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Chapter Text

Môr Y Meirw

Many moons ago, nearing the downfall of The Age of Fire…

Domhnall strode through the bustling thoroughfare of Zena, serenely observing the bypassers and overall scenery as he made his way through the throng of civilians. Mules pulled carts laden with goods, and dirty faced children scrambled about playing games. Carts of exotic creatures such as Basilisks, Ents, and even a few Wyverns wheeled past through the gravel. A tall, turbaned man filled his goatskin with water at the public fountain, and a group of women bedazzled in gold and swathed in colourful silk gossiped amongst each other. 

As the merchant continued on until the shade of the bazaar was cast over him, the air thickened with fragrant spices, and their scent mingled with the odours of sweat and metal every now and again, each familiar scent drifting into the narrow slits of his helmet. The sunlight filtered in through holes in the plank and patchwork awning above, illuminating the dust and smoke that drifted in the air and setting the bronze and silver wares on display ablaze. The crowd flowed restlessly, like a wave of colour through the narrow rows of the marketplace. A few individuals meandered past the merchant on various forms of transportation, like horses and the occasional gryphon, as he swiftly ducked under one of its extended feathery wings. 

Zena, being the isolated island that it was, had garnered a strikingly unusual impression that never ceased to amaze the common newcomer. But for Domhnall, it was home. And the strangeness of everything suited him perfectly. The bright colours of everything that surrounded him matched the textiles that draped his person, almost making the man blend in completely. And he would have, had it not been for the lustrous helmet he had always donned, reflecting the sun’s warm rays like an ethereal beacon amongst the crowd. 

With the celerity of someone who has mapped out the entire kingdom from memory, Domhnall finally weaved through the last waves of the afternoon crowd so that the ship docks were now visible. He lifted his hand in greeting as he steadily approached the small group of men, who all seemed to be too invested in a heated dispute to even care enough about returning the gesture. 

“ Aye Siwmae , gentleman.” Domhnall chirped in an orderly fashion, effectively silencing the men’s noisy haggling. 

The group ceased what they had been doing, all regarding the Zenian merchant from behind their gold masks and helmets at once. 

One of the men, a large, dark, pot-bellied merchant with a turban tightly wound around his head and a thick, curly beard, walked forward from the group so he could eagerly clasp and shake hands with Domhnall. The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of Domhnall, the man’s grip on his hand firm and a little too tight for comfort. 

“Aha, Dom!” His voice boomed across the marketplace, making some bystanders jump and turn to their group. “How good it is to see you!”

He rested a hand atop Domhnall’s shoulder after letting go of his hand, swivelling around to the rest of the men. “This is my partner I was telling you all about. A fantastic zealot, let me tell you! Born and bred in Zena, he’s practically a natural at managing all the shipment of goods coming in and out of the capital.”

Domhnall opted to ignore the odd feeling he got at being presented to others like some kind of caged animal, instead waving a dismissive hand and shaking his head. 

This man, Saloh Badmard, was indeed his partner. Though, the term “partner” may have been a bit of an overstatement. They worked in the trading systems, as revered merchants, overseeing the ships that docked along the city’s shoreside. They were nothing more than fast friends, using each other to make it big in life. 

 Domhnall and Saloh disagreed on a lot of things, but, as the saying goes, “Necessity is the mother of creation.” And they had managed to make things work. Saloh had always insisted on being at the forefront of the city’s hustle-bustle, as he had always been the more social of the two. It was practically second-nature for him, a nature Domhnall had never seemed to understand. So that left Domhnall doing the more intricate work that required a more keen eye in his rather large shadow. However, this was how he preferred it, finding that having everyone’s attention be directed away from one can help significantly with one's image, making it overall easier to get tasks done. Together, they went from nothing to the powerful merchants that stood here today, mediating petty arguments. 

“So, what seems to be the problem then?” Domhnall didn’t waste time getting down to business, moving the conversation forward before his partner could make another comment about his own achievements, a tactic he had found was only used to butter-up merchants. The men grumbled and muttered amongst each other from under their various coloured garments. 

“The problem is the new haul of Twinkling Titanite.” One of the men piped up. “We’ve been waiting no less than three months for it, and I was promised at least one fourth of the entire stock. Yet clearly I won’t be getting what I bargained for.” The man spat, eyeing the other merchants whilst Domhnall glared daggers at Saloh, who simply gave him a sheepish smile from beneath his beard.

“Twinkling Titanite, hm? I see, I see…” Domhnall’s poised, condescending tone made the men frown and shift impatiently. “Well, clearly there isn’t enough for all of you.”

Domhnall gazed off towards the ships of various shapes and craftsmanship, across the serene ocean waves that stretched into the distant horizon, the golden sun slowly starting to descend from the sky. He inhaled the salty, warm air of the atmosphere through the little nose slits of his helmet, before turning to continue his argument with the men. 

“I hope this isn’t you saying you’ve lied to us, Annwyl. That’s bad business.” A silvery voice cut through the crowd like a knife. 

Domhnall froze, head snapping over to his aggressor. The group parted, making way so that a shorter man now stood right in front of the merchant. 

Exalted Amine. Powerful merchant of Zena and a long lasting rival of Domhnall and Saloh. Anyone would be able to identify the bastard simply from his unique gold helmet in the shape of an eagle’s head, which concealed his face completely. The man was wealthy, yet always a step behind Domhnall, and Domhnall would very much like to keep it that way. 

“I understand the distress, but I am not a liar,” Domhnall shot back at Amine. “My sincerest apologies for my partner, however. Next time he will tell me when he’s made such an arduous promise.” Another jab at Saloh, who bowed his head apologetically.

 “Now, we wouldn’t want to play favourites, so I suggest all of you wait. We’ll postpone everyone receiving their supplies until there is enough to be received. That way you may all get the same amount at the same time, and there will be no scuffle between shops.” He paused, smiling under his helmet at the flabbergasted expressions and the stiffening postures he received. “Surely, you all are not that in need of it now.”

“Are you blowing smoke up our arses?!” One of the men blurted out.

“ Goodness no. That would be incredibly unsanitary.” 

“No, I was promised– !” 

“Well, the situation has changed significantly since the promise was made. We won’t be so hasty to make deals we can’t keep, but you must understand that it would be even worse business to play obvious favourites,” Domhnall interrupted coldly, discreetly eyeing Amine, who now stood with his slim arms crossed and the beak of his mask slightly tilted. 

The men looked appalled, scrutinising Saloh for his impute. He chuckled nervously, clasping his meaty hands together. “Yes, sorry lads, but I believe Domhnall here is right. We’ll have to wait for more Twinkling Titanites to come into the harbour before we can have an equal transaction. Wouldn’t want you all to start murdering one another, heh heh.”

The group of colourful merchants angrily mumbled amongst one another, lowering their accusing hands and pointed fingers. Domhnall could feel the narrowed eyes of Amine, however, to which he simply straightened his back and gave a curt nod in his direction. 

Eventually, they all dispersed from the docks once the sun was no longer visible, the sky now littered with twinkling stars. The tide rose, waves gently crashing against the craggy shores, rocking the ships that were strung to the docks with rope. Shops were closing, children were called back into their sandstone homes by mothers and fathers, and little lanterns were lit, illuminating the roads of sand. Domhnall felt pride whenever another day had successfully gone by, giving Zena her well-deserved rest. 

Domhnall made his way back to his shop, which also served as his living quarters, accompanied by Saloh, who briskly walked beside him. 

“ Nawr beth yn union oeddech chi'n ei feddwl?” Domhnall spat, turning to him and hissing through the pointed smile of his helmet yet still managing to keep his tone relatively quiet so as not to make the heads of bystanders turn towards them. Saloh felt the piercing gaze his partner gave him through the narrow slits of his helmet. 

“Dom! I would never endanger our business, especially after everything we’ve accomplished. You know this!” The merchant persuaded, a little too loud for Domhnall’s liking, as he quickly checked around for any civilians. Saloh shook his head, exclaiming exasperatedly, “ Er mwyn Duw! You worry too much, lad, this belief that everyone wants you dead is going to eat at you from the inside out!” 

Domhnall suppressed the urge to tweak his nose, adjusting the small circular glasses that rested upon it. The two continued on down the darkening road, past the little fountain, listening to the distant cicadas whirring through the night. 

“Oh!” His partner exclaimed suddenly, getting Domhnall’s attention. They halted their walking as Saloh dug through a small sack that hung at his hip, pulling out something that lightly clattered together in his closed fist. “Snagged this pretty trinket. I tried selling it, but everyone’s been telling me it's completely worthless!” 

Domhnall raised a brow from under his helmet, watching as Saloh lifted it up by its gold chain. 

A pendant. A simple, aurelian pendant. 

Domhnall silently took it from Saloh’s hands, letting it dangle from its chain as he lifted it up to his eyes to examine it. The moonlight gently reflected off its flat surface, giving it an almost silver glow and making the little inlays it had become more visible. 

“Dear me, you didn’t steal this, did you?” 

Saloh bellowed, “No, no! I am a good man Dom, free of sin! I am only human, afterall.”

They were silent again, before Saloh took the medallion from Domhnall’s hands, insisting that he’d put it on. He lifted the chain above his head, careful as to not have it catch on the curled horns of his helmet. Saloh then took a step back to admire how it looked around the other merchant’s neck. “It matches your helmet, too!”

Domhnall didn’t say anything, simply regarding Saloh with uncertainty. 

“It’s a gift, friend. Take it.” The merchant finally remarked, smiling at him, before turning the other way and steadily proceeding down the path to his own residence. Domhnall silently stood there and watched as the figure of his partner disappeared down the road, deep into the thick shadows of the night. He looked down, lifting the round pendant back up, letting the lantern light hit it. 

It took a little while to get back to his own home. It always did, as he lived quite far away from the rest of the city. It made it so that any enemies of his would have a harder time locating him, had they intended him any harm. It also served as a much needed get-away from the chaotic bustle of his day-to-day activities, flocks of loud people at every corner of the city, many of which Domhnall had to interact with in his line of work. 

Though something a person would not look forward to at the end of a long day, Domhnall had always found the trek quite pleasant. He would always observe the cranes that lived around the city, as they balanced with their skinny legs dipped in the shallow shores of the ocean, searching for tiny fish. Such delicate and beautiful creatures , he thought, as he pushed the thickly weaved curtains that drape above his doorway, allowing him to step into his living quarters. An influx of warm air wafted into him as he retired inside, immediately greeted by the familiar scents of spices and timber he adored so much. 

A small fireplace nestled in the wall to the right, its pile of Hemlock wood currently unlit. Simple earthen painted adobe covered the walls and colourfully patterned rugs lavished the floor. He inhaled the pleasant aroma of yesterday’s incense, as he carefully lifted his hefty helmet up from his head. 

His face, a face he concealed so often in public out of pure habit, was aged and scathed. His skin was a deep olive, and his face was edged with lines he acquired through many life threatening experiences. His eyes were narrow yet held a friendly sort of look to them, with crows feet and bags giving him the constant appearance of exhaustion. He had a sharp, beautifully hooked nose that was delicately speckled across the brim with freckles, with a thin scar that cut across the skin. His hair was a pure, stone silver, pulled back into a small bun. Some of the silver strands were now loose at the front of his face, which he promptly combed back with a swift hand. He ambled over to a little tray table near the centre of the room, carefully lighting the intricate bronze brazier that sat on its surface. 

Domhnall seated himself, cross-legged on one of the rugs, pulling the pendant up and off from around his neck to again examine it. He took the small, circular spectacles from off his helmet, using them to closely look at the trinket like a jeweller would a diamond. It soothed his senses, as some would say. Admiring all the lovely trinkets and oddities he’s acquired over his many years of living. Most of which he’s acquired were from trade, however sometimes he would travel away from the city, to places he heard fellow traders whisper tales amongst each other, about all the possible treasures that resided there. The dumbfounded looks they adorned when Domhnall turned up with the exact treasure they thought to be mere prophecy was certainly a pleasurable bonus. Saloh always commented that this quality about him. This knack for extracting valuables from their place of origin and giving them a new home was why Saloh wanted to work with him. Domhnall knew this ‘want’ was merely because Saloh profited greatly from it, but that didn’t matter to the merchant. That was how business worked, after all. And as long as he himself flourished, then it didn’t matter what others thought of him. 

