as the metal was.

 “Iodelath Blightwald, sir. The Battle of the Dun Cliffs. We had started calling it that.”

 He nodded. “What was the status of your unit? Did you seize your objective?”

 I clanked a gauntlet against my helmet in salute. “The day was ours. The cliffs were ours. There had been significant casualties among the infantry as we maneuvered through the forest- scampering imps flinging envenomed sherds of flint. When they emerged upon the cliffs the grunts were very nearly overwhelmed by the force of demons- Chuppies and Roarers mostly. Until we showed up, sir.”

 He laughed “That’s what I wanted to hear about! Now that you’ve got your wits back, I need you totell me about your unit. The Blackened Brothers. But first, what happened on the Cliffs?”

 “They were nearly crippled, but at least the infantry had moved the force of demons towards the cliff. Some of us advanced and managed to bait some of the demons into jumping off the cliff. Those of us with shields or halberds pushed most of the rest off, and we even let the infantry kill some of the stragglers.” I held myself slightly more erect. “I remember looking over the cliffs and I could see the deposits of those crystals stretching all the way down the precipice. The reason we were there, sir.”

 “And there was much rejoicing. I expect you held your position?”

 “As long as we could, sir. A contagion had appeared among the infantry, some parting gift from the demons, I bet. By the time the Silver Knights had appeared to relieve us, dysentery had killed almost everyone. The rest of us were nearly incapacitated with runk.”

 “Runk?” He kept leaning in farther. Hopefully he didn’t fall out of the throne.

 “Sorry, sir. An intoxicating liquor. We stole some of the spirits from the wizard lamps, mixed in raisings and red blossoms and left it to brew. Quite potent.”

 Another surprisingly genuine laugh from the strange human. “You might think me a halfling halfwit, Leftenant, but it was not long ago I was a soldier like you. I was a Colonel in the Warlock Corps in an army you’ve never heard of. We took black powder from the petards, mixed it with moon-grass and mucilage, then rolled it into little pills. One or two of those between the cheek and gum was sufficient to keep you up through days of battle. And helped replenish the magic, of course.”

I was a soldier and I wanted there to be a chain of command. Needed. But I was damned if I was going to get chatty with a human usurper and feel better because he had fought in some stupid human war somewhere. “I don’t need sorcery to know you don’t want to get chummy with some human… what is it that they call us, Prunt?”

 “Pygmies. Furtive, Easily forgotten. A miserable pile of-”

 “Enough, enough,” he snapped, standing from the throne. The human stretched, his back popping. Finally, he reached up and removed his helm. The face beneath had clearly been used to hammer pickets into the dirt, more than once. There had been a short military cut and shave once, but it was about as fresh as his tattered uniform. “I also don’t need a hex to do what needs to be done.”

“Hexes, sir?” The perpetually grinning serpent didn’t seem to be in on the joke.

 “Dark sorceries this world isn’t ready for.” He looked at me. “Your descendants are going to love it.” And with a grin that didn’t belong with his battered face, the human launched a prodigious kick at mine.

 My helmet didn’t come off. It might never come off and I hope he didn’t try. As it was my skull rang inside of it like the clapper of a bell. “I don’t need any magic to stomp out insubordination. I don’t need anything!”  A harsh burr modifying the drawling voice. The bark of an NCO, or perhaps of a rogue general. I felt two implacable hands grab the tall horns of my helmet, and pull. Lord Gwyn, please, no. There was a yank and I could feel vertebrae start to pull apart, then… release.

 “Arrrrrckhhh,” I said. I saw stars. Not even sure what I was trying to say.

 The human knelt down beside me, ash fouling his trousers.

 “Does this armor… come off?” He almost sounded concerned. I coughed.

 “Chaos affects everyone differently, sir. Beasts, Lords, men… My unit had tracked a coven of enemy pyromancers, into a steaming caldera we’d just cleared of demon grunts. We should have known better. They wouldn’t have been able to resist a group of sitting duck elites. We weren't the Black Brothers then, but it wouldn’t be long. Everything was fine at first, we advanced and the pyromancers retreated. We were ascending the far slope of the caldera and suddenly there was one pyromancer.” I sighed.

 “Get on with it, soldier.” He wasn’t so concerned now.

 “One of the Queen Bitch’s daughters. She had the simple robes and ball-busting smile of an abbess, but she spread her arms wide and… it wasn’t fire, or lava, or vitriol, just a hot wave of luminous corruption. It burned. Swept us down the slope and we were submerged in it. Boiling  like molten pitch. You’ve seen what it did to our armor. Our flesh, though…” My flesh prickled and seethed as I thought about it. “It wasn’t all bad. Flames can’t hardly hurt us anymore- well, they still hurt. But no injury. Saves time on showers and delousing- just stand in a fire for long enough and all the sweat and vermin burn away.”

 “Along with your sanity, you poor dumb bastard.” He rose, planted himself in the chair again, and shook his head. “But now the armor is permanent. I’ll have to see what I can do about that.”

 What? The soldier in me reacted. “Thank you sir.”

 “Don’t thank me yet, fireneck. Now- what I really want to know is how the chain of command operated. After that- well, we’ll get to it shortly.”

“Even before we wore black, us elites theoretically answered to the Silver Knights. They were from the good families of Lords, and some human janissaries brought into those families. We had control over our operations, though the Silver decided who got credit.”

 “Same song, different verse. That’s war.”

“Yes sir. Above them were the four Captains- more like what the human nation would call a general- who led the really important attacks, when they weren’t on their own initiative. And of course the Lord of Light himself. But something… happened.” I hesitated. “Before we won the war, drove the Demons underground. Everything was going to shit, and something changed in the Silvers. They withdrew from many of the front lines, and didn’t seem to give an argent-smith’s cuss about what was really going on.

 There was a time when we were glad to have the Silver archer knights at our back. A rain of death from behind our backs, mass carnage. But then there were less arrows- seemed like they just didn’t fire, to conserve ammunition. Then we started to get arrows in our backs. One of them clipped Captain Artorias, and boy was that a mistake. He climbed to the parapet the knight was occupying, leaping up like a damned ape. That knight got chopped. Up. Into Catarina-steak.”

 The human laughed. “I’ve fragged an officer or two, when it needed doing. No shame there, but you do have to be careful if you don’t kill them immediately. But I can see your distaste for the silvers. Umbasa, Bohica… it’s always the same.” He turned to the Serpent. “Prunt, I think we’ve learned about as much as we need. Bring our guest’s arms over.”

 The serpent complied, disappearing in the shadows before returning shortly, my sword and shield held gently in its teeth like a newborn kitten, before depositing them in the ash between us. “My lord.”

 “Thank you, Prunt. Now,” he said to me, “this is clearly more than meets the eye. Tell me its secret, and I will tell you why you are here.”

