A burning feeling, a cold sight, fluttering embers scared of the dark. It curls into itself on agony, trying to keep its weak flame from snuffing out. The dark in its wave of fear and stillness, cutting through its own hide to encapture the small flame that tries so hard to live. Why struggle so much, when the end is so near? When death looms so close above? From boy to man, from sheep to wolf, from ember to flame... So ignorant, to think such illusions of grandeur are the story that befalls before you. What more could be so rich as to be the perfect end for someone such as you?
His mind is shrouded in darkness, lingering from mindless days past. Lands told of only in legends and just as forgotten as his twisted nobility. Once pristine silver and angelic armor turned to demonic, black, and corrupted. His once beautifully decorated greatsword, now jagged, heavy, and devoid of all light to banish dragons. Once a weapon to cut the scales of stone, now suitable as a bludgeon for lack of shocking power. Even his shield now resides as a blackened disgraceful mass that has still yet to fail even in its "deformity" deemed so fitting of a title by its wielder. A companion by very definition, unable to forsake him, even joining the fate of its knight.
A thought came to wake him after so long in his cold bed of ash,'Gwydolin.' Beit as the royal knight or one of sworn existence to a loved one, he must find her. Though the lands he once knew were unrecognizable even at times long past, before his return to the kiln of the great flame. If it is for the fair maiden who admired her father so much, he would throw himself into the fires that overwhelmed him long ago thousands of times over. He mustn't shirk his long gone duty, lest he shirks his care for the princess. His gaze centered on the old resting place of Gwyn and the first flame, burning no more. Almost like a ghost. it was almost as if he saw the Lord of Sunlight himself, leaping to an undead that sought to end the then decrepit god reduced to a pebble of his former self. He could see him swing with a blade of flame and reach his hand with flame. He was fixated on the hallucination, forgetting how he moved his hand to gasp the sight.
Seeing his old form reduced to such a decrepit state brought no comfort to even those that would scorn him. It was a sad revelation to see. To mourn his glory at the world's harsh reality. The specters of long past saddened him, enough for him to attempt to sway his thoughts elsewhere. Struggling he found his body pinned by a weight he did not expect. He tried again, this time expecting the resistance. The ash broke apart from the new force exuded. Once hollow, one can never become human, but perhaps not all that become hollow are human, does the rule yet still apply?
When this knight was discovered by Gwyn, he seeped like a boiling cauldron with a dark fog that ate away the life from everything it touched. Gwyn gave armor to 'protect this knight from the outside world's corruption. Lies, all lies! Fear-mongering directed at oneself was the only fueling of such a decision.
Lies behind the truth of suppressing my heritage, the former lurker of Lordran was never permitted to take it off. He suspected Gwyn was not trying to protect him, but was instead protecting his so-called 'Age of Fire.' He assigned him to protect one of his children most in tune with the dark, an attempt to find how to control the creature born of the abyss. Although if it hadn't been for that, he'd not have found the one whom he could pledge allegiance, neigh, his whole being to. It seems he got what he wanted... He would do anything Gwyndolin ever asked, Gwyndolin always seemed like a girl to him, never a man. Thus, always referred to her as a maiden, much to her liking or disliking. She had never voiced her thoughts, only accepting it with a smile.
He'd spent long enough thinking of times past, he pulled hinself from the chamber... Tiredly, he sluggishly walked out of the kiln, passing the multiple black knights without substance to control their own being as he went, noting they numbered around 13 still within the kiln. He thought finding Gwyndolin may be a good start, not a single other goal is obvious that needs completion. One without a goal is nothing more than a hollow.
He was just now passing the gates of the kiln, or as some including himself knew them, the End Gates. None that would come from it could be living. It looked ominous, a stairway leading to gates surrounded by white light with no substance. Truly a gate akin to one of judgment, one you would meet at your end or just before, how fitting... After a moment, he turned away from the gate, taking the steps up. As the corrupted knight did, there was a lone phantom of another knight of Lordran that had been charred black and distorted, yet standing in his path. He was distracted by even more poor knights striding behind me with shaking of plate mail filling my ears. The armored man turned to meet them, they walked through him as if they were not there. Out of instinct, he looked back to the one that stood, now an army that lined the steps, their armor silver as it was meant to be. Suddenly it had gone silent, not a sound had been heard, not a sound was made. It felt as if my sense of sound was muffled completely.
Forms of armored knights with attention only to me stood. Not a single gap between all of them. With a loud thunderous shriek, his perfect vision distorted. Silver turned to black, holy armor turned demonic. Darkness flowed from them to me, he felt their sorrow and regrets, he felt their joys and wonders. It hurt, he could barely stand, his armor rattled in his attempt to stay my body. Alas, his strong knees buckled, a clash of metal against stone. His vision became blurry as his sturdy head neared a corner.
He was standing on the steps, nothing else on them aside from himself. He feels different, but it is a must that he leave this place. He walks up the steps, in anguish at my recent experience. He is then greeted not by the lord vessel, nor its post. Though is instead met with a forest of vast green. The likes of such green were bright, not even Lordran contained such vibrant colors that differed from gold and marble. No end in sight, no options are available to him, he must find them. The former Lordran shadow takes his stride through slowly, greatsword and shield in hand as if it was part of his very flesh and only assurance in this unsure place.
After only a few lengths of time, I am met with the sight of an enemy. It is one clad in plate mail, black iron armor on its frame. A blade once wielded by a witch of Izalith, one the witch Quaelagg used to defend her sister. I am burdened by sadness at the sight of it, a reminder of so many that had met their own fates. His pyromancy at the ready, his stance is one of observation. It is as if I look to him as but a peasant shouting to him with contempt. He is not taking me seriously. His flame in hand is ignited, yet he does not raise his sword. Surely this bastard knows after cutting down the lord Gwyn, that such a sword is capable of cutting steel?