Quietly, shifting his rump against the tessellated cushion he sat upon, he thought back on what Saloh had told him. Was he truly being too harsh? His unrelenting sense of distrust, his lack of sympathy, his cut-throat attitude. Was it all too much?

Domhnall was getting old, and soon, he’ll be too old to keep up this hazardous lifestyle. All he really wanted was to garner enough money to live peacefully and comfortably, in a small dwelling place far from civilization and the scuffling of other merchants. Perhaps visit a few abandoned tombs once in a while to nourish his inclination for exploration, a habit he knew would never truly be quenched. 

Domhnall’s breath came out in calm puffs, realising he was too absorbed in his own thinking to thoroughly examine the necklace. Perhaps he should simply go straight to bed tonight? He carefully set down his glasses on the table’s surface, rubbing his temples. 

Suddenly, something caught in his keen peripheral vision. 

The elegant wisps of the incense stuttered, swaying forward with a new force, opposite of his house’s entrance. 

Someone had entered his home.

The merchant went rigid, breathing halted in a second as he rapidly planned on what his next action should be. His back was facing the door, so he was at a disadvantage. In a vain attempt to protect himself, he began feeling around for his precious gold dagger, something he always had on his person. Cachwr! He left his gold dagger with his helmet! The one time he opted to let his guard down… damn that Saloh to Hell!

Domhnall ultimately decided to whirl around, at the same time getting out of his cross-legged position in one fell swoop. He turned moon-eyed, heart pounding erratically in his ears. At the entrance, stood the moonlit silhouettes of multiple men, some bearing weapons. One of the men, large and bulky with muscle, pierced Domhnall with his eyes, as he prowled right up to him, the other men staying behind to block his only exit. 

Domhnall hadn’t the power to fight back when said man aggressively seized him by his thin wrist, so hard he thought it might snap clean off. He looked up at the large man, face concealed with fabric around the mouth, as the merchant was hauled up to his feet.  

“The pendant ,” The man growled, throaty and dry. “Where’s the bloody pendant.” 

Domhnall blinked rapidly, mind racing with all possible outcomes, before quickly holding the pendant up so the man could see it. The man faltered, then narrowed his eyes down at him.

“ Ti'n ffycin theirf! ” 

Domhnall’s heart plummeted in an instant. Saloh DID steal it! “N-no! I didn’t steal it! A man gave it to me. Saloh Bahdmard! You can have it back!”

“How quick you are to blame your own partner, Domhnall. I’d thought you were more loyal than that.” 

The man smirked from under his litham, releasing Domhnall’s wrist and moving out of the way so he had a clear view of the entrance. Domhnall looked towards the owner’s voice, another blackened silhouette appearing from around the curtain, this one significantly shorter than the rest of the men. As he made his way closer, the warm light in his house outlined the pointed beak of his helmet, setting the gold material ablaze. For the second time that night, Domhnall’s heart sank. Exalted Amine .

“Whether you stole it or not is insignificant. Either way, you have it now.” The masked man observed. He was wringing his hands together, almost in some sort of sadistic excitement, as he scanned the startled merchant up and down. “You see, a lot of men want you dead, dear. And I, for one, could never refuse an opportunity to deliver.” 

Domhnall’s gaze darted to all of his aggressors, who simply continued to stare him down beneath their various garbs. It felt as if he were being pinned down, surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. 

“I– I don’t understand. Why– I didn’t–”

Amine shook his head in mock sympathy, sharp beak gleaming in the fire light. “What is there not to understand? These men here want justice to whomever stole from them, and the vast majority of merchants want you removed from the marketing competition.”

They were intending to kill him, Domhnall realised grimly. The pendant he held up was now shaking within his clenched fist, as he felt himself break out in a sweat. They didn’t care about the pendant, like Saloh had explained, the damn thing is useless , they simply wanted to have something to tell the people of Zena as to why he had miraculously disappeared. He was to die a thief…  

“Oh and… one of those merchants happens to be Saloh.” Amine got an immense amount of joy seeing Domhnall’s eyes grow owlish, thin brows rising in furry. “In fact, without his aid, I would not have been able to track you down to your living quarters. So much precaution. So much time in isolation, just in case someone wanted you dead. But it was all for naught.”

Domhnall fell silent– deadly so– as the feeling of betrayal settled deep in his chest, sinking its pernicious fangs into his soul. He fell deep into his mind, so much so, he didn’t even notice when a couple of the men had already begun making their way into the interior of his house, looting whatever valuables they could get their hands on. No! My trinkets! Domhnall thought suddenly. 

“Oh, don’t you fret. I’ll let you keep the heavy ones.”

Domhnall was lost as to what he meant by that, but he didn’t bother explaining, because the large man grabbed him, dragging the merchant out of his house and under the starry sky. The cold chill of the Zenian night air hit his face in one gust, but he was shivering for a completely different reason, as he was pulled out to the cliff edge that sat near his house. The waves crashed violently against the jagged stones, then pulled back out with graceful ease, as if beckoning him to join. Every morning, Domhnall would rise at the same exact time, just to watch that perfect moment when the deep colours of the sunrise would sit right along the ocean’s horizon, before he would make his way to the city’s markets for work. It broke the merchant’s heart to know he would never get to see it again. 

“What are you going to do to me?” Domhnall asked eventually, once they got right up to the cliff-side shore. His voice was monotone, devoid of all emotion, as he began to already accept his ever approaching fate. 

“You’re smart, dear. I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself,” Was the only response Amine bothered to give, as he followed them out from behind. 

Domhnall grimly looked down from their perch, down at the deep, abyssal darkness of the ocean’s waves. The sounds of shuffling and dragging amidst the sand from behind reached his ears, however once he realised the sounds grew heavy, thudding against the ground, he understood what they were planning. They were carrying his heavier valuables out of his house, so as to weigh him down, so he would never be able to rise up from the ocean’s waves again. Of course . Domhnall looked to the smaller merchant, who’s pointed bird mask turned to him. 

“Be at ease. We shall return to get the last of your riches.” He paused. “After you're long dead, of course.”

The men promptly chained him to the various items; His gold dagger, a large gold pot, a couple of his heavy medallions, and finally, his helmet, which they forced back over his head. Domhnall was already bracing himself to be tossed into the waves, when the smaller merchant stepped in front of him. He should’ve kicked him off the cliff when he had the chance, but the men held him back with an unyielding force. 

“You’re a greedy little shit,” Domhnall spat, mouth curling into a snarl from under the deceiving pointed grin of his helmet. 

“That makes the both of us, Domhnall.” Amine’s voice grew dark, saying the merchant’s name like it was poison. 

They stared at each other through the little black slits of their gold helms, air so thick with ill temper it could’ve snapped right there. 

And it did snap. It snapped when Amine– the murderous, traitorous Amine– moved out from in front of the cliff, giving the men the silent signal to end his life. They didn’t hesitate, either, before shoving Domhnall off the edge of the cliff. His breathing ceased, the freezing night air halting around him as the weight of his valuables dragged him downward. 

His life flashed before his eyes, as he plummeted into the ocean. 

Domhnall sank down into the deep blue abyss, unable to call out, as saline water immediately rushed into the gaps of his helmet. Nobody would find him here, his house being too far away from civilization for anyone to notice there had been a murder. He didn’t even have any loved ones to mourn him after his death. No one to inherit all of his treasure he’s accumulated over the years. It’ll all fall into the hands of his killers. 

Water rushed into his nose and mouth, as he sunk lower and lower into the endless depths. He felt his body start to grow cold, deathly so, as his blood rushed away from his limbs, numbing everything he once had control of. His stomach began to cramp up as the chill sunk its teeth into his flesh, continuing to seep into his bones. The weight of his gold sunk him low, until everything was pitch black. 

As Domhnall’s vision started to grow hazy, so did his bleak final thoughts. The last thing he saw were the distant stars blanketing the sky and the large, lustrous moon, before death took hold of him. 

He caught a glimpse of it; Both terrifying and alluring. It was a little, black flame, outlined in a white glow.

Bump bump… bump bump…

The tireless beating of his heart filled Domhnall’s ears anew, as the darkness steadily faded away. He opened his burning eyes, only to be met with the same night sky he had died under. This was certainly no afterlife he had ever heard of. He was soaking wet, drenched in salty ocean water that made the cuts and blemishes of his skin burn. But the burning sensation was more than welcomed, for it meant he was alive . 

Domhnall was lying on the sandy banks of the ocean, a ways down the shore from where he had been dropped. His clothes were torn up and his silver hair had come undone, now matted to his head and obscuring his sight. Water gurgled up from the back of his throat, and he quickly turned over in the sand to hack it out. The taste of sea water was unpleasant, but once he finally stopped vomiting he felt fresh night air flow back into his lungs. He gasped for it, taking in deep breaths like he hadn’t in days, a feeling he’d never expected to appreciate until now. However, his overwhelming relief was cut short.

But how? This cannot be possible. Unless… 

Domhnall abruptly jerked up from the sand, into more of a seated position so his back was upright. His hands scrambled into the confines of his soggy clothing, pushing it away to examine his flesh. He stilled himself when he saw it . There, embedded right into the skin of his left pectoral. It was inky black and spiralled outward from where his heart rested.

The Dark Sign.

Horror sunk deep into his flesh, his blood running colder than it was when he’d been drowning. In fact it felt as if he was drowning all over again. When could he have possibly received the curse? Perhaps when he was travelling down into the Southern Zenian tombs? Blast it all! He should have heeded the strange travler’s warnings. 

The merchant spent some time like that, simply sitting hunched over on the sand, letting the tide of the ocean lap over him every once in a while. His head hung in his clammy, wrinkly hands, feeling all of the dread and regrets wash over him all at the same time. Then, as shock and sadness faded away, anger arose from their ashes. He wanted these men dead .

It was that very realisation that caused something to suddenly snap inside of him. When he knew precisely what he yearned for.

Vengeance. 

Saloh rummaged through all the newfound trinkets and treasures, all gilded and studded with exquisite jewels. They glittered wondrously in the dim candle light, and all he could think about was the fortune he was going to make off of them. 

Amine, the merchant who sported the bird’s helmet, had returned to the city with Domhnall’s belongings. Saloh had waited expectantly for his return under a muted lantern near his house, giddy like a small child when he saw the silhouette of Amine and his men approaching. The merchant’s mask was still pristine and devoid of any blood when he apprised him of what had happened. 

“The kill was clean. No one should be able to find his body, and even if they do, we will simply notify them he was a bestial thief deserving of a harrowing punishment.”

After that, they had split the spoils and went their separate ways. Saloh knew he had gotten the right man to do the job, as Amine, too, saw the threat Domhnall posed to the rest of the bazaar. Amine had always been renowned by other merchants for his sadistic perspective on things, anyways. So it by no means would come off as a surprise to anyone in the city to find out the man had gone and killed another supposed threat to his markets.

Now, Saloh sat in the luxurious comfort of his residence, which had also served as his office, as he plucked away at a peculiar vase Domhnall had kept, extracting every small diamond inlay within its surface. Diamonds! Saloh nearly bellowed. Of course that selfish gold studded bastard kept these things from him, instead of selling it to better their business. His mood quickly soured at the mere thought. Selfish.  

Suddenly, Saloh’s mind went silent, spiteful thoughts of his former partner coming to a halt. Something felt off. The room grew impeccably quiet, now that his attention wasn’t completely captivated by the treasures before him. He shifted in his mahogany chair uncomfortably, listening to the creak of the legs. What was wrong? Perhaps he needed to occupy himself with counting the silver coins he’d acquired? Something Saloh had always done impulsively. 