 “One of the generals- a glorified quartermaster- was always trying to reinvent the wheel as far as our tactics were concerned. This actually turned out to be a good idea for once, and I bet it contributed to our inevitable victory. He brought in some grizzled old tinkerer from a city I’d never heard of, who spent a month sequestered in our armory before producing his work. ‘Cunning weapons,’ he called them. Glaives with spinning blades, greatswords with mercury channels inside to increase their heft, and for the shield-bearers, something truly ‘cunning’.”

 “Show me.” He was impatient now, and I scuffled over to the swords and shield in a storm of ash. I took up the shield and twisted a steel rosetted in the center. The shield split in half and I inserted the sheathed sword into the center. The edges of the shield made a passable flanged mace, though one that looked like the anchor of one of those huge ships in the Londo harbor. “An anchor indeed!” I’d already forgotten that his sorceries could ensnare my stray thoughts.

“He assembled it the same way for us, and despite being a frail old human, he was almost as tall and strong as us. ‘Now go forth and crush some demons into pancakes,’ he said. ‘It’s what soldiers do. Should it please you!’ The weapons were effective, I’ll give him that, sir”

The human nodded, and stared at me for some time.

“You’re as alive now as I could make you, Leftenant Vittorio. So you have a choice. Lay down in the dust and ash and die. Make it quick, and I’ll let you fade away to blissful nothing. Otherwise… and maybe this is less a choice than you want, but take up your arms and swear service to me. Live.” He let the silence take over for another long moment. “If there is chaos, or fire, you will snuff it for me. If any Silver Knights remain loyal to a dead king… you’ll snuff them for me as well. Do that, and do whatever else I bid, and we’ll see about getting that armor off you.”

 I nodded. I did want that. Perhaps he could restore the flesh beneath it as well. And beyond that… I wanted to serve again. With distinction, instead of at the whims of weaklings and cowards commanding from luxurious chairs in a fortified city.

 “Very well.” He launched forward and grabbed my wrists, as a mephitic indigo vapor poured from him, gusting darkly from every pleat and tear in his uniform. It felt… wrong. His breath reeked like the greasy ash of a crematorium, as I’m sure mine smelt of bile. At least there was  no pain, but it felt wrong. Wrong. What had I expected… the twin taps of a sunlight blade on my shoulders? The hurrah of my family and friends the last time I ever saw them? I felt it cease as he released my wrists and stood over me. I was oathbound- without swearing anything- to a presumptive human filth.

“My lord.” I would have to be careful of my thoughts still.

 “Don’t worry about those thoughts, he smirked. “I’ll accept some traitorous sentiments, Leftenant, so long as they stay thoughts. I haven’t exactly been kind to you. I will be fair, though, so long as you obey me as you would one of your famed ‘Captains’. But disobey… you can imagine there will be some consequences.”

“It will be so, my lord. You have nothing to worry about from me.”

“Good. Prunt, escort the Leftenant to the barracks.” He strode off into the darkness himself, and I found myself standing and saluting until he disappeared.

 “My apologies, Leftenant. Things are operating a trifle differently under the Dark Lord.”

 The Dark Lord. Holy hell. “That seems plain, ser- Sir, I meant to say. How should I address you?”

“Follow me,” the serpent intoned, as I disassembled my weapon and stowed its components at my back and belt. Then his laughter rang out, muffled strangely by the darkness. “Sir Prunt! Keh heh heh heh. Can you imagine…” I followed him through the drifts of ash. Here and there through the great bowl-shaped ruin I caught glimpses of pathetic phantoms of knights, striding through the space aimlessly.

 That had been me, before I was snatched from the jaws of unlife by the “Dark Lord” and his dark sorcery. It felt strange, as I got a strange feeling of vertigo seeing them. It was as if my memory of a phantasmal state was more real than what I was at the moment.

 “One moment, Prunt.” I smiled beneath my helm, thinking of what kind of rank a Serpent would hold. They had been advisors and oracles to some extent, with no authority to their own. I was glad he didn’t expect titles or salutes. Prunt nodded in response, his leathery ‘ears” flapping along.

 Turning back to whence we came, I got a better sense of the scene we’d left. It was an ancient space, filled with the ruined bones of once-domed structures surrounding the throne and ancient bonfire. The sky was a dim, sickly yellow, hazy with gray clouds and I had an impression that it had been that way for the excruciatingly long time I suffered there as a ghost. Something seemed off, but what was it? After some further study I noticed that the far horizon was tinted a deep indigo, which seemed to be very slowly enveloping the rest of the sky.

 It was the same color as the dark magics that human Dark Lord had wielded. “Let’s go.”

 I followed Prunt again and for the first time noticed that the glistening bulk of his serpentine body was passing through the ash like the prow of a ship through churning water. Curious. At last we had woven around some circular paths of ancient, crumbling stone, to stand before a huge iron gate. It was wide open, and beyond it an altar topped with a golden brazier that blazed with a supernatural flame. Again, it had taken on the faintest indigo where the tongues of flame disappeared into the air.

 This was the Lordvessel, which I recognized from many a midday devotional, back when I was alive. That it still bloomed with holy fire was encouraging but I had a feeling every bright side at the moment had its cost. Prunt did not stop to reflect so I followed close behind him as we left the fire and the gate behind. The path moved along in a very straightforward manner past this point into a shadowy space that was unmarred by ash or dim light beyond the firelight that lay behind us.

 Prunt turned to me and grinned. “Now, young Leftenant, step into my mouth and I shall transport thee out of this dark place and to more comfortable accommodations.”

 “Your… mouth?”

 “I’m teasing, of course.” He looked around theatrically, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I would not subject you to the ignominy as I have to every chosen fool seeking fame and Flame. Simply close your eyes and we shall leave the abyss.”

 I complied, and for a moment I could see the darkness deepen through my eyelids, and suddenly my eyes flared with an unaccustomed light. Opening them I found myself in a palatial room, one I had not been in though I remembered its like from my first days as a silver knight, guarding the family of one of the satraps who administered Anor Londo for Lord Gwyn. For furnishings there was little but paintings on the wall, dust and scraps of wood.

“What happened here, serpent?”

 “You have slept for many, many years, Leftenant Vittorio. This city is all but deserted, save for the last remnants of the knights and a few mad stragglers. In his sacrifice to save the world, Lord Gwyn’s legacy has faltered and faded. Our new Dark Lord… well, we shall see what happens.” He favored me with a cryptic nod. “Enjoy your accommodations, such as they are. There is a bed in one of these chambers, which I’m sure you shall find. The rooms look much the same to me.”

 “Thank you, I think. What task do I have in his service?”

 “For the moment, wait. I’m sure he will call upon you soon.”

 And with that, he was gone.

 I had rested long enough in that ashen sleep and had no desire to bed down in the dusty fabric on the floor that was scarcely thick enough to merit the term bedroll. Instead, I decided to take stock of my surroundings. The furnishings were a tragedy and I assumed I should ignore them. This was correct- the other two rooms I could immediately glance into were very much desolate and deserted.