It's as if my mind works itself to keep thoughts fresh to make for the lack of thinking I had done when I had first been scarred by the fire. This is a time for aggression this is not the time for thought on such a worthless pygmy. His fight for the flame the first time was only an unintelligent fight of only novice swordsmanship. With a charge, I bashed the blunt of my shield to him. After a feeling of hitting something, I swung my sword below my point of impact. It seems almost impossible, yet a flaming sword received the blow. How can such a feeble one have taken a blow, then recovered to attempt a block in time? He must've been lucky to take the blow with his armor, no, not the time for such thought.
I backstepped a short distance, then rushed forward with an overhead swing with intent to force my way through his body... This is no form of a knightly pedigree, nor is it that of one who has spent their life fighting for the better part of it. I truly have forgotten how to act as I once did, I've undersold my opponent as I find out the hard way. I'm met with a strong kick to my face only empowered by my own arrogant charge. Even as my head went back, my blade went down only to be deflected down his own blade. His skill exceeded what I had seen when he had sought the First Flame. This was not the same foolish carrier of the dark soul I had once seen.
His left shoulder back, right arm extending his blade to me, even footwork is seen. This was no novice, this was one taught in the ways of the sword. My respect for that only, is what allows me to fight without a thought that it was only for the vengeance of a god. It had become so much more, it was now also a test of technique. In acknowledgment, I scrape the flat of my blade across my chest. With my left hand, I took hold of the end of my hilt, my shield still covered my hand as it gripped the handle, my blade pointed to the air and held a bit from my body. My left shoulder forward, my right shoulder to the side, standing completely upright, one of the sword forms which I knew. A style that looked to be more from the east than my own land.
I took two steps forward, my blade still at the ready, then another step and no reaction. I quickly swung my blade diagonally, my right foot pushing and my left anchoring me, this time it bore no cocking back like an untrained novice. He reacted then, stepping to the side, then slashing. From my sword close to the ground I twisted my blade and swung in a wide arc to my right. I let my grip leave my left hand, my sword smacking his blade away. No movement should be unnecessary in true sword technique, as soon as I recovered from my swing I thrust my blade forward. It struck his shoulder and tore through his armor, it seems even after all this time my great-sword has kept its ability to rend even metal with its hardness and weight.
He threw an orb of fire my way as he staggered, I quickly blocked my helm with my shield. Then as I lowered it slightly to have view, I saw a flaming blade come towards my vision. I immediately thrust my shield forward as if I was throwing a punch, I managed to strike and defend at the same time. I then hacked at his abdomen in the brief moment of time I had created, only the spike-like protrusion halfway up my blade pierced his heavy armor. He rolled back at a shockingly fast speed, even with such armor, he was unencumbered. Although I was more skilled than him, he might pull out a flask of estus and leave me back the start. This would not do, I would not want to find that he uses some underhanded trick.
I impaled the ground with my sword, letting it stay there. I put my hand into my seemingly abyss filled helmet as if it was natural, pulling out a scythe that emanated black fog. The scythe looked to be the abyss itself, it was like looking into a void, a length twice as long as my large form. My armor morphed akin to the scythe, the black fog came from my armor and weapon alike. I felt myself becoming larger, a size suitable to wield a matching scythe. I held the scythe with both hands, the blade far back for an immediate slash at the end of a dash forward.
I was then standing with my sword on the ground. I am confused, what is happening? I was just fighting the undead. Though I felt as if I was just in a battle. Even if I feel as though something had happened, it would not make it true. If rage was something that took form and will, this forest would be burning to the ground in search of an undead. I want to yell, I want to scream out in anguish, I want to shake the earth. Why must I daydream so? Even as I claim it as daydreaming, I feel as though I am unable to trust my own eyes. My own eyes, I'm not sure if I possess them anymore, I cannot feel any semblance of flesh, only my cold hard shell.
I walked forwards as that was the only thing I could, if I do not move I have no purpose.
Curious I stepped closer, examining it as it slowly lifted to my level. I could feel the dark coming from the orb, but more like it was being controlled by it. I thought I saw a beautiful pale face, but only for a moment. I must be seeing things as I have been since my departure from the kiln, or maybe I'm being watched through this strange creature. I decided to disregard it as it has no meaning to me for now, what does is finding Gwyndolin.
I turned to my I wait for a blade to come to me, so that I may be reunited. I walked past mountains, swamps, none brought nothing useful. I did meet a little girl who I instantly took a liking to her, she had silver eyes, with red-tipped hair, strangely. I decided I may as well stick by her for a little while, I'm sure the time will pass quickly with this little girl. I put my sword and shield on my back, I don't think I'll be fighting for the time being. The wolves and the orb were nowhere to be seen. Even as I walk these lands, it's almost as if I am still not fully conscious again.
"Mr. Knight! I want to show you my dad!" The girl declared just barely reaching my hand.
I humored her, acting like she was able to pull me. I heard a middle-aged mans voice in the distance, "Ruby! Where are you!?"
She led me to the voice saying, "I'm right here dad! I made a new friend!"
There we say a short-haired blonde man with a small goatee. He was wearing a light tan jacket, a blue dress shirt covered with a leather shoulder pad on his right. He also wore some baggy brown pants fastened by a black belt, accompanied by black boots. I also saw a little blonde girl with long curly hair holding his leather-wrapped hand.
Updated Febuary 14, 2021 3:42 AM
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