Saloh stopped. He had to do a double take. Did he feel… breathing on him? Then, he made a mistake. He turned around. 

The last thing Saloh saw, in the darkness of his office, was his business partner. The sight of his maskless face, shrouded in darkness, gold eyes wide with a furry he never had before. Sea winded hair hung around his face, clothes baggy and draped over his bony body with dark blood. In Domhnall’s right fist, hung a familiar gold bird mask, stained with what he assumed was its former owner. 

Saloh had seen the ghost of his partner, and would die believing that as a thin strand of chains wrapped around his thick neck, pulling back so hard his vision blurred. Saloh gagged blood, the insides of his throat spurting out of his mouth and staining his lips, as it trickled down into his beard like rain. Domhnall shoved him to the ground, straddling his back as he choked him harder until Saloh could no longer cry out for help. It was then that Saloh realised, in the midst of his last minute horror, that  Domhnall was killing him with the very same pendant Saloh had “gifted” him. 

Saloh’s vision went black.

Domhnall didn’t hold back, letting his partner struggle until he fell limp to the ground, in a puddle of his own ichor. He heaved in heavy, angry breaths as he stared down at his plump, lifeless body, fists clenched heatedly. He half expected for Saloh to come back alive. Almost hoped he would, just so he could relive the exhilarating moment of killing the man a second time. But Saloh never got up, and no Dark Sign ever dared embedded itself into his flesh. 

After a moment of listening to his own silence, he bent down to his partner’s body, taking the necklace from around Saloh’s meaty neck and wiping the thick blood off of the chains. He examined the pendant in his grasp again, though not in the same way he once had back at his house. Now, his eyes were sombre… tired. He could barely wrap his head around what this amulet now represented for him. His fall from grace.

Domhnall’s mind raced with utter turmoil. He could not stay in Zena. No, they’d incarcerate him in their infamous gilded prisons. Or perhaps kill him over and over again? No no, they’d want to get rid of him as soon as possible to postpone the curse’s spread. He had to flee . 

Uncertainty finally gave way to a plan. A plan he had no other choice but to follow through with. 

The merchant wasted no time digging around Saloh’s house, searching for things he’d be wise to acquire before he left. He wondered, what do Undead need exactly? He’d heard stories of how they didn’t need to eat, and barely needed any sleep. So, Domhnall simply took what his gut told him would be useful. Things like ointment for wounds, bandages, and some food like bread, olives, and leaks. One quick scan through Saloh’s mahogany closet allowed him to find some clothes, ones that would be useful for travelling in sand, and weren’t currently in complete ruins. He didn’t want to pick the more lavish sets Saloh had, laced with gold and purple, as Domhnall didn’t want to stand out; Not like he had before, bedecked in gold. Leather sandals, long tan and yellow robes that fitted a little too big, and a litham that he used to conceal most of his face was all he donned. He even snagged a pipe and some hookah he caught lying on one of the small tables, stuffing it within the pockets of his robes. For his own sanity, he thought.

Domhnall stopped for a moment. He scanned the room once more, eyes landing on the gold bird mask that lay on the floor, smeared with the dark blood of his murderers. The rustle of fabric filled his ears as he pulled out his own gold helmet from beneath his robes. He gazed at it silently, solemnly. The mask smiled back at him, pointed and narrow, with curled horns outstretching from the head. The gold was still stained slightly, rusted from the cold ocean water, a cruel reminder of what had been done to him. He came to a silent conclusion, before stuffing the helmet into his sack of travel necessities. 

He silently slinked out of the house, searching for any bypassers in the streets who may have heard Saloh’s muffled screams, then stealthily making his way through the night. The merchant sped through the winding path of pale rocks and stone on light feet, letting himself be led down to the city docks. Seagulls squawked down at him from the sky, as salty wind brushed against the cloth concealing his face. Wooden ships filled with cartridges of goods sat tied to their respective poles, bobbing and swaying along the ripples of the water. Domhnall looked up across the ocean, noticing the faint beginnings of red shine from over the vast expanse of the horizon, signalling that a new day was soon approaching, and Zena will awaken again. 

Domhnall spent no time mourning, before fastening his things against his person and leaping from the wooden docks to the hull of one of the ships. His steps were feather light, feet ever quiet and experienced from years of delving. It didn’t take him long to find the stairs that led down to the dark, dusty storage hold of the ship, where he was to stow himself away where no one could find him. The stairs quietly creaked under his sandals, as he brushed away a few overhead cobwebs. 

There, between a cluster of crates and barrels, Domhnall found a snug spot for him to hideout. He seated himself, cross-legged against the old, unsteady wood of the ship, feeling the floor tilt and sway against the ocean’s currents. He adjusted his small glasses, pulling his sacks from round his head and setting them aside. He slipped out his prized, gold dagger, using his scarf to wipe off any rust. He listened to the sailors walk out onto the deck, preparing the ship for the journey across Zena’s oceans, as he unsheathed his weapon. 

As the ship began to dock off, Domhnall thought about what was to happen to him from here on out. What was he to do with the rest of his Undead life. As of right now, though, he was far too exhausted from the extremities of tonight to dwell on it all. For now, he simply rested his weary head back against the wooden planks of the wall, hugging his dagger against his chest where his pendant rested around his neck, listening to the scuffling of men and feeling the ship begin to continue forth. 

And thus, former powerful merchant Domhnall left his homeland of Zena, stowed away in the storage room of a trading ship, now cursed and doomed to a life of trials and tribulations, sailed off into the rising sun of the horizon. 

Chapter Text

Awakened

Screaming. Hulking figures in black. Sand daubed in dark blood.

The excruciating feeling of being pierced through the chest and then being limply dragged off, before numbness took hold. 

Nebulous memories of an unlit, dingy prison cell fazed in and out. Hands cuffed above her head, body limp and devoid of all life, she stayed there, hopelessly. Her head hung loose as little rats picked at her flesh, barely conscious to do anything but watch for what felt like both an eternity and a day all at the same time. 

Then suddenly, the ear-piercing noise of crashing and fracturing stone. The distant sounds of moaning and groaning around her now echoing off the walls of her small enclosure, as if something had been opened. Something grabbed her roughly, it's cold metal digging into her flesh, as it freed her from the confinements of her shackles and thrusted her to the murky ground. Vision hazy and fleeting, she stumbled out of her cell and through the narrow prison halls, its stone walls aligned with dim torches that flickered deep shadows into the cracks and crevices of the prison’s interior. The decrepit floors were harsh against her raw skin, however she wasn’t in the right mind to care, scrambling ahead without a clue as to where she was heading. Brittle murmurs and pained howls filled her ears, as fleshy hands reached out of their confinements to grab at her uselessly. She barely registered any of them, though, as fear forced her trembling form up a rustic ladder and across a courtyard of spikey grass, like she had been possessed by the sheer will to run as far as she could from her cell. 

Eventually, she was met with pale light, accompanied by a chilling gust of stale air that stung her face. Her skin was bit by the cold of her surroundings, with nothing but the sounds of her own running and the howling of wind. Words of little correlation were being chanted by her inner monologue; run, survive, run, fly, run. Look to the sun, follow its rays. And she did just that, blindly running towards wherever she sensed light. She was led flat up against a cold wall, but was able to tear away at the stone enough to create a small opening. The space allowed her to crowd through and out to more open area, basked in pale, glum light. She picked up her pace, faster and faster until the cold, rocky surface jutted out into a serrated cliff. She didn’t stop, her inner voice feverishly chanting freedom over and over again. Next thing she knew, she pushed off the edge and leapt up into the sky with what little muscle she had. So high she thought she might’ve taken flight, until she plunged down into nothingness. 

A vision took hold of her for but a second. She saw a bird, white feathered and long legged, flying off into the distant horizon where the golden sun was cut off, shining down a glistening path against a great ocean. 

The vision stopped, and then there was darkness. 

And that’s all there was, for the longest time. She had no idea how many hours, days, or even years had passed, feeling as if she’d been in a strange place wedged between life and death for the longest time. 

She was dead… was she not?

She felt nothing but a foreign abyssal emptiness, unable to recall any events that had led up to this. But, what was ‘this’ exactly?

Her consciousness felt detached from her body, like it was its own separate entity, and darkness clawed at her chest as if beseeching permission to let it take over completely. This darkness served as almost an odd warmth of sorts, like a deadly blanket, as it kept her from gaining back control of her body. She was in such a state of fatigue that it rendered her incapable of feeling the terror others would’ve felt, as she felt abnormally neutral about her predicament. 

However, by miracle or by mere coincidence, something started to change, slowly, as her internal voice became clearer. First her ears started to ring, starting off as muffled, then gradually becoming obscenely loud. Then, she began to grow feeling in her body again, the sudden sensation of blood rushing into her veins almost startling. She felt heat– not a warm, comforting type, but an almost immensely fiery type, as a sudden burst of pain seared through every inch of her being. The feeling of broken ribs, gashes deep in her flesh, and an overpowering dryness struck her like lightning, making her mind scream out in anguish. She did try to scream, but simply fell limp from exhaustion, prying her mouth open only for the onset of a throaty croak to escape. 

She desperately pried her swollen eyes open, straining her already bleary vision to make out her surroundings. She could only see in masses of colour, however, in front of her, in all its comforting light, sat a small-scale bonfire. Its flames danced brilliantly, flecks of orange and yellow embers flying off around the unusual, coiled sword that was firmly fixed into its centre. Cold, arid wind whisked past her, sending chills down her nerves and causing the fire before her to bend and flicker erratically. The chorus of dead grass and tree branchlets rustling together in unison as the flame methodically waved about aided in soothing her senses somewhat. 

Her battered body ached as if she had been dropped from a great height, and her heart still beat erratically, causing her chest to almost vibrate. It was only seconds before she grasped that she sat propped up against something, forcing her upright. And after limply feeling out the protruding roots below her, she recognised that it was in fact a tree that she was resting against. She perked up when her ill-defined hearing could make out the distinct sound of someone, or something, shuffling somewhere off to her left, the slow sounds of metal rubbing against rock emitting a striking series of rattles, almost like the chains she had been fettered with. Her head pounded, and her neck was as stiff as the tree behind her, but nonetheless she attempted to tilt around to take in her environment.

She looked up. Trees and other forms of plant life covered the area, giving everything a distinct verdant appearance. The stone walls of what used to be something monumental, was nothing but ruin now, making it an open area for wind and other natural components. Dishevelled barriers and arches and stairs covered in mossy vines encircled her, almost like everything was protecting her.

And there, adjacent to her, sat a man. He was clad in a full body chainmail suit, each chain rusty and dishevelled, similar to the one wearing it. He was rugged, face tired and stubble covering his chin and cheeks. He didn’t seem to be wearing the usual headpiece of his suit, revealing dark, rough hair. The man was hunched over, idly watching the bonfire in the centre with dark eyes, not bothering to even acknowledge the girl’s presence. She attempted to get the man’s attention by producing some kind of noise, however she was rendered speechless, and could barely produce a whisper. So, she weakly grasped a fallen branch, thin and frail like herself, and tossed it in the direction of the warrior. It hadn’t hit him, and he surprisingly didn’t seem to notice, so she tried again with another branch, this time a bit harder. It hit his body– his right arm to be specific– making his eyes suddenly snap towards her, dark brows furrowing. 

“Can I help you?” 

His voice was hoarse, exasperated even, as he propped his head up on a dirty gloved hand, elbows resting on his knees.

She attempted to make noise and respond yet again, but to no avail. Alternatively, she stared at the man, feebly gesturing. He must’ve understood what she was trying to say, for with a sigh, he responded. 

“That pompous Cleric dragged you from who knows where and– just– plopped you here. No, I don’t know why, so don’t ask.”