 Then- for a moment- I caught a flash of movement as I turned away. The helms of my unit are not good for peripheral vision but for a moment I thought I could see the figure of a human warrior, as if made of steam or smoke. It was gone even quicker and I didn’t know what to make of it.

 I passed into the next room and to my surprise a Silver stood there as if frozen in time. Not frozen, just very still, as he shifted his body only slightly as his head turned towards me. He bore the brass filigree of a leftenant on his gorget- the same filigree on my armor had melted at the first exposure to a pyromantic attack.

“Leftenant Vittorio, brother. How fares it?” I had about as much love for a silver as I did for a human, but they were much more helpful with honey than vinegar.

 There was no answer. No further movement. “How fares it, leftenant? Is your post secure?”

 Nothing in response, but then… a raspy groan and the Silver drew his broadsword.

 “You madman! You dare draw on your fellow?” It took a tentative step forward and I knew that was my sign. I had slept for countless years and felt as if I had fallen down a mountain, but I would never forget how to fight. I took a long step backwards through the doorway of the room I had just left and kicked the door shut in the Silver’s face. That gave me a moment to draw my own sword and insert it into the shield, giving it the specific twist that transformed it from sword-and-board to a huge mace. Just in time.

 The Silver didn’t bother opening the door, and instead just walked through it, its wood simply giving up its structure. Despite the dust and flinders I didn’t hesitate for a moment, swinging my mace up and letting gravity aid me. It crashed into the Silver, pressing him to the stone floor with a terrifyingly loud noise. That groan issued from his helm again but this time followed by a gurgling death rattle.

 I had squashed him flatter than the suncakes taken by the Royal Family at breakfast.

 The armor clattered pitifully as a faint vapor emerged and the body within vanished. I had seen this before- some fiends and cannibals consumed a glut of souls leading to large size or great strength. Even humans could do this, though they tended not to grow, but to increase in density. Of course, cut the thread of life and the souls trapped in bodily tissues boiled away like sun-kissed rain on a marble parapet.

 You’re getting poetic in your old age, Vittorio. I shook my head and left the room. Did I just think that? Or was it… The urge to wander seemed mostly to be my own, but my “random” movement through the rooms of the palace might not be. Eventually I found myself climbing stairs and arriving on a wide roof with a splendid balcony overlooking the vista of Anor Londo and beyond. There, standing up against the railing at parade rest, was the Dark Lord.

“Thank you for answering my summons, Vittorio. Not that you had a choice.”

 I walked over towards him, saluting. I stood there for a moment waiting for him to speak, and tried to follow his gaze. Out in the far distance of the sky, some creatures were circling a thermal current. Winged, clawed humanoids, these semi-demonic servitors were a supplicant’s only way into Anor Londo from the lands below. They had always made me uneasy, though I of course had never had any reason to fear them.

 “My lord.”

 “Disgusting things. How can a creature grin if it has no face? Gives me conniptions. These clutching, tickling night-gaunts have no place here anymore. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, sir.” I had a momentary vision of my black metal boot kicking the Dark Lord over the railing, presumably to his death. He barked a laugh as soon as the thought passed through my head.

 “Ahh, you are always good for a chuckle, Leftenant. Now, I hope you had a moment to let your thoughts settle before we proceed with the real work. I promise not to get too sentimental, but there is one more thing I want to know. What was the absolute worst you faced during your war with the demons?”

 There was no question, the moment he asked that. It took me more than a few seconds before I was able to answer.

 “My unit was assigned to clearing out one of the demons’ warrens- a maze of cyclopean stone mortared with the writhing roots of living trees. We expected a lot more opposition than we saw- a token force of demons guarding the outer area of the labyrinth. Those we dispatched with no problem. The whole maze seemed like the bastard child of a waste of time and deathtrap dungeon, but the brass wanted us to clean it top to bottom. The corridors of the thing got more and more narrow and soon it was harder for us in the armor to move very quickly.

 “I was cursing every divine name I could think until it seemed like we’d cleared every claustrophobic inch, when I stumbled on a young demon. Demons aren’t born, exactly, more like transformed, but they could be pretty small before they absorbed enough souls. This one hadn’t absorbed many at all, and I could hardly tell what sort of bestial thing it was supposed to be. Like a thrice-damned idiot I hesitated- I had a brief recollection of rescuing a budgerigar as a child- then the young demon produced an object it had been hiding behind its back. It was an urn, which it hucked over my shoulder into the knights behind me.

 “There was no room for us to maneuver, as I said, and we were helpless when the urn shattered and released a blast of sorcerous lightning. It had clearly been handmade and only killed a couple of us, but the lightning wrapped around our metal armor and stunned everyone. Had there been more demons available we would have been cut down where we fell. As it was, with all that happening we considered the location clear and had some sappers take the place down for good.”

 The Dark Lord nodded. “What about that little demon?” I said nothing. “Well?” I’m sure he could read my mind. I wasn’t going to say it.

 He turned and gazed at me.

“Yes, my lord?”

 “Kneel, Leftenant.” I complied. No compulsion necessary. Despite our heads being level to each other, he loomed over me. The indigo vapors began to curl from him again, and he reached out to place his hands on my epaulets. The darkness transferred from him to me and it surged in my peripheral vision, tendrils of it pulsing, and for a moment I could see a vision of the city around us as a dark, silent vista that had never seen the sun. All these faded after only a moment but I felt different. More solid. Stronger.

 Indigo filigree glowed faintly on the black metal of my armor. As I studied it in surprise, the Dark Lord reached out and grabbed the horns of my helmet again. I felt shameful of my corruption and was terrified of revealing it. I would have shit my armor had that been something possible in my not-quite-alive state.

 Instead of a wrenching feeling like before, the helmet came clean off in the Dark Lord’s hands and I felt a sweet breath of wind pass my damp hair and pallid face.

 “You’re a brave woman, and you’ll serve my purposes perfectly. Now rise, Captain Vittorio. It’s time to get to work.” @theschneckenhouse

@dbzespio

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Artorias announced, eyes upon the ceiling. “For Oolacile.”

The man beside him shifted before rolling over to face him, though he could hardly see Artorias there, his eyes bleary with sleep. And when he finally spoke up, his words slurred a little. “Wait. What?”

Artorias repeated himself before turning his gaze to him, and the knight commander smirked, letting loose a little laugh. “Look at you. If it weren’t for me, you’d sleep forever, I bet.”

Reaching for his companion’s face, Artorias pushed away his long, sweeping curls, still in disarray from last night, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Artorias teased, smirking again. “You know it’s true.”

Too tired to come up with a worthy response, the man merely yawned, and Artorias hopped up from bed to search for his clothes. He was already half-dressed before his companion finally found the energy to form a coherent question. “So then… where is this Oolacile?”

“No idea!” Artorias beamed, broad chest bare as he tightened the belt of his breeches. “But I’ll be certain to consult a map or something before I leave.”

With another yawn, the man watched Artorias dress, his armor glistening a little within the weak early morning sun. “What is happening in Oolacile that requires a presence such as yours?”

“Not certain.” The plume upon his helm was proud and tall as he set it upon his head, and it bobbed to the side as he turned to face his partner. “But their messenger was beside himself, practically sick with fear.”

The man finally rose from the bed, hurriedly tossing aside the blankets. “I’m going with you.”

Artorias shook his head, his plume seemingly dancing as it swayed side to side.

“No, your duty lies here…”

He stooped to retrieve his partner’s helm, tossing it to him.

“With Lord Gwyn.”

Frowning, the man placed his hand upon his helm, fingers resting between the dual horns. He hadn’t polished it in a good while, yet it still shone with a glimmer of silver, even within the faint light that barely penetrated their window.

“Don’t worry so much.” Artorias kissed his fingers and waved before turning to leave. “Whatever they need, it won’t be a problem for me; of that, I’m certain.”

And with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. 

~~~

Artorias was a hero. He had conquered the Abyss and saved the township of Oolacile (and thereby, the entire world) by stemming the encroachment of the darkness of the Abyss, and ultimately, he died to the wounds he had sustained.

It was a believable enough story, though entirely a sad one.

But how had Artorias managed to save the day, so to speak, if he had taken so much damage? Wounded so badly that he lost his life? Though improbable (particularly for one as powerful as Artorias), it still was certainly possible, but questions like these continued to nag at him.

Perhaps he was simply unable to cope…

A clipped bark startled him from his thoughts.

Artorias’ wolf seemed to grow larger every day, and now she was baring her teeth at him; evidently he had overstayed his welcome.

“Easy, Sif…”

He tucked his helm under his arm and held up his empty palms before backing away. Yet she still followed him a few paces, growling.

“Enough,” he muttered. “I’m leaving, okay?”

It wasn’t until he left the graveyard entirely that she finally seemed to calm down, though her eyes were still very much watching him, two flashes of light within the growing darkness of the coming night.

He bit his lip as a distinct feeling of unease began to sprout within his chest.

Sif was merely a pup when Artorias had befriended her, so perhaps this newfound aggression of hers simply came with age; but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with Artorias. She guarded his grave day and night, it seemed, only allowing him but brief visits now and then. 

He let loose a sigh, replacing his helm, now blackened from flame, upon his head. He removed his sword from his back to balance upon his shoulder, at the ready should he require it.

More often than not, his very presence as an elite knight of Lord Gwyn was enough to discourage any undead, hollow or otherwise, from engaging him in combat, but there was always the occasional fool to deal with. Not that it mattered much to him, either way.

Back to the Kiln with him…

It was a long march, but it was one he was accustomed to by now. Admittedly, visiting Artorias was, no doubt, a distraction from his duty, but he knew he had to do it; it was the only thing that kept him from throwing away his responsibilities entirely.

He didn’t even want to think about what might come of that…

Today he found himself returned to the Kiln unhindered. A good thing too, for he was not quite in the mood for further strife.

At the top of the stone steps leading down to the Kiln, he paused to take a breath before making his way down to his usual post.

Along the way, he passed his fallen brethren, line upon line of ghosts, whispering their truths as they marched, onwards for all eternity. Their bodies would phase right through him if he happened to cross paths with them, a feeling not unlike a slight but very chill breeze. A sensation he was once unnerved by, but now, wholly accustomed to.

Similarly, he was used to their voices, even sometimes recognized several of them as his fellows; others were much too faint for him to decipher.

Chaos Demons, Lord Gwyn, laments for their families, their regrets… All were familiar themes from his fallen comrades.

So when one mentioned Artorias… He froze in place.

Artorias… not… hero…

Helm whipping towards the voice, he nearly dropped his sword. Did he just–?!

Artorias… consumed… Abyss…

The black knight rushed towards the source of the voice, stopping just short of the edge. “What did you say?!”

But the ghost trudged onwards, deeper into the cruel darkness of the Kiln.

A place he could not reach and yet hope to still live.

“Wait!” he hollered, desperate. “Tell me more! About–!”

But the next ghost phased through him then, startling him with the bitter chill.

He sputtered for a few moments, starting a few different sentences before finally settling upon one. “Can any of you tell me about Artorias?!”

He whirled about, examining each of the passing ghosts in turn.

“Please!” he exclaimed, voice breaking. “I need to know what happened to Artorias!”

But none paid any heed to him, let alone answered him. They merely continued marching, muttering and whispering their damn secrets.

He dropped his blade, not caring when it fell to the ground in a loud clatter of noise.

“Please…”

He could feel his eyes begin to wet with tears as he cradled his lowered helm in his hands.

“Artorias…”

~~~

Artorias was not a hero, he had said. Artorias was consumed by the Abyss.

Those words turned about in his mind, replaying, over and over again, while he made his way through the ruins of New Londo.

It was rumored that the Abyss yet lingered here, but he knew that could not be true. For Artorias had conquered the Abyss. Therefore, it simply didn’t exist anymore. And he would prove it.

He would clear Artorias’ name, no matter what it took.

It was the very least he could do, for the hero of Oolacile. His hero.

Before long, he found himself standing atop a literal mound of bodies. He openly shuddered upon the realization, his stomach turning a little at the sounds beneath his feet and the smell.

He had small doubt that the forces of the Abyss had struck upon multiple fronts. New Londo’s demise had most certainly been long underway before Artorias had managed to tame the darkness in Oolacile.

It was a shame then that Artorias had not been alerted to the trouble there sooner... Perhaps then these people might have been spared such a fate.

Gritting his teeth, the black knight of Gwyn inched his way down from the mound, careful not to lose his footing. Eventually he found solid ground, and the dreary tomb opened to fresh air.

However, that path was littered with dwarven dragons, their claws and wings practically sizzling with sparks of electricity.

Without a bow, he wasn’t quite equipped to handle them, so he scanned the rest of the area carefully before deciding upon another route, one which led him through more ruins and rolling hills of corpses.

He had just turned a corner when something rushed at him, seizing his waist, and a burst of light overwhelmed the narrow visor of his helm. The sheer brightness blinding him, he soon lost his balance and fell to the ground, and his attacker, whatever it was, followed him down, firmly pressing on his helm.

He tried to grapple with his foe, but he couldn’t actually see them; so his efforts resulted in naught but a strange sensation overtaking him as the unrelenting light continued to flood his vision.

Finally, with a sickeningly delighted hum, his attacker released him, his touch surprisingly gentle as his thin hands left him.

The black knight staggered to his feet, blinking furiously to clear his eyes.

The man before him was rail-thin and outfitted in a ghastly attire; his armor was practically falling apart, yet its stark, pale streaks, resembling bones, nearly seemed to glow within the dreary dark of the tomb. A ragged hood obscured his face, masked by what appeared to be a skull. The man’s thin fingers, looking not unlike actual bones, continued to caress his seemingly skeletal face, still humming obscenely.

A darkwraith knight.

He had heard of them before. Mere vestiges of the Abyss. Not heralds.