The girl simply sat there, attempting to process what he was saying. Cleric? Dragged me? Where? Even though the warrior insisted on no more questions, there were nothing but questions churning around in her muddled mind now. She stared blankly at him. And he stared right back, eyes tired and vacant. He sighed again, before vaguely motioning his head towards something. She repositioned her head over to where he was directing her, scanning the ruins, before landing on a stone well. However it wasn’t the well he was pointing at, she realised quickly, it was the shrivelled dead body draped on its edge. She nearly felt squeamish at the sight of it. She looked back at the man, confusion written on her features. To which he responded by plainly motioning harder to it, seemingly becoming fed up with the girl the more she stared him down. 

“Go up to it.” He gritted his teeth. “It has something you’d be wise to take.”

She hadn’t a single clue as to what he meant, but she was nothing less than frantic and confused. Any help someone would want to throw at her, no matter how rudely, she’d be more than willing to receive. So, with a surge of great power, she shakily forced herself up and off the tree, ignoring the screams of warning that shot up through her muscles.

The man lazily watched as she hobbled over to the antiquated well, finding a sick kind of amusement in the way she kept tripping over her boney legs. 

She stood at the well, its contents eroded and layered in moss. The dead body, hollow and dried up, was limply draped over the edge, face first into the well. It was horrific; the way the strings of flesh loosely clung onto skinny, malnourished bones. Its body was devoid of any remnants of blood, more resembling a dried up grape that’d gone rotten than an actual human. She hoped that this wasn’t some sadistic trick. However, when she examined the carcass more intently, she noticed a faint glow immit from under the flesh. She inched closer, muscles toiling to keep her upright. And there it was, slowly rising from the body’s upper back. 

A little, flickering flame.

It was black– black as black could possibly be. Its flames were outlined in a thin, white light, like the black flame was being encased in an ethereal halo. Carefully, as if not to disturb the flame, she cupped it into her hands, lifting it from its fallen owner. The girl raised the flame to show the lone man, however his sombre eyes were back to the bonfire, as if he had lost interest. She looked back at her hands, noticing how the flame flickered towards her person, like it was trying to reach out to her. The flame; it… brought her some sort of mystic comfort. Slowly, she pressed it into her chest, and it dissipated into little wisps as it was sucked into her. It sunk into her flesh and almost immediately she felt a change in her anatomy. Her dry flesh became whole, her hollowness filling with new, healthy muscle. White light enveloped her and suddenly, she felt alive again. 

Shock and scepticism overwhelmed her, as she quickly examined her arms, hands, and legs in all their fullness. The unbearable dryness in her face was no more, as she worked her aching jaw. She glanced back towards the man, still comfortably seated on the remains of eroded steps. He felt the girl’s stare, and observed as she quickly hobbled her way back towards him in her newly human form.  

“ Diolch Syr. ” she croaked, leaning a little too close for his comfort. 

Her upturned, narrow eyes were expressive, unnatural deep gold irises regarding him curiously. Her face was friendly with soft edges and her skin, once fleshy and colourless, was now a healthy tan, kissed by the sun itself. She had long, unkempt hair that was a strange colour of mauve purple– most probably a common Eastern heritage, no doubt. 

“Sure.” He looked up at her, feeling pierced by her odd, biscotti gold eyes. “Easterner, correct? How the bloody hell did you end up all the way here?”

The inquiry seemed to stump her, wordlessly tilting  her head. Long strands of hair shifted and slipped, obscuring her vision.

“Oh nevermind. I don’t care.” he sighed after staring incredulously at her, scrunching his nose up in disgust as he shifted away from her. The man seemed to remember something suddenly, pausing in his tracks and motioning his gloved hand off somewhere behind her. “The cleric has your stuff, in case you were wondering. Not quite sure if he was ever planning on returning them, but you should go look for him.” The man pointed a slim finger over to some more parts of the sanctuary. “See that area over there? Just up the steps?  He resides there most days.” 

It was probably a strategy to rid himself of her presence, but she was far too gullible to discern that. Instead, she did exactly as she was instructed, and scanned the Shrine for this Cleric. The girl made her way up the fragmented stairs, chilled by the cold stone on the soles of her bare feet. Dead grass and vines sprouted from between the cracks, the residue of past weather leaving everything blanketed with a glistening sheen. The ruins that surrounded them were nothing less than extraordinary, the place as a whole feeling like a long forlorn sanctuary, with only the remnants of a celebrated past left for remembrance. Wind whistled through the alcoves and broken arches, making the branches of the overhead trees clatter and russell together. She scaled up the stairs and peeked her head into a hallway-like area, filled with tall pots that cluttered the far corners. She had no time to dwell before making direct eyecontact with a man clad in bulky leather armour. 

“Yes? May I help you?” The man spoke, raising an arched brow in her direction. His voice was refined, almost fatherly, yet it didn’t fail to intimidate her. 

Still peeking out from around the wall, concealing most of herself from the imposing man, she attempted an intelligible reply. “My stuff?” 

The man eyed her, thick brows knitted, then quickly changed his expression, features relaxing in realisation. “Ah yes. I have them here. I found you with them and assumed that, once you had awakened, you would like them back.” 

She watched curiously as he set his scary, spiked weapon down against the grass, turning back to reach into one of the large vases. He pulled out a small bundle, swathed in rope and cloth, and held it out to her in a calm, gentle manner, like he was conversing with a stray pup. 

Slowly, she came out from behind the wall and towards the cleric. 

“For the love of Lloyd!” He exclaimed, promptly turning his head away from her. “Have you no shame? I’d prefer if you refrained from wandering a holy sanctuary like that.” 

It took some time for her to realise what he was talking about, looking down at herself. So that’s why she felt so cold. The flimsy, tattered rags she adorned did nothing to cover her, and everything was still plastered to her with her own blood and sweat. She took the bundle he was still holding forthwith, using what little help it offered to cover herself. 

The man before her cleared his throat before formally introducing himself. “Anyways, yes, where are my manners? I am Petrus of Thorolund.” 

She simply stared at him, wordlessly mouthing his name. She noticed how he pronounced his ‘r’s oddly, how he announced his name with such honour. His voice was deep and melodious, yet she couldn’t shake the odd sense his tone was eerily calm. His hair was a medallion yellow, seemingly cut into a halo shape. He had a round face and a large, slightly hooked nose. Though he had firm frown lines, his ocean blue eyes gave off a kind, fatherly feeling. A stark contrast from the warrior.  

Petrus raised his eyebrow, examining as the girl simply blinked rapidly from him to the little bundle she clutched. Large, gloved hands were brought up in front of him to idly form a tent, judgmental eyes staring her down. 

“You can go around the corner of the Shrine.” He pointed, “Right over there, so you can get out of your dirty rags and change in privacy.” 

She looked back up at him, hesitatingly examining his face with owlish eyes. After an uncomfortable amount of time, she turned from him to leave, bundle now tightly clutched against her chest. She didn’t utter a word to him. No ‘Thank you’, no nod of acknowledgment– she didn't even smile back. She felt like she was existing on a different plane of existence, internal monologue cluttered with nothing but inquiries. She hadn’t a clue what was happening, who these men were, not even where this place was. What events were responsible for her current state? Based on her bloody– the persistent shaking of her tired limbs– she assumed whatever occurred before must’ve been a near death experience. 

Or… had she actually died? 

Thoughts clouded her mind as she silently absented away and back down the crumbling steps of cold stone. Walking back out to the open grassy pastures of the forlorn sanctuary, the girl silently observed the way the mouldering architecture loomed from up above, though she was undecided whether it brought a sense of safety, or it felt as if the ruins itself were judging her.   Feeling a sudden sense of woe rush through her, she kept her eyes down to the ground, as she carefully rounded one of the stone arches. She held onto the walls to keep herself from falling again, residue of rain making the stone cold and wet under her grip. 

Finally, when she felt isolated enough, doing a quick one over for any other piercing gazes, she slowly lowered herself to the hard, wet ground of the Shrine– or at least what was left of it. The walls were barely standing upright and the building itself was roofless, letting all of Mother Nature in. Everything had a green tint to it, with dense mist illuminating the area, almost like the air around it was glowing. At the very end of the space stood a large, withered statue of a woman draped in holy cloth. And before her, sat a large pool of stagnant water. Flush vines and plants of all greenery surrounded the area, blanketing the stone walls and pillars, their leaves glistening with recent rainfall. This must’ve been a nave of some sort, the central part of any church reserved for worship. 

The natural scent of residue flooded her nostrils. It calmed the girl somewhat, enough so that she felt comfortable enough to begin peeling off her tattered rags, wincing at the wounds and bruises, and walking towards the small set of stairs leading into the water. It wasn’t deep at all, just barely enough for her to submerge herself knee-deep, so she opted to slowly sink herself down into a seated position, shivering at the cold temperature of the liquid. It was dirty, clearly the result of rainfall collected overtime, but it was more than enough.

She looked up, towards the crumbling remainders of the dome. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of branches above, illuminating the decomposed pillars that no longer served their purpose. 

She stayed like that for a while, sitting half submerged in the water. She brought her knees to her chest, watching blood and dirt seep off of her, further tainting the water. She listened to all the noises around her; the distant crackle of the bonfire, the occasional wind that made the dead tree branches rattle together in harmony, the slow, methodical slosh of the liquid around her.

The girl turned back to glance at the bundle sitting at the edge, scooting herself over to look through it. She carefully untied the rope, its dishevelled material scratching at the pads of her tan fingers. The cloth opened up to reveal some items she had never seen before. A small, gold dagger, encrusted with a few jewels and designs that depicted a long-legged bird and some flowers. Its scabbard was dark brown, with the chape end being solid gold. She picked it up carefully, first wiping her wet hands so as to not dirty it. With a steady hand, she held its gold-tipped hilt and unsheathed the blade, which glinted in the pale sunlight that filtered in through the trees. Examining the flat of the blade a little closer, the girl noticed a motto inlay within, spelling out the words “ Os byddwch chi'n cael eich hun ar goll, edrychwch i'r fflam .” 

The girl stared blankly at the unintelligible text. She knew this language, didn’t she? She squinted down at it, holding the blade closer to her face and trying desperately to recall anything she knew about the language. After a moment, she managed to discern the words “find”, “lost”, and “flame”, but was unable to remember anything else, leaving the full phrase a mystery. 

Disheartened, she sheathed the blade back into its scabbard. The item itself was rather heavy, as she weighed it in her hands, though she couldn’t tell if it was really as burdensome as it felt or if it was simply because she was still recovering from her feeble state. She continued to gaze down at the blade, trying to shift through hazy memories in a futile attempt to retrieve any little piece of recollection she might have, or at the very least confirm that she had in fact seen this blade before.

Nothing.

Dejected, she set the blade back down so that it rested atop the cloth. She then decided to  scan through the leather satchel. It was made of fine material, its sleek brown also encrusted with ornate floral designs. There was hardly anything inside, just a few odd stone pelts, which were all very small and clattered against each other in her palm. There was also a small, tattered piece of rolled up paper, its aged contents tainted so its colour resembled more of an orange. She unrolled it, but the ink had washed off almost completely, making it unreadable. She strived to recall these things.

Nothing.

As she fumbled with the paper and satchel, a necklace fell out onto the stone, making a startling clattering sound. She picked it up to her face and closely examined it. It was a rusty pendant, with a chain looping into the hole. The pendant itself, unlike everything else she had examined, was completely bland, its colour dark and ugly. Upon closer inspection, she spotted a deep fracture that cut through the pendant, like a thunderbolt, nearly splitting the poor thing in twain. She tried, desperate now, to remember.

Still… nothing .

She scrunched her face in frustration, tempted to violently throw the pendant to the ground. But her frustration only seemed to bring hot tears, burning the tear duct of her eyes. She looked back at the doleful pendant. If it was ever worth something to her then, it was worthless now. Still, she felt compelled to finally put it on, lifting the chain over her head so she could duck through. She adjusted the pendant around her neck, so the flat of it rested against the bump where her ribs connected. She looked down at herself through the cold water, feeling a tear trail down her cheek. Though the cleric had saved her life, she couldn’t will herself to want to go on. Now she’d almost wish he’d just left her.