Adrenaline sustaining him, he gripped his blade tightly, perfecting his stance. “To hell with you!”

His foe answered by holding out his palm, his hand now awash with faint red light. His favored arm made ready his own blade, a straight sword that looked to have actual human bones serving as its hilt.

Looking to avoid the eerie glowing mass, the black knight swung his blade to strike the wraith’s side; but the strange red light was apparently larger than he realized, and it blocked the hit. It felt as if he had struck a wall rather than a mere shield.

With a little laugh of delight, the darkwraith rushed forward, leading with his sword. But the black knight didn’t so much as flinch, and now that his foe’s “shield” had dissipated, he struck again, aiming for the heart. The wraith recoiled, and the black knight did not let up, dealing his opponent two more blows; as true to form as if he were battling a mere training dummy rather than the frightening foe he actually faced.

Hissing through his teeth, the darkwraith knight finally made to match his pace, lashing out with a few strikes of his own. But the black knight met them with his shield, a true one of blackened steel. And when the knight moved to attack again, the wraith held up his formless red shield, blocking him again. But the third slash broke his stance, allowing the black knight the opportunity to thrust his blade directly into the man’s chest. He crumpled to the ground soon afterward, dead.

Gwyn’s knight took a moment to catch his breath, unwittingly finding himself staring down at his foe’s lifeless body.

Now that the battle was over, and he had subsequently calmed down a little, he could tell; he did not feel right.

His chest felt hollow, and his body, strangely light. However, his every step felt heavy, as though his greaves were leaden with heavy stones. Even simply lifting a foot was difficult; it was as though the earth was a jealous lover, clinging to him so tightly that he felt it might never relinquish him.

While he didn’t like this strange new feeling, he couldn’t deny that it had certainly helped him with that last encounter. With his arms free to move with such ease, striking down his foe felt as simple as slicing up mere vegetables for dinner. And with his feet grounded so, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for him to lose his stance, much less for anyone to topple him.

Beneath his helm, a smirk pulled at his lip. 

None would stand in his path now; he would see to Artorias’ good name and rid the world of these monstrosities himself. 

It wasn’t long before another darkwraith knight accosted him, placing his newfound abilities to the test yet again. And now he was ready for their tricks; he was careful to avoid the wraith knight’s mysterious left hand. This one fell even faster than the first, and knowing that sent a surge of satisfaction to his still-empty chest.

He wanted more.

Grinning with pride, he hurried onwards, when yet another stepped out from the shadows. The black knight rushed up to meet him, greeting him with a heavy thrust of his blade straight into his gut.

And when yet another attempted to slink up beside him, he licked his lips, his newly powerful arm driving the blade up from his foe’s gut and straight through his shoulder; he delighted in the way he tore through the wraith’s body, muscle and bone and blood and everything giving way to his strength, like a boulder parting even the swiftest of rivers.

The second darkwraith’s head nearly left his shoulders, his opponent only barely managing to hop backwards at the last moment, just as his blade arced to meet him next. The black knight barked out a laugh while the darkwraith openly recoiled, momentarily stepping even further back to reassess the situation.

“What’s wrong?” the black knight demanded to know, swinging his blade through the air to free it of blood and gore. “Is it true then? Can a monster such as yourself know fear? I wonder…”

Seemingly provoked, the wraith knight bolted towards him, snarling, his left hand awash in a blinding light. But the black knight bashed his hand away with a blow from his shield, his sword rising up to cleave him in half.

The blade crushed the wraith’s shoulder as he continued to carve a path down to his heart, the hapless wraith shuddering and shrieking as he went.

“Ah, so you do feel fear…” he breathed, before driving the blade further down, silencing the darkwraith entirely. “That is very good to know…”

The knight of Gwyn was indeed quite pleased to learn this, wrapping his shielded arm about the darkwraith knight in a twisted semblance of an embrace. He inhaled deeply, releasing his sword in favor of caressing the dead wraith’s skeletal face.

He closed his eyes as a nostalgic feeling overtook him, and he began to hum a tune he recalled from long ago… one which…

He startled, immediately backing away from the corpse. What the hell was he doing?!

He stared at the corpse, at his hands, bathed in blood and with his arm still draped about his foe, as though they were lovers… instead of enemies who had just fought one another to the death.

To the death…

Yes, he gazed down at his bloodied hands, suddenly wanting very much to lick them clean.

He had nearly brought his armored finger to his lips when he startled again. What was happening to him?!

He hurriedly backed away from the corpse, fear coursing through his veins.

But this fear only sent a surge of delight through him, and he openly laughed, only stopping once he drew his hands to his heart, feeling it clattering beneath his armor.

Something was not right.

But his chest felt empty.

Oh, so very empty…

He clenched his hands into fists, swallowing his fears with immense difficulty. He stared at his bloody hands, desire pulsing through him, giving his hollowed, empty chest a surge of life.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head furiously.

These last vestiges of the Abyss… Could he be succumbing to them?

Now he understood how Artorias had died. This power… it was so great… So… enticing…

Suddenly he realized he was breathing quite heavily. In… and out…

After he had calmed a bit, he opened his eyes, only to realize he had clenched his hands together so tightly that he was drawing his own blood. The smell sickened him, enough to clear his head.

He needed to destroy these last few remaining monsters. So that the Abyss would be gone forever, and Artorias’ name cleared.

Yes. For Artorias…

Thinking of him spurred the knight to his feet again and off to hunt down the last of his foes. They fell quickly, and easily, so much so that he needed to again take a moment to calm himself before proceeding, his own blood again serving as a sort of smelling salt, pulling him back to reality, and away from his wild urges.

Finally he seemed to have cleared the area of darkwraith knights and naught but stony, spiraling stairs awaited him, leading down. The way ahead faded to darkness, so he peered from the edge, though naught but an eerie, inky blackness lay beyond.

It reminded him of the Kiln, in a way…

Frowning, he kicked a loose bit of stone down into the pit below, and he did not hear it reach the ground. A long fall, should he happen to lose his step.

He crashed his blade to the ground, hoping to lure any lingering darkwraiths out from hiding, for he did not wish to engage them in such a narrow and perilous space.

But none emerged to challenge him.

Swallowing heavily, he tentatively made his way down, wondering what perils he might encounter next. But the stairs were devoid of disturbances, and an eerie calm enveloped him.

And then he reached the end.

The stairs just… ended.

Panic flooding his veins, he wildly looked about, searching for another way.

But there was none.     

Shoving his blade into the ground, he nudged another bit of stone loose and then kicked it, holding his breath so that he might hear its landing.

But he waited. And waited.

No sound…

Chest empty and heart sick with worry, he collapsed to his knees, his upright blade still within the ground the only thing keeping him from folding in on himself.

How would he clear Artorias’ name now?

He failed.

Artorias… his one and only… and he had failed him.

Of course not!

He startled, blinking away the tears that were already filling his eyes. “What?!”

Of course not, sweetheart. You could never fail me.

“Artorias?” He coughed; his own voice sounded hollow and hoarse to him. “Is it… is it really you?”

Who else?

He searched his memories, ashamed to admit to himself that the sound of his beloved’s voice was distant to him, hard to recall. Maybe it was thanks to that damn hollow feeling, that emptiness in his chest.

He took a hardy sniff of his blood, still flowing freely from his palm. That was a little strange, wasn’t it? How was it still bleeding?

No matter. Artorias. Artorias was here, somewhere.

He peered over the edge, searching, searching with his eyes. “Artorias? Where are you?”

Come down here. Let us talk… face to face…

“I… can’t…” he feebly protested, though his body, driven by the need to quell the emptiness within his heart, was already perched upon the edge, ready to plummet down into the depths below. “I’ll… I’ll die if I do that.”

Artorias didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to; for his body jumped down seemingly of its own accord. He barely had the sense to drive his sword down below him, leading him in a plunging attack.

But when he reached the ground, his blade gave way to empty air, and he realized he was somehow aloft, seemingly held up by darkness itself.

And that was all that surrounded him. Darkness.

The Abyss…?

He wildly shook his head. Surely not!

His heart squeezed, seemingly gripped by an invisible hand, crushing it in an oppressive hold.

He couldn’t help but cry out, folding in on himself, his grip on his blade keeping him from collapsing entirely yet again. He began to breathe heavily, suddenly fearful he might perish from this immense pain.

“Artorias?!” he gasped, struggling to speak. “Where are you?!”

Right here…

He looked up, and his breathing evened as he took in the form of his love, slowly drawing closer to him. Artorias was rail-thin; his legs and feet, in particular, seemed as if they might wither away entirely from whatever neglect that plagued him. But worse of all, his left arm was in terrible shape, twisted and hanging there limply, as though he had lost all ability to control it.

He couldn’t see his face beneath his hood, and somehow, a part of him feared to see it.

“Artorias…” he finally managed to whisper. “What’s happened to you? Are you hurt?”

Artorias shook his head, the plume upon his helm trailing after him.

“Artorias…” His breathing quickened as the man continued to approach him. “They told me you were corrupted by the Abyss, and I knew, I knew it couldn’t–!”

Farron…

Artorias reached for him, the fingers of his right arm caressing his jaw. Join me.

Finally, finally… that emptiness in his chest felt satisfied, filled again by the love of his life, and Farron rose to his feet.

“Of course. Anything for you, Artorias.”

@shadowsheik14

@omelevate

The Loyal Knights of Gwyn

Long ago, Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, and his Knights went down to the Kiln of the First Flame. The Flame was choking on its dying breath, a flicker of its former self. Gwyn, out of desperation, threw himself into the flame in hopes of rekindling it, a sacrifice that engulfed the loyal knights that followed him, burning their armor black.

The Black Knights, as they were now known, were harbingers of violence and death. They lingered on, symbols of Gwyn's sacrifice, warped, twisted, Hollowed.

Upon the steps leading up to the Kiln of the First Flame, smoke and ash furled about a Black Knight, one who remained as a stalwart guard amongst several of its kin. Memories drifted about it, smoke swirling around its legs, twisting and warping into visions of its fellow Knights, treading upon the very steps that lead to their doom.

One such vision paused by the Black Knight. The Black Knight glanced over at the memory, a vision of one of its fellows, a ghost of its former self. The phantom lingered, the two staring at one another. Time dragged on, and perhaps to an onlooker, it would appear that the two were lost in memories.

Memories, the bits and pieces of our lives that mold who we are into being. Neither knight nor ephemeral ghost had much of themselves remaining, except what the solid knight's body knew, the memory of how to fight. Perhaps…

...perhaps the knights had trained together. Once as children, wielding what looked to be sticks to an onlooker but were, in fact, the mightiest of swords. How they sparred, laughter mixed with wild yelling, running in the forests around Anor Londo, sticks clacking together, valiantly slaying any dragons (which were really fierce topiary) standing in their way.

There, in that forest, which cradled and nurtured them, they promised one another, an unbreakable assurance, to work together and achieve their goal as friends and allies. It was a simple plan for each of them, to become the knights they dreamed to be. The vow was made with solemn faces, grim as they knew adults could be, before grins overtook their seriousness and, with giggles, they went home to their families with their promise in place.

Years would pass, and the induction as official squires would see the two knights learning the ways of a knight. Their teamwork and ability to coordinate attacks, even as simple trainees, was not lost upon their commanders. In an effort to have the two teach their fellow squires, the two were often separated, much to their annoyance. And, as youth often do under stress, there were fights; between the other squires, many of whom were tossed into this life not of their own will, fights with others who simply had different views of the world and, once, a terrible once, with each other.

The last fight saw one sneak out of the barracks to meet with the other. Together, they left the walls behind, returning to the woods that raised them. Surrounded by lush green, the sharp smell of the pines enveloping them in nostalgic remembrance, they talked. They talked of their fears, their triumphs, their angers and, most of all, of their vow. Free from the eyes of those they were loyal to, free of the pressure to succeed, they shared their tears, safe with each other.

Once all was said and, throats raw from unabashed sobs, they reinstated their vows, their promise. They would be knights, damn the trials and damned be those who thought less of them. While it would not get easier, they vowed, again and again, to be there for one another.

Perhaps...as pure conjecture, they may have even shared a kiss, though this memory, too, is lost to time.

Years, years, years again, the two would achieve their dream. The reality was less wondrous than the dreams they had as children, as they would find; tasks often gruesome and deadly and not at all the heroic, majestic visions they had as youths. Still, they took pride in being able to call themselves Knights of Gwyn, knights who had gone through such rigorous training, knights who refused to fall in battle and knights who always had each other's backs. Their camaraderie led to many of their victories, both knowing one another in such intimacy that their fellows would say they had the same mind, the same heart, the two inseparable and all the stronger for it.

The two knights, once their duties had been attended to, would often sneak out to the forest alone together. Some would say it was for more rigorous training, others that the two took to patrolling for scoundrels, while others would simply give a knowing look and turn a blind eye. For their part, the knights let the rumors flow freely, for each would be met with a laugh and, with a twinkle in their eyes, a...

...perhaps.

The dragons, their fearsome foe, had been destroyed. Naught but lesser cousins existed, and those were hunted with not nearly the determination as their first opponents. However, a darkness crept into the land, rumors of the flame beginning to dwindle taking foothold amongst the populace. Fear oozed into the minds of the people, and into the hearts of the knights; without light, could there be life? Could they live on, or would they fade away, as the embers of their once powerful flame...?

The order was given that the knights would be joining Lord Gwyn on his mission to rekindle the flame. Rumors abounded, but the consensus, spoken quietly and gravely amongst each other, was that this would be a one-way trip, which none would return from. Their loyalty would stand as a symbol to the people, a reassurance that their king, their god, was as mighty as the warriors beside him.