Sorrow filled her, but she struggled to produce more than one tear, as she scooted herself away from the edge again to the centre of the pool. She slowly laid herself flat, necklace floating against her, so her face was submerged in the water. Her long, mauve hair floated around her like wisps beneath the water, surrounding her until it was nearly all she could see. She waited, then, for that same darkness to overtake her.

She waited, and waited…

All of the sudden, she felt a looming presence above her. She reluctantly opened her eyes, the water stinging her vision. Her body went stiff when she was met with the wobbly sight of two black, beady eyes and a large beak. The overgrown crow jutted its feathery head down into the water to seize her leg between its beak, yanking her with such force she thought it was trying to rip the limb right off her. But no. Instead, it hauled her out of the water and flat against the cold stone. She was wide-eyed, gasping and dripping wet as she gawked at the creature, who simply bent its graceful head down to her level. It twitched from right to left, using a single black eye to stare her down. Then, like it had sensed its message had been successfully sent, it began to beat its powerful wings and took off, the force of the wind created nearly throwing her right back into the flooded nave. 

She sat there, now even more chilled than before, as air began to filter back into her nostrils, turning her face back to its original colour. She looked up the topless spire of the Shrine, to see the bird had comfortably perched itself back up at its nest. 

Adrenaline slowing, she thought quietly to herself, wet head between her hands. The bird didn’t want her to die. Didn’t want her to throw her life away. 

So she wouldn’t. For now, at least. She quietly slumped back against the ground, wondering to herself. 

She needed to go see the cleric. 

Chapter Text

Prison of Life

The nameless girl basked in the muted sunlight, resting slouched against the stone steps that had begun to steadily heat themselves once the afternoon had arrived, the sun now shining down on the sanctuary. It felt pleasant to feel even a hint of warmth against her olive skin, letting any remaining water droplets evaporate off of her. 

She stared up the spire of the sanctuary, tracing the run-down walls and broken arches with her eyes. Beams of soft light broke in through the gaps of the giant, overhead tree, allowing fragments of it to bless her face. The beast-sized crow, still perched up in the same spot, cawed out towards the sky every so often, breaking the serene silence for just a moment. It didn’t seem to be too interested in the girl, now that it had successfully cast her for a loop, as it seemed much more interested in scanning the Shrine’s surroundings. 

Once the girl had felt she was dry enough to not agitate the cleric, apart from her damp hair ( which seemed to refuse to cooperate even the slightest ), she begrudgingly hoisted herself up from her lying position. Making her way over to her belongings, still placed along the edge where she had bathed, she began to don her new clothes. The attire consisted of  a white, linen shirt with a pointed collar that stuck up around her neck and juliet styled sleeves. However the material was tainted to more of a tan colour, supposedly from years of neglect. She also wore brown, short wool pants that were a bit baggy and caught at the knees, as well as simple leather sandals. It was homespun wear, complementing her skin with shades of bronze and beige, but it was much better than having her clothes stuck to her skin with blood and sweat. 

Finally, like the cherry on top, she wore her aurelian pendant, which she had laid to dry, fixing it around her neck so it hung within her v-collar. She glanced back to where her satchel and dagger had been meticulously placed against stone, debating on whether or not she should take those with her. It felt silly to arm herself when she was simply going to converse with someone who had saved her life, so she ultimately decided to hide them off under one of the loose stones of the former nave. 

Hoping the clerical man– Petrus – was still residing at the same spot last she had seen him, she skittered off through the Shrine and down its labyrinth of steps and stairs. 

Turning a sharp corner of the Shrine and continuing her way through the maze of old walls, she managed to retrace the path she had taken once before. The grazing against her sandals through the long blades of grass seemed to almost bounce off the walls, as she made sure to make her presence known. Eventually, she made it to the familiar, vase-bestrewed room and up the stairs where she found Petrus, who hadn’t seemed to move from his spot. The man’s eyes immediately darted over to her, as she approached him from up the steps, his aura still poised and clerical as the first time she happened upon him. Petrus closed his eyes and sighed, almost as if he was bracing himself, but still managed a slight quirk of the lips and a polite nod of the head.

Petrus seemed grateful to see that she had done as asked, now decently clothed in what her supplies had carried. 

“Ah, hello again. I see you’ve decided to freshen yourself up.” His eyes flicked to her unkempt hair, still damp and dripping with water, strands falling in front of her face. “Or… attempted to at the very least.” 

Petrus cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to another, patently awaiting some form of response so he could promptly– but naturally– shoo her away. When she continued to stay silent, gold eyes shifting warily around the cove, then going back to look at him, Petrus frowned, his expression starting to teeter on annoyance. However when he opened his mouth again, she finally spoke.

“Explain.” 

The girl winced at the way Petrus’ eyes widened and gold eyebrows shot upward, as she didn’t mean for her tone to come out so belligerently. He certainly seemed taken aback by her bluntness, as he opened his mouth and raised a gloved finger ( Most certainly to chastise her ), before she blurted again.

“No, Sorry. I–” She flushed. “Why did you save me?” 

Petrus clamped his mouth shut, having been interrupted for the second time already, before sighing deeply and gesturing around him.

“Would you have rather I left you, then? You had been stupefied by causes unknown down by the Catacombs. I simply brought you here, within the protection of the sanctuary. Please, think nothing of it.” Petrus flicked his gloved hand dismissively.  

The girl decided to take that as an acceptable answer, for she again fell silent, feeling the need to also shift her footing slightly as she contemplated her next question. Or a list of questions, rather.

“How.. where? What is– ?” She stumbled over her words, suddenly feeling like a petulant child. “ Beth sy'n digwydd? ”

Petrus had to do a double-take to make sure she wasn’t choking on her words. He didn’t seem to have the energy– nor the interest– to comment on the unknown language, so he decided to start where he wanted.

“You are Undead. Tainted by this curse that has plagued our world,” Petrus began with forced patience, carefully watching the expression on her face shift. “Regrettably, I am Undead as well. And so is the forlorn warrior sulking at the bonfire.” He vaguely motioned to the warrior in question back at the centre of the Shrine.

“This curse, the curse of the Undead, infects us and brands our very being, dooming us all for the eternal circle of death and life.” The girl blinked at him, thin brows knitting together. She looked down at herself. Slowly, she pulled her shirt down her chest, enough to make her heart sink to the bottom of her stomach. There, right above where her heart is, was a dark, black mark. It was the size of her hand, and was inlayed into her very flesh, its inky black veins spiralling outward from the centre. It wasn’t pretty looking, and made the girl cringe at the mere sight of it. She wondered miraculously how she didn’t notice it earlier. Perhaps it had been veiled by the dirt she was covered in? 

Petrus wordlessly watched her as she placed her hand above it, feeling the rough texture it developed on her skin. “I have this very mark too. It's an unpleasant sight, as well as a sinful mark of humanity, but there’s not much we can do about it.” He gently placed a gloved hand over his plated chest where she assumed rested his very own Dark Sign. 

“This mark means we cannot die.” the cleric elucidated. “And we continue this cycle until we lose all of our humanity, turning into nothing but zombified husks. Hollows . They are revolting creatures. No longer human, and thus should not be treated as such. It’s said that a human’s soul is that of the original Dark Soul. However, true followers of the Way of the White, who have faith in Lord Gwyn and the All Father, will one day be rid of their dark cores.” 

They were silent again, as the girl grappled to process all of this with her still woolly mind. “So… where are we?” 

Though Petrus was obviously skilled at masking his emotions, it was clear the cleric had to keep himself from visibly cringing at the girl’s poor pronunciation, exhaling through his nose. He then lifted his hands, gesturing around them both with his spiked morning star. 

“This Shrine lies inside the borders of the great Kingdom of Lordran. A place once vibrant and prosperous with life during the pinnacle of the Age of Fire, now lays abandoned, it's only residents being that of Hollows and Undead men and women who seek purpose.” The tone of his voice changed somewhat, sounding more like a storyteller’s than someone who was simply giving information. “It is the Land of Ancient Lords, and the birthplace of Gwyn, the King of Gods. Since the undoing of the Age of Fire, the remainder of Gwyn’s children have lived within the walls of the kingdom’s capital: Anor Londo. Though it is nearly impossible to even seek this city, as it is heavily fortified with great walls and old Burgs.” 

The girl looked back out the archway she came in from, noticing the distant large wall topped with parapets that seemed to go up through the clouds. The ominous battlements loomed before her, silhouetted in black by the sun that loomed beyond it. It was intimidating, the sight of it all aligned there specifically to send out a clear message to keep people far, far away.

“Do you have a name?” 

The question was random, abruptly bringing the girl’s attention back to Petrus, watching him reach back down for his shield. Her name? She never had a chance to actually think about it, come to think of it. The man before her had a name, and she knew this name. Did she even have a name? Fear again crept up her body, making her throat clench anxiously and her stomach convulse. Confused by the extension of silence, Petrus looked up at her. The sheer abyssal dread of the girl’s gold eyes and the liquid brimming at their corners told him all he needed to know. 

“I don’t remember.” She barely mumbled loud enough for the cleric to hear. 

Petrus sighed, though what emotion that was currently running through him she could not even begin to decipher. He walked closer to the girl, nearly dwarfing her, and hung his hefty morning star so that it hung at his belt. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked unexpectedly, all of a sudden unsettled by the way he scrutinised her. 

Petrus arched a brow, looking past her and off towards the centre of the Shrine. “I await the arrival of my companions; M’lady and her young knights. She is young, but burdened with an Undead mission. We are her defences, to keep her from harm.” 

The girl, for whatever reason, hadn’t expected that as an answer, but she couldn’t understand otherwise why he would simply be waiting here. The vagueness of the answer, considerably different from all the explaining he had just done, only served to put her on edge further. 

So, “An ‘Undead mission’?” she asked. 

The cleric didn’t seem too bristled by the throng of questions, unlike the warrior, however she could sense his patience starting to waver. “Regrettably, I cannot share that with you.” Petrus turned away, effectively dismissing her. 

The girl frowned, sceptical, as she scanned the cleric up and down. What could this man possibly be on a mission for? And with three others of his kind, no less. Her eyes went to the morning star that was still at his hip, it's cruel spikes encrusted with old blood. However Petrus quickly noticed the way she was regarding him for clues. 

“Now, I’d prefer that we keep our distance, if possible.” He paused. “However, I want you to know that it is not meant in ill-will.” 

The girl was surprised to be shooed off all of the sudden, but she’d be lying if she said that it wasn’t expected. Though confused, she didn’t bother questioning him any further as she backed away and out of the hall. 

She wandered back down the steps of stone, absently wondering if this is simply how everyone here acted. As she made her way around the curvature of the Shrine’s walls, and over stray stones, she conceived of a plan– or the poor beginnings of one. She wanted to be able to remember her name and discover what had happened to her. However she wasn’t sure how, or where even to start. Was she to leave the Shrine? Should she even leave the Shrine? These men didn’t seem too fond of her, didn’t even seem to want to talk to her, but she couldn’t help but crave some kind of interaction. She was beginning to feel lonely. 

Once the warm flame of the bonfire made itself visible to her, she was caught off guard to find the lone warrior staring directly at her from his usual spot. She ceased mid-step, stiffening up and glowered right back at him. The situation only turned even more freakish when he subtly motioned her over with a gloved hand, as if he had something to tell her. Should she have brought her dagger after all? 

Narrowing her eyes towards him, she cautiously progressed towards the bonfire. She noticed the way his dark eyes darted over in the general direction of Petrus. Was he worried the cleric would hear them? 

“You’d be wise to leave here. There are men who would eat you alive if given the chance.” He finally spoke, voice low and dark as he glared up at the girl. 

She tilted her head, before he vaguely motioned behind her with his overcast eyes. Realisation slowly dawned on her, as she bent herself down closer to him. 

“Petrus?” She asked quietly, tone uncertain and faltering. 

The warrior simply glared at her, gloved fist coming up so he could rest his stubbled chin atop it. 

She scowled. “I don’t believe you. He saved my life.”  