Another night to sneak out to the forest, the forest that had cradled their dream, their childhood, and the hours spent together. Time stolen from their duty, such valuable hours, a lifetime of fears and friendship between them. One such fear, a fear of stepping into the unknown on the morrow, was expressed by one of the pair. A fear that brought into question loyalty, loyalty that they owed their lord and should never be examined nor thrown into doubt.

Not even if it meant throwing their lives away. A break, between the two; one walked away, the crunch of leaves beneath heavy boots. Both held their breaths in their throat, breaths once shared, tight, tight, as though letting it go might…

The heavy crunch of boots followed after, a break in the stillness preceding . With sighs, they marched on, together, knowing they went to their dooms.

 All of these, perhaps, memories of what could have been. Of the time they trained together, fought side by side. Perhaps theirs was a friendship that became something more, something intimate. An intimacy that would lead them both to a tragic end, one guided by a loyalty to a desperate God driven to act against the end of his reign.

Would they have spoken to each other, there, near the heart of the kiln? Whispered their wants, their desires, their misgivings of what had become of them? Would the ghost have pleaded with the other to flee, to leave and explore the world, unbound and untethered from their once lord, now nothing more but a husk?

One could only conjecture at the relationship between the two, if the two were even the knights who had known each other. One, a phantom, a mere memory of what it once was. The other, ravaged by Hollowing, its thoughts and sense of self erased, leaving behind only its body's knowledge of how to fight, to kill.

A moment passed, two, and then the ghost moved away, ash swirling about it, leaving but loneliness in its wake. The Black Knight straightened, gaze looking out over the ash covered distance, its body knowing what its mind did not.

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

Renee vs The Chosen Undead!

Conditions:

No restrictions. Both sides have absolutely everything.

Scenario:

The Chosen Undead hears of a legendary warrior who can regenerate from nothing but their soul and travels to Engardin to usenit as kindling for the First Flame. Renee refuses to let her soul be used in another cycle of blood and conflict.

Analysis: The Chosen Undead

The world is ending. Not with a bang or a crunch, but with a shuddering, prolonged whimper. The heroes of the land have all either died or gone mad, and the inspirational legends behind them are all nothing but ancient history. Humanity would want nothing more than to roll over and die. Pity that that is the last thing they could do.

Humanity has been cursed with fragments of the all powerful Dark Soul, ensuring that all humans are naturally undead. This meant that they would eventually live long enough to eventually go Hollow, dying a slow and painful death in the throughs of madness as their humanity left them. Exploiting this fact, the Gods used this curse as propaganda to trick humans into sacrificing their fragments of the Dark Soul to fuel the First Flame, the Sun the lights the world and whose creation and existence fuels that concept of time itself. For the Gods feared the power of the Dark Soul and wanted to keep their reign in the Age of Light going for as long as possible.

One of the humans who bore the Dark Soul was the one who would become the Chosen Undead. Shipped up to an aslyum in the North to be contained when they went Hollow, the Chosen Undead was rescued by a giant raven and informed of their destiny. Dropped into the land of Lordran, the Chosen Undead would have to fight their way through the mad gods, fallen heroes, and treacherous monsters to save the world from the Age of Dark.

...Well, I say "save". More like "torturously prolong". It is Dark Souls, after all. There is no true happy endint to your grand quest, whether you ignite the flame to keep the cycle going or let it die to condemn humanity to darkness, Hollowness, and dispair. So what's the point, you may ask? To die. Over and over again, until you succeed. It is the struggle that makes the Undead's journey worth it.

And luckily, The Chosen Undead would find countless weapons and spells to aide them in their journey. The most prominent of which is the Dark Soul itself. By using bits of it as kindling at bonfires, The Chosen Undead can resurrect from the dead, over and over again to retry whatever fight is killing them. Though this process deprives them of all the souls that they've collected and slowly drives them closer to Hollowness, the humans of Dark Souls don't need souls to survive and The Chosen Undead can, to an extent, resist the effects of going Hollow through sheer determination. As long as they don't rage quit, the Chosen Undead can return as many times as they want and eventually win.

And with pockets as deep as theirs, one of their weaons is bound to give them a winning strategy once they learn all your tricks. The Greatsword of Artorius, whose cursed varients can kill ghosts, Gough's Greatbow, a massive bow with pillar sized arrows that csn shoot down dragons, and the Dark Hand, a mark that can warp space itself to create a shield and absorb people's souls, just to name a few.

And they're also a master of sorcery and magic. With spells such as the Homing Soulmass to directly target and home in on a foe's soul, to the Hidden Caster spell to turn themselves invisible. Or, they can just say "fuck magic" and use the Vow of Silence to keep people from casting spells entirely. Helpful for managing their limited magic supply. They can even use their magic to summon heroes from other realms to aide them in combat. Or they can go to other people's realms and invade their lands to steal their things. Try it and I'll shove a great sword up your ass before you finish praising the sun, Dave. And that's on top of being able to reflect damage, control minds, shoot fire balls, and throw sunlight at people. Sunlight that they are fast enough to dodge when being invaded by other Players, mind you.

And all that arsenal isn't being thrown around by a witless dolt either. They've managed to kill Seath the Scaleless, the immortal dragon who invented sorcery in the first place, before carving his ass into the beautiful Moonlight Greatsword. They've killed Nito, the God of Death, The Bed of Chaos, the mother of all demon kind, and Artorius, the greatest knight in history.

But, for all their unrelenting stubbornness, The Chosen Undead does have limits. They are just another cog in the endless cycle of the Ages of Light and Dark. The First Flame created the very concepts of Light and Dark. Energy and Time. Like a mythological big bang. The power that the Chosen Undead would need to power it is immense.... but not limitless. The First Flame will wain again in another thousand years and the cycle will begin anew. And while the Chosen Undead can resist the corruption of Hollowing, even they can eventually succumb. Depends on if you decide to rage quit.

And doesn't that just sum up the entire Dark Souls mythos? And endless cycle of death and suffering, until everything gives up.

Analysis: Renee

Long ago, a powerful being grew bored with her eternal isolation and decided to create the world of Engardin. This being, known as God to her worshippers and Luca to her friends, created all the species of the world. She created the Sea of Souls to house the dead, the Goliaths to protect the ecosystem, the Phoenix to pull the sun into the sky every morning, and the humans to enjoy the world she'd created.

And then, for reasons unknown, God left the world she'd created. And everything immediately went to hell.

Many of the species of Engardin died off without God's power to sustain them. The Humans and the Goliaths went to war, nearly driving each other to extinction amd decimating the world in their brutality. The Goliaths severed the link between the Sea of Souls and Engardin to keep humans from reincarnating, causing the dead to rise as bloodthirsty zombies and ghosts.

Fearing the concept of a permanent death, the human leader, Eseus, begain creating human experiments so as to find a way to subvert mortality. The resulting successes, named the "Essentials", seemed to be what she was looking for, as they had the ability to cheat death by regenerating from nothing but their soul. However, the Essentials rebelled against their creator's mistreatment and escaped to live their own life.