The warrior glare became darker, giving one last one over to where the cleric was. Then, he simply shrugged. 

“Suit yourself.” He sighed, wheezy and defeated. “What do I know, afterall? I am simply Crestfallen.” 

Bewildered, the girl stepped back from him. 

“Though…” He began again, lazily scratching his chin. “You deserve to know that this Shrine isn’t exactly the safe haven people make it out to be.”

What was he on to?

The warrior pointed right of him, the chains of his suit rattling. The girl followed with her eyes, until she was able to see what he was pointing at. There, a little off  to the warrior’s right, was a hidden staircase that went downward. She must’ve not noticed them before when she was sitting against the tree. She passed the man, making her way towards the steps, when she heard him chuckle darkly. She promptly whipped her head around, as if to make sure it wasn’t her merely hearing things. The man smiled at her, though it wasn’t a kind one, instead, it seemed tired, and almost bitter, as he shook his head and gazed back towards the bonfire. 

Curiosity quipped her like a cat, as now she turned back towards the staircase. She noticed how it curled inward towards the cliff, carved into the stone itself, framed by what used to be a wall. The tall blades of grass curved around the start of the staircase, implying that someone used to take them frequently. But not anymore. 

Hesitantly, the girl peered further down the stairs, however the curvature of it kept her from seeing what lay at the bottom. She slowly stepped down the first few steps, supporting herself against the crumbling wall blanketed in dense vines. She made not a sound as she crept down, seeing the space of grass at the base. Finally, she made it all the way to the bottom, stepping off onto the grass. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, or at least not as much as everything she’s experienced as of late. Her peripheral vision caught on some gaps in the cliff, but when she turned, she realised it was an alcove like structure with rustic, metal bars barricading her out. It was… a curious place for a cage, and odd enough that it was built into the cliff itself. She stepped forward some, but her sandals only made contact with something wet, causing a sort of squelching sound within the grass. The sudden change of texture startled her, quickly glancing down and lifting up her foot. 

Blood. It was inky, crimson blood. 

Her heart leapt out of her chest, as she recoiled, grasping around for her dagger, only to remember she hadn’t brought it. Out of morbid curiosity, she inched closer to the mouth of the cell, peering into the darkness within the enclosure. The girl’s eyes followed the trail of blood plastered onto the cell’s earthy, dirt floor. Suddenly, all oxygen fled her chest, horror spreading inside of her, screaming and thrashing. Her eyes widened, and her mouth hung agape.

There, inside the darkness of the cell, sat a woman. She was seated on the ground, torn and bloody dress sprawled out around her, hands folded at her thighs. The woman’s head was hung low, body completely limp. So limp the girl might’ve taken her for dead. Her hair was barely tied up in a bun, the majority of her wiry strands hanging in front of her face. Everything was coated in a thick layer of blood and dirt– from her dark cloak, to her leather cuffs and maiden’s dress, and to the leather bag that rested against her hip. 

After recovering from the initial shock at the sight, the girl raised her hands up in an attempt to convey that she meant no harm, feeling bad about having almost threatened this poor woman. The girl steadily knelt down, extending hesitant fingers towards the festering bars of the prison. She then gently tapped the bars, not too hard as to startle her, but enough to make sure she was in fact alive. Even that didn’t seem to be enough, for the woman promptly jerked her head up, body tensing in an instant and blood encrusted hands clenching at the fabric of her gown. The girl jerked back as well, raising her hands up once again in a futile attempt to show she had no ill intention. 

The woman’s face was hard to see through the dark shadows of the cell and under the loose hair that hung in front of her, however the girl was still able to make out a few features. The woman stared at her with the most vacant, terrified eyes she’d ever seen, and her hair appeared to be a platinum blonde from what little light bounced off the strands. More dried blood stained the corners of the woman’s soft mouth, her face on the paler side and showing little to no emotion. It was like the very essence of life had been drained from her, yet she was forced to live on in a mortal state. 

“Are…” The girl began, feeling a bit stupid now that she was vocalising her question. “Are you in pain?” 

It was a poor and stupid attempt at conversation, the girl’s broken accent still falling flat, but she didn’t know what else to do at that moment. She squatted there, eye-level with the woman, separated by bars. The woman stared blankly at her, saying not one word. The girl wondered, again, if this was simply Lordran custom, to be hostile towards everyone you encountered, however the woman didn’t seem hostile, per se. Simply in a state of unconsciousness, like she had first been. 

She inched herself closer to the cell, hand once again rising up to grasp one of the bars, bits and pieces of rust falling to the ground at the contact. The woman stayed unmoving, simply scanning the girl with her eyes, which she now noticed had a tint of blue. Even in this state, she saw a kind of beauty in her. A deep throaty noise snapped the girl back to the woman. Was… was she trying to say something to her? She moved her face closer to the bars, trying to make out what she was saying, but the woman could only wordlessly move her mouth. Slowly, the woman opened her mouth, wide enough for the girl to see. Then, right then, she noticed it, a horrific realisation dawning on her like a dark shadow. 

She had no tongue. The inside of her mouth lacked the core muscle, all that was there was a deep, bloody hole. The woman was unable to speak.

The girl’s eyes widened, looking down. 

The trail of blood stopped just beneath the woman’s dress, leaving her sitting in a puddle of her own blood.

Chapter Text

Le Chevalier

The cell door rattled, the stark sound of the metal gate clattering pierced through the thick silence like a blade. The Hollow jerked its head at the noise. Through the gaps of the rustic bars, the torch lit silhouette of a knight made himself visible, standing there. After a moment, the knight lifted a mass of different, rotting keys. The Hollow eyed him curiously as the knight’s gauntleted fingers shifted the keys around their metal ringlet, each key softly clattering together in a sort of eerie chorus. Eventually, he seemed to have found the right one, for the knight then grabbed the lock to the cell, slotted the key in, and jostled the cell door wide open. The Hollow weakly scurried towards him, gaunt body scrambling out of the small enclosure. Its saviour was clad in armour, sword sheathed and shield hung against his back. His silver helmet completely concealed his face, the small, dark slit giving him a look of unwavering stoicism. The knight had an elegant, blue tabard with gold encrusted along the edges and into ornate designs. He simply nodded down towards the Hollow, then turned away, continuing his trek down the lengthy hall of prison cells. 

Oscar didn’t bother glancing back towards the Hollow, making his way through the asylum, using the torches mounted against the stone walls to guide him. The cellars were damp, oppressively so. The condensed moistness of stone could be heard dripping distantly, each droplet hitting the ground, causing an eerie pitter-patter that bounced off the thick stone walls. He had spent the past hour or so going down each of the prison’s elaborate corridors, opening the cells of locked away Hollows ( both old and new ) in the hopes of finding ones who haven’t lost themselves completely. 

Oscar continued down the ill-lit hallway, unlocking and opening every cage he happened upon. His metallic sabatons resonated down the long path, making the Hollows cowering in his way flinch nervously. Poor souls . Whether friend or foe, they feared it all. 

Light emanated at the very end of the corridor and as Oscar approached, he saw that the stone walls stopped abruptly and became bars that revealed chambers beyond them, lit by more flickering torches. The spaces between the bars allowed the knight to peek out, revealing to him a large, ghastly area. However, it was completely empty. 

Odd… was there not supposed to be a beastly demon who guarded each asylum? To keep any Undead prisoners from leaving?  

It was a sadistic illusion– truly– for any accursed soul who wished to escape this egregious prison. Humans inflicted by the Undead Curse were sought out from all across the lands, taken from their past lives to be imprisoned and kept from all other life in a dire attempt to stop the curse from spreading any further. Since Undead lived for practically all eternity, the asylums had to be built to keep them for all eternity. First, one would need to get out of their prison cell, which is usually only done with a key. Then, they needed to get past the asylum demon, a near-impossible feat. Though the asylum demon is lowly ranked on the hierarchy of the various demon species, demons were still much more powerful than the average Undead. 

However, even if one managed to escape, or better yet rid themselves of the asylum demon, they would be met with a piercing dread once they realise the entire asylum is located on an isolated cliff, with no way to escape but to leap to their death. For the longest time, this series of traps and lies have made sure that every Undead who is taken to the asylums never returns, forcing them to Hollow and be forgotten forever. 

That is, until word of the Prophecy of the Bell started to spread. A prophecy, originating from Oscar’s home kingdom, that foretold an end to the Undead Curse. A cure . A prophecy that tells the tale of an Undead escaping the asylum within the clutches of a giant bird of the gods, and travelling to the Land of Lords. 

As the saying goes, “Thou who art Undead, art chosen in thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the Land of Ancient Lords. When you ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.” This was only the first part of the prophecy, however. As no Undead had been able to achieve this. 

Oscar planned to change that. 

This very prophecy had been passed down in his family for generations and though they were not Undead themselves, ever since his uncle had turned Undead their noble family had been preparing for another bloom of the curse to appear amongst them. Had they expected this next Undead to be the heir of the family name and elite knight? Most certainly not. Nevertheless Oscar would never let this curse destroy him. 

When he turned Undead, it had been after a fatal accident in a fight with his younger brother. Ever since the Dark Sigil had embedded itself against his chest, he had left his homeland of Astora, embarking on the tedious trek West in hopes of making it to this Land of Ancient Lords. He had prepared himself beforehand, so that when he was inevitably captured at the border of Astora and taken to the Undead Asylum, he was able to get out of his cell with ease. Thankfully, he was still equipped with his armour, weapons, and a set of cell keys he had managed to acquire. 

Oscar hoped that he would be chosen to leave the Undead Asylum, so that he may fulfil this prophecy. He must , to save mankind and put an end to this dreadful curse once and for all. For his homeland, his family, and himself. And if he didn’t succeed, then hopefully one of these Hollows he freed will in his stead. 

Now, Oscar continued to peer through his helmet and into the bars where this demon was supposed to be kept. Perhaps it had already been killed? If the demon was, in fact, not here, then the exit to the asylum would be unguarded. However, it was quiet, far too quiet. The knight waited, silently scanning the area beyond the bars. And then…

CRASH!  

Giant pieces of the corridor’s ceiling came collapsing down, nearly crushing Oscar in its wake. Immediately after, a giant hammer smashed where Oscar had been standing, but he swiftly rolled out of the way before the weapon could make impact. Quick to his feet, he unsheathed  his sword and grabbed his shield, looking up toward the newly formed hole. He was met with the ugly, snarling face of the asylum demon, jagged horns jutting out from its sage green skin and harrowing red eyes narrowing at its soon-to-be victim. 

Oscar readied himself for the beast to try and crush him again, this time leaping up and grabbing its massive hammer, letting it yank him up and out of the hole. He jumped off of the demon’s weapon as soon as he made it through, springing back on the rooftops to get some space between him and the massive creature. Cold, stale air whistled around him, licking against the metal of his helmet and stinging his eyes. 

He wasn’t ready for how quickly the demon pursued him, swinging its weapon again. Oscar managed to dodge the blow, quickly lunging toward the demon’s stomach and slashing its bot-belly, thick blood gushing out. The creature howled out in anguish, making the ground beneath Oscar vibrate. The knight took this opportunity to thrust his sword forward, aiming again for its exposed, leathery stomach. However, what Oscar hadn’t expected was for the demon to recover so soon, spinning around and using its deformed tail to hit him square in his ribcage, sending the knight flying before slamming against hard stone. 

Oscar felt his ribs shatter in an instant, winded from the hit and coughing up thick spurts of blood that seeped from the holes of his helmet. His gauntleted hands immediately flew to his belt, feeling around for his Estus Flask, when the stomping of the demon quickened, becoming exceedingly more loud and making his helmet vibrate. Oscar had no time to react before the giant creature raised its hammer again, slamming it down on the knight’s body and sending him collapsing down through the stone roof. Oscar yelled out in pain, muffled from within the chasms of his helmet. 