One of the escapees was fatally injured during the escape, losing her memories. Seeking to atone for his race's genocidal atrocities, Ifree, the current Goliath of Pyro or leader of the Goliath people, fused his soul to the girl's to stabilize it, allowing her to survive until she was taken in by a small human village. The village named her Renee and raised her as an ordinary girl.

Renee grew up in the peace that came after the war, with both races trying to put the brutality behind them and survive in the world they'd created. Engardin was seeing an era of tentative hope as everyone adapted to the new normal and Renee was able to live a happy life. Until her village was slaughtered by a strange monster and her mentor was kidnapped by a mysterious figure. "Dying" and "reviving" as a result of her Essential powers, Renee survived the bloodshed and avenged her people, before setting off on a quest to rescue her mentor and discover her past.

In her travels, Renee would become the greatest hero Engardin had ever seen. She would become a master of every weapon imaginable, swords, bows, whips, and scythes among them, and a master of magic second to none. She possed the ability to go intangible, her weapons can hurt and kill ghosts, she's fast enough to dodge light, agile enough to stick to walls, and her numerous magical weapons grant unique boons that allow her to switch her combat style on a dime. Bloodbath feeds on her blood and the blood of her enemies to boost her strength, Sword of the Hermit boosts her strength so long as she believes she can wield it, and the Muramasa can devour souls, at the cost of feeding on the wielders own. Yet, her most powerful weapon is arguably the Nameless sword. The sword that her dear companion Ifree himself used to split the universe between Engardin and the Sea of Souls, cutting humanity off from the afterlife.

Renee has survived visiting the Sea of Souls, despite the experience driving other humans completely mad, and can even regenerate damage done directly to her soul. There is, however, a cost to that. As an Essential, Renee can regrow her body from her soul as often as she likes, but damage done to her soul can slow down the process and outright destruction or absorption of her soul can permanently kill her. Once she discovered this, Renee cast six spells to create a barrier around her soul, preventing the villainous Essential Red Renee from absorbing her soul.

Ultimately, Renee would go on to put her dark past behind her, defeating both Eseus and the new Goliath of Pyro to stop their genocidal plans against the other's race and stop their attempts to restart the war. With the Afterimage of the war finally put to rest and her mentor saved, Renee was free to live her life as she saw fit. After decades of brutality and hardship following the disappearance of God, Engardin would finally know peace and begin to move on...

Throwdown Theme:

Throwdown Breakdown:

Welp, time to once again ask the age old question: "Which of these characters can kill each other?"

The ability of both to absorb souls is completely irrelevant here. That wouldn't kill the Chosen Undead and Renee's barriers protect her soul from that very kind of attack. Both are about as fast as each other due to both being able to dodge light, both would be constantly switching up their combat styles as they keep dying, and both should be similarly have similarly versatile arsenals. They should even both be comparatively skilled, as they've both taken down the most skilled fighters within their universe. Even the Chosen Undead's ability to control minds is moot, due to Renee's resistance against the mind altering effects of the Sea of Souls.

There is one major advantage, however, that ultimately makes this Renee's game: Power.

The Sea of Souls and the ocean surrounding Engardin have both been stated several times to be literally endless by numerous knowledgeable characters. And Renee is swinging around the sword that split the two apart in the first place. Hell, in the bad ending, Renee is powerful enough to kill Ifree, who himself could light up the entire ocean with a single spell. The ocean is, again, described as literally being infinite in size. Meanwhile, we know full well the First Flame cannot be infinite because... well, then it wouldn't go out in the first place.

Thematically and dynamically.... this is just Frisk vs Chosen Undead again. The Chosen Undead is fighting against someone who can come back as many times as they want just like they can, but the issue is Chosen Undead will eventually go hollow due to not being able to match the infinite power disparity. The victor is from a more optimistic series and their victory in this fight ultimately ties into their series's themes about moving on from great tragedy.

That... was not intentional in the slightest when I made this matchup, that's just where I ended up. In fact, I was fully expecting CU to win this. Apparently the Chosen Undead's real weakness is optimism. If they got therapy, they'd be unstoppable.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Renee!

[vulturereyy]

as a huge Dark Souls fan who honestly loves the games more for their lore and themes than ooo big boss fights, i wish i was coherent enough to make a big long beautiful dissecting post about the themes of DS and HK, but honestly. I just like that there is a possibility of 'saving' Hallownest. Not the kingdom itself perhaps but. All isn't so totally lost like in Dark Souls. There's still room to rebuild, there's still folks who haven't given up, there's still most of the infrastructure and even groups of bugs like the Mantises or the denizens of Deepnest (the creepy noble ones I'm talking about with the bench) that thrive (?). In Dark Souls, there is... Nothing to really 'save.' The best ending options, in my opinion, are to just let everything *rest* at last. Let the fire fade, let the cycle begin anew. You won't survive, nor will anyone you've met, but existence itself will, because you let everything be burned away at last.

But I don't feel that way about Hallownest. Society still hasn't fallen... *That* far, compared to like, Lothric and Lordran, and hell even Drangleic. I can't quite think of one character in HK who even mentions just waiting for death at this point because that's the only good way anyone is getting out of this (not in a self-death way but like, the world of dark souls is very much converging in on itself because it's been kept in stasis for *so* long to try and preserve Gwyn's Age of Fire. It's not sustainable.) I think Cornifer is a great example for this. He hasn't lost hope, he's got a clear purpose, and yes, he takes your geo (as does Iselda), but both of them take it with the future in mind. They both look forward to the day Cornifer can come home and they can just settle down together. In Dark Souls, there are merchants, but many of them are just kind of... Taking money for money's sake, really. There's not much to *do* with it, there's nothing to look forward to with it. They're getting it for the feeling of power that comes from wealth. There are a few exceptions (Shoutout to my man Domhnall of Zena the best character in DS1) but on the whole, it's a very different vibe. Even Sly, who says himself he just likes to be rich, doesn't seem to be taking it to die rich. No one is waiting for Hallownest to fall.

I don't know. Dark Souls will always be my favorite series, but there's something to be said about how Hollow Knight took a similar path and I prefer the feeling of the endings much more. Sure, in the case of the endings like Dream No More, you shed your shell and *you* return to the void, but Hallownest lives on. Not only does it live on, but it lives on WITH NO (or very, VERY little) CHANCE OF THE CURSE/INFECTION COMING BACK! And hell even your self-sacrifice is viewed as a good thing for you, the Ghost, and the Hollow Knight, because you get to finally *rest*. It's not even painted in a horrible light for the ghost personally.

Hollow Knight lets you kill the Undead Curse and Hollowing itself (i.e. the Infection). It lets you undo the mistakes and wrath of a vengeful god who wants to keep grasping at what little power they have over the lands. A lot has been lost, but not *so* much that everything is for naught.

Hollow Knight makes the best endings the one where the world survives, and I think that's beautiful.