His body fell, landing back into one of the dark cells of the asylum, atop a pile of the roof’s fallen stone. His head blistered with pain, vision fading in and out. He lay there, basking in the rays of muted sunlight that seeped through the hole he had created, waiting for the demon to leave. Oscar struggled to stop the rise and fall of his chest, holding what breath he could and biting down the pain in hopes that the demon would assume him dead. 

Oscar waited with baited breath as the demon’s ugly head moved from peering through the hole he had fallen down, the sounds of its loud stomping shaking the stone walls, as it grew further and further away. Oscar sighed, relief swelling his chest as he let his battered and broken body relax. Pas un bon début, Oscar . Pas un bon début , he silently told himself. 

A shaky hand lowered back down to his belt, deft fingers unlatching the leather clasp, releasing his flask. It was a glowing, golden flask. Made up of Forest Glass, its material was imperfect and dirty, yet the liquid sloshing around in it was that of a radiant light. 

Estus is a substance widely consumed by Undead, especially those who embark on life-threatening journeys. An Undead favourite, as one would say, as it was quite literally the liquid form of fire. It heals any wound– big or small– an Undead might’ve acquired, keeping one's amount of deaths at a minimum. 

Oscar raised it up to his face, lifting the visor of his helmet, revealing a disgruntled, yet noble face covered in his own blood. He gently placed the rim of the bottle to his bloody lips, leaning back to drink the golden liquid. He rested his head back against the rocks, letting the Estus seep through his body, warm and comforting. He felt his battered ribs steadily put itself back together, dulling the pain significantly. Gold light spread out through underneath his skin, as the blood plastered to his face was no more, practically restored in an instant. It certainly deserved its title of “Undead Favourite.” 

Oscar sighed, sliding his visor back in place. He had his doubts, naturally, that perhaps he was not cut out for this journey. He had lived a rather sheltered life, after all. He had never gone to war with his fellow companions back at home, and the tournaments he had won were a mere fragment of what the cursed life had to offer. He’d trained himself, of course, but no one could train themselves for death, to be able to experience death over and over. He was scared of death, as any sane man was, but he knew that there was no way around it, that it was a necessary evil. 

Throughout Oscar’s journey thus far, he had learned much about the ways of the Undead, almost enough to consider himself an expert on the matter. Either way, it would bring victory to himself, as well as honour to his family and homeland to lift the curse, or see it lifted. Now, still slumped against crumbled stone, the knight hoped that some of the Hollows were making a run for it, or trying to take on the asylum demon themselves. Though this was unlikely. Oscar needed to make sure to pave a way for them all by ridding the prison of the beast. Though these optimistic sentiments were quite vacant, as no matter how hard he tried he could not overlook the shame sinking in his gut at very nearly being bested by one of the lowest ranking demons. But now was not the time for second guessing, as he very well understood the weight of Hollowing, and how easily it could happen. 

Oscar was snapped out of his self-doubt, his knightly impulse of alert kicking in as distant rumbling began. It was hard to make out what it was at first, but he was quick to notice that whatever it was, it was rapidly nearing him. The rumble, almost as if something was rolling down towards him, was not in fact the demon, but instead… 

CRASH!

Oscar did not think for a moment longer, before instinct kicked in, throwing himself out of the way of the boulder barreling directly towards him. It crashed through the barriers of the cell he fell in, slamming into the stone walls he had rested against. 

The knight's adrenaline prevailed, grateful he managed to get his sword and shield out of the way before being utterly flattened. The boulder simply sat stuck in the pile of brick and stone where he had fallen, quite harmless now, but Oscar didn’t dare let his guard down. Shield held in front of his chest and one-handing his straight sword, he crept out from the gaping hole the boulder created in the stone wall, effectively freeing him from the cell. Something or someone must have forced it down, he thought. Most probably some Hollow soldier, still clinging mindlessly to their one and only duty. 

Oscar brushed the rubble off of him, eyeing his surroundings from beneath the narrow slits of his helmet. He was in a new part of the asylum now, out of the underground half, and closer to where the exit presumably was. Cold air whipped around his person, making him grateful for the heavy layers of armour he had on. There was a staircase that went up, and evident from the fragmented steps, it was most likely where the boulder came from. There was also a staircase next to it that led down, but Oscar’s attention was caught on the balcony he was on. He moved closer to the edge, looking down upon the main courtyard of the whole asylum, overrun by colourless grass and withered vines. 

Ahead of the courtyard was a large, iron door. All It took was the sight of blood encrusted onto the edges, making the iron rusty, for Oscar to know it led to the last trial this prison had in store for him. That is most definitely where the demon awaited any Undead foolish enough to get this far.

Oscar needed to get the upper hand on the beast if he was to beat it in combat. He went back to the sets of stairs, opting to take the one leading upward. He assumed that whatever had pushed the boulder resided at the top, and his suspicions were proven right when he spotted the Hollow in question. It was weak and frail and didn’t put up much of a fight when Oscar swiftly ran his sword through its skeletal chest. He pitied them, truly, and deep in his heart it pained him to have to slaughter them senselessly. 

Oscar made his way down the short hallway, out a narrow cell opening that led to the outskirts of the asylum. Cold air chilled him all the way to the undergarments of his armour, making his eyes dry from the high altitude of the cliff. A few dead bodies of former prisoners were strewn limp across the stone paving, like leather carpets or rags. The knight walked up to the edge, partially protected by broken walls. It overlooked the path he planned to take to escape, however it was much too high up for him to jump. 

Oscar was swift to catch an arrow that was shot at his face, quickly turning towards three Hollows that hobbled towards him, broken and decaying weapons outstretched. The Hollow that had shot the arrow was safely down the path, pulling the bow taut as it shot more towards him. The knight was graceful and experienced as he pierced his sword through its back, flinging its frail body off the edge. Then, he grabbed the second Hollow and used it as a human shield to let the arrows of its comrade stab its flesh. The third Hollow fell just as easily, as Oscar grabbed its bow from it and snapped it in half across his plated knee. He used the sharp piece of the bow still in his grip to crash the Hollows head into, impaling its face. 

Oscar let the Hollows fall dead around him, the harsh gusts making his tabard flab in the wind. Immitedly, it was an aggressive way to do things, but Oscar had grown accustomed to swift kills. And besides, it was better to get it over quick than not at all. 

Now, with the Hollows blocking his path gone, he stood right at the thick wall of fog. The essence of fog walls were vague and unknown, simply left as knowledge only known to the gods. From what Oscar had gathered through his studies and experience, though, he concluded that they were barriers created by the gods themselves to signify the designated fighting areas of beings harbouring lord souls. Some fog walls weren’t even accessible by mortals. Either way, once you went in, you either come out victorious or you don’t come out at all. 

Oscar secured his Estus flask against his belt for easy access, gripping the handle of his shield and the hilt of his sword in his leather clad fists. Slowly, he stepped into the thick mist, white overtaking his vision as he pushed through to the other side. His sight cleared, as he bat away the tendrils of the fog wisping around his person. 

The knight was standing on a rounded balcony that overlooked the battle area. It was built like the nave of a church, rows of pillars and archways lined both sides, and large dull vases decorated the pathway. A bubbling growl emitted from below him, as he bent down to look over the ledge. 

Ah-ha! Oscar was right, and the fog wall had led him to a vantage point. He now stood above the giant demon, in the opposite direction the demon had originally expected him to come through, effectively confusing the beast. It was a miracle that the low ranking demons were not the brightest, left to do the dirty work of the gods. 

The demon looked up at Oscar, teeth bared, snarling and nostrils flaring. The knight didn’t wait a moment longer, taking the chance to catch it off guard, as he stepped away from the ledge. With a running start, Oscar leapt off of the ledge, firmly holding his sword downward. 

The sword pierced right through the demon’s snarling face, thick dark blood spraying out and onto Oscar’s armour. The demon’s thundering screech shook the asylum, as Oscar twisted his sword deep into the flesh of its face. Once he had done enough damage, and before the demon could fling him off, Oscar ripped his blade out and jumped down to the uneven stone floor.  

The knight got his barings forthwith, bolting off to the pillars to distance himself from the large enemy. It recovered quickly, its hastened stomping shaking the stone under Oscar’s soles as it made its way to the pillar he hid behind. As expected, the demon swung its hammer across violently, destroying the stone pillar and making it nearly collapse on top of the knight. He hurriedly rolled out of the way, so as to avoid being crushed by fallen stone, then leapt around to the demon’s back, slicing its thick tail off. 

More blood came, obstructing Oscar’s vision through his visor. The demon howled, but swung its weapon back haphazardly, hitting the knight flat against his blue tabard. He gasped out, as he was nearly flung back across to the other side of the nave with the sheer force of the blow. 

His shield had flung clean out of his grip, as Oscar struggled to get up, hand grasping for his Estus flask. He dodged the demon’s second blow, rolling behind another pillar to quickly take gulps of his flask. This time, though, when the demon shattered the pillar, he lunged from under the swing to slash through the demon’s potbelly. 

Again, and again, Oscar hacked through its thick, leathery flesh, powerful legs dodging uncoordinated blow, after uncoordinated blow. Finally, his blade gave the final blow, sinking as deep as his sword would allow and twisted until the demon’s roaring ceased. As soon as the large body stopped struggling, he tore his blade out, watching with ragged breaths as the demon crashed to the ground. Relief washed over his tense muscles as the beast’s body slowly began to reduce to white ash, the bright particles blowing into the wind and disappearing into nothing. 

All of the demon’s remains had disappeared– except for one thing. It’s soul. There, it hovered slightly above the ground, its flames flapping elegantly. Oscar picked up his royal shield, strapping it to his back, before making his way towards the centre of the nave, reaching down to cup the demon soul. He rested his sword, still dripping with blood, at his hip against his belt, before gently merging the soul into his muscly chest. He felt the renewed power rush through his veins, an exhilarating feeling, as it merged with his own soul. 

Breathing heavily into his helmet, he then bent down to dig through splotches of blood for what he really came for. Finding the familiar handle, he pulled out a rotting key. The key to the exit, or more commonly named; The pilgrim’s key. Or at least that was what the prophecy called it. Thank the gods, Oscar silently praised. He would finally be able to leave this place, and be taken to the sacred lands. 

“ Only, in the ancient legends it is stated, that one day an Undead shall be chosen .”

Flicking blood off his gauntlets, he walked briskly over to the sizable metal doors, slotting the hefty key into the lock and turning. Once he heard the click of the door, he stepped back. Using both his hands, and all of his might, he pushed down onto each door. It groaned loudly under the pressure, screeching from the rust in the hinges, opening slowly as he continued to push harder. At long last, it opened fully, like the wide maw of a beast, letting a refreshing gust of wind hit his body. 

“ To leave the Undead Asylum, in pilgrimage… ”

Now, he could see the short, winding road that led up to the edge of the cliff. Exactly like the prophecy foretold. He felt a sort of anxious pit form in his chest at the realisation that he was about to leave the rest of the Undead prisoners stranded here, but was quick to remember why he was doing this in the first place. He was going to stop at nothing to cure everyone of this godsforsaken curse. If it is the last thing he does.

He sighed, patting the scabbard of his sword quietly and continuing on his way down the grey path. Snow lightly clung to the tall blades of grass surrounding him, little bits and pieces of crumbled ruins and arches lining the pathway like it was all pushing forward to the cliff. His palpitations began to pick up its pace slowly as he neared the ledge, broken stairs leading him up higher into the clouds, whispering prayers over and over again in his head. 

 “ ...to the land of the ancient Lords… ”

Finally, he stood at the ledge, nothing but grey clouds and distant mountains before him. Wind blared around him, as he stood chin up, the sounds of wings flapping becoming closer and closer. Black feathers clouded his vision, as the giant sacred crow swept down to the cliff, encircling him with its large graceful wings. It felt as if time slowed for Oscar, as he was chosen. The bird grasped him in its claws, lifting him off his feet and taking him with it as it flew off towards his destination. 

 “... Lordran. ”

Chapter Text

New Journey, New Hope

The sky grew dark, bringing to it little specks of stars that stretched across the deep colours of blue and black. The pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the night, letting its ghostly white light filter through the trees and illuminate the archaic Shrine with an ethereal glow. 

The Undead girl had spent a few days in the Shrine now, perched high up on a little ledge she had managed to climb onto. She’d stayed up there ever since the incident with the caged woman transpired, too afraid to happen upon any more unwanted secrets within the Shrine. The girl still remembered it all quite vividly, like an open wound within her mind. 

After the fateful encounter, she had scampered back up the winding stairs, terrified tears streaking down her face. The warrior had been waiting up there, sitting still in his usual spot, only to give her an amused smirk. He had probably heard her screams.

“Oh, Did she scare you? You poor thing.” He chuckled darkly. 

“Why? Why did you show me that?” Her voice was quiet, just barely above a whisper, yet trembled with both shock and rage. 

The man only smiled at her, entertained by the naivety of the girl, yet to be scathed by the harshness of their world. “What? Would you have rather wandered about the Shrine, clueless as to what was happening? I’m trying to help you, for fuck’s sake.” 

“But, I don’t understand. Who is she? What happened to her? Did you do this?”

 The warrior said nothing for a long moment, patiently waiting for the girl to calm down enough for her to even be able to hear correctly. Once she had, though, he explained to her that the woman was one of many called “FireKeepers.” These people– these FireKeepers– were a select few of women across the lands who actively tended to and kept watch of their respective bonfires. They, too, were Undead, yet they were continuously tortured, completely dedicated to this duty of tending to these flames so that the Undead population as a whole could have a place to rest. This torture of being chained to their flames would continue for all eternity, up until they went insane. 

Although this man– this monster – didn’t seem bothered by this at all. In fact, he seemed to have found it humorous, referring to the women as ‘Martyrs’ and other upsetting names. The girl’s mouth trembled, feeling rather nauseous all of the sudden.

“Sad, really. She's mute and bound to this forsaken place,” he continued, eyes trained on the girl’s mortified expression. “They probably cut her tongue out back in her village, so that she'd never say any god's name in vain.”

“Stop! Please! ” She couldn’t take anymore of it, seething with unwelcomed and unfamiliar emotions that made her chest want to burst.

Since then, she had been utterly terrified to wander outside of the nave, not ready to discover any other dreaded secrets it held. Now, sitting atop a broken floor piece along the upward spiral of the nave, she had a clear view allowing her to look down upon the disintegrated ruins of the old Shrine. The gentle sounds of the water from below her funnelled up, creating a distant echo. In the distance, she could see the centre of the Shrine, where the bonfire rested. It continued to glow in a brilliant array of oranges and golds, its light being a beacon of sorts amidst the depressing darkness of the ruins. If she squinted, she could even make out the silhouette of the warrior, still where she had left him. His chainmail gently reflected the light created by the bonfire, setting the chains ablaze with gold. 

She grunted, squatting down and hanging her shaggy head between her hands. She angrily ruffled her dirty mauve hair, feeling it tickle her cheeks. She had some time, since her awakening, to process and contemplate everything that has transpired. But even that was barely enough. She felt lost, and needed someone to guide her– hold her hand, even. The warrior would probably laugh at her, his heart so cold she couldn’t imagine he had ever accepted guidance or kindness from anyone. Never needed it, probably. Perhaps she was simply weak, both physically and mentally. That's how she felt, anyway. Petrus was nice, his warm smile and melodious– yet oddly demanding– tone bringing some tranquillity to her, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t believe everything the warrior had implied about him. And thus, she had also kept very far from him.

Though she surely didn’t want to admit it, for it made her skin crawl, the familiar sense of looming danger prickled up her skinny spine. Something felt very off about both of the men. 

The sudden rustle of feathers prompted the girl to lift her head. The bird seemed to be idly perched up across from her, looking off into the sky, at somewhere past the cliff where the Shrine stood. Its black feathers reflected the moon’s gentle glow, as it ruffled its wings and puffed up its feathery neck. Next to the giant crow was its nest, which was abnormally large, just like its maker. The girl squinted from her place. Inside the nest laid at least one– no– two eggs, all grey and comfortably snug within the twigs of their cradle. The girl perked up, once again curious as she shuffled her way along the thin ledge of the dilapidated sanctuary. The crow jerked its head toward her as she grew closer to its nest, tilting its feathery head and cooing softly. 

Once she had managed to reach the nest, hopping over the drop between the roof, she squatted down. The nest was simple, like any other bird’s nest, though she had no clear comparison of other bird’s nests. It was large, yes. Abnormally so. Like everything else in this world, the twigs– or rather branches– were jagged and dull. Precisely two eggs rested inside, their shells speckled, bouncing the moon’s gentle light off their rotund, smooth surfaces. She looked up at the bird, silently requesting permission before daring to reach in. The bird, as if they had been talking right to each other, shifted its clawed feet from inside the nest so it was now perched on its edge. 

She reached into the large nest, gently taking hold of one of the eggs. It was large and heavy enough for her to have to cradle it. Like a baby , she thought solemnly. 

“What a beautiful baby. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She looked down at the egg in her arms, then back up to meet the bird’s beady eyes. “It’s beautiful.” She quietly told the bird looming over her. 

The creature simply gazed down at her, black feathers silhouetted by moonlight. Its emotions were unreadable, but she could tell it was proud of its eggs. The girl felt blessed that the crow trusted her so much with its children. There was something truly special about creating life, even when nothing but death surrounded you. 

Suddenly, the bird began to flap its wings, making the branches around the two rattle with ferocity. The powerful wind of the wings almost pushed the girl right off the ledge, nearly causing her to drop the egg she still held. Fear swept over her, making her skin run cold, as she quickly set the egg back down within the protection of the nest. Terror then took over, as the crow grabbed her with its massive claws, elevating her up into the air as it began to fly off. She screamed as her feet were suddenly up and off of the ground, as she was carried into the sky. Wind blustered against her face, forcing her to screw her eyes tightly shut. Was it going to eat her? Should she have not touched the egg after all? 

Before she could try and fight herself out of the beast’s grasp, the claws opened, letting her weight carry her back down to the ground. She landed flat on her back, knocking the wind right out of her as she made contact with nothing but hard dirt and stone.

The girl gasped in shock, watching from below as the damned bird flew off. She lay there, letting her adrenaline slow as air steadily returned to her lungs. It only took a few minutes or so before she propped herself up on her hands, cussing and wiping the grime off of her. Perhaps she had gotten a bit too comfortable with the crow? In her pleasant moment with it, she had almost forgotten that it was still an animal. She really did long for someone to talk to, didn’t she? So much so it didn’t even have to talk back to her. 

She sighed, still trying to recover from the shock and embarrassment that came with it, feeling around for her pendant that had flung off amidst the scuffle. After finding the sad, marred thing and hanging it back around her neck, she scanned around for a way to get back to the nave of the Shrine. 

She hobbled her way down what remained of a staircase and down a narrow path, slowly coming to realise she did not recognise this part of the Shrine. As she rounded a sharp corner, she stumbled upon a small open area. It was almost completely surrounded by the Shrine’s stone walls, but seemed merely a vacant, grass-filled corner. Well, almost vacant. A chest caught her eye. It was rather queer that a chest was in such a secluded area. Was the owner of it long gone? Would they be offended knowing her curiosity was piqued once again as she cautiously lifted the wooden lid? Its metal ridge creaked like old bones as it was carefully pried open.

The Undead girl peered into it, only to be somewhat relieved. 

“Oh.” She sighed. It was a single bone, nothing too peculiar about it. It was old, hefty in her meek grip. It was… relatively clean? Pristine white, one would even call it. Which was the only thing that seemed really out of place about it.

After she had struggled to stuff the bone into her satchel, her eyes caught sight of yet another chest. She walked over to it, optimistic about her new-found goodies, as it too was subjected to her curious rummaging.

Huh… odd…

She lifted up a tattered talisman, eerily similar to that of the cleric’s. Then another, and another… though they were different, all more of a white colour, some even with gold encrusting the edges. Though the white and gold was barely visible, as they were practically coated in dark, dried blood. Come to think of it, the inside of the entire chest was coated in blood. She felt her heart start to pound, eyes growing wide as she lifted a morning star, exactly the same as the cleric’s. Its dangerously spiked points were coated in crimson and lay incredibly heavy within her grip.

What- What is this?

She looked back from the chest, around her for more chests. To her dread, another chest lay at the very edge, right at the entrance of what she assumed was the cemetery of the Shrine. ( she had gotten a nice view of it from atop her perch once before. ) Her heart beat erratically in her ears, already fearing the worst. She wanted so badly to trust Petrus, this man who had saved her. She wanted him to guide her. She wanted to be able to vouch for him when accusations were made of him being a sadistic monster. But not even she could ignore it. The looks both the cleric and the warrior gave her did not give off any impression that they wanted to do anything good with her. She didn’t know who to trust. Or perhaps she shouldn’t trust either of them.

Slowly, she approached the chest, already making out more blood staining the rims. The muted light of the distant moon shone down on it, making the dark wood almost purple. Gradually, she wedged her fingers under the lid, flipping it up with another loud creak. She pried her eyes open only to see nothing but more blood. She bent over to get a better look inside.

There, in the dark hollow of the chest, sat a fleshy, red orb. The girl was, for lack of a better word, at a loss. What… was this? She inched closer, eyes narrowed and one hand steadily reaching out.

She grasped it, cringing at the odd texture, before lifting it out of its dark home. She kept it held away from her, but had to do a double take when the orb… started moving? Its flesh shifted as a singular slit slowly peeled open, revealing its lone, giant eye. Its giant iris and pupil focused, piercing her.

Mae'n ddrwg gen i! I should’ve done something! I could’ve protected her!

Please, this isn’t your fault, las. Don’t cry… please.

No! I was supposed to protect her. Why didn’t the Blue Sentinels show up? Why hadn’t they come?

What will the village do without her? She was our FireKeeper! We’re doomed! 

Not yet we aren’t. Not if I kill the bastard. See this red eye orb? I’ll track him down if it's the last thing I do.

She dropped the orb, letting it role against the stone and into the grass. Her body shook, hands turning clammy as she clasped them over her mouth. Her eyes were wide as terrified tears threatened to roll down her cheeks. She sat, rump against the stone floor. This was Petrus’ doing… there was no doubt about that. But why? He had shown her kindness– had saved her, even. He was a killer? A monster? 

Suddenly, realisation dawned on her, making her heart plummet for what seemed like the tenth time that day. Both the warrior and the crow were trying to warn her, to make her leave this Shrine, because Petrus wanted to kill her.

The girl felt sick to her stomach. She had known the warrior was a monster, but now the cleric? Was she not safe anywhere? The more she discovered in this Shrine, the more it registered to her that she was in fact not safe. Questions clodded her brain one after another, questions she knew she was gonna have to answer by herself. Had the two men been conspiring against her? An unlikely assumption but still concerning. What amount of the things Petrus had told her were truthful? Were the items she carried even hers? If she didn’t leave, what was he going to do to her? What were they going to do to her? Cut her to shreds and lock her with the poor Firekeeper? Will they lop her tongue off as well, just so they’d be saved from her persistent questions?

One thing was certain; She had to flee the Shrine. 

Mixed emotions of anger, panic, and dejection rippled within the hollow of her aching chest. She struggled to get up onto her shaky limbs, hugging her satchel to her body. She took no time to sneak around and out of the little cove, jumping down the ledge that led down into the graveyard. A stone road led deep into the graveyard, weaving itself in between the various levels of broken tombstones. The graveyard was right along the ledge of the cliff the Shrine sat on, tombstones haphazardly scattered about. What was most odd about the whole thing was the bones and limbs of skeletons laying all around the floor. She couldn’t recall her ever seeing a graveyard in her life, but weren’t the bodies meant to be underground?

She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t even dare to speculate as she stayed along the back wall of the Shrine. No, she definitely would not leave the Shrine this way. Eventually, she made it to a staircase, one that led back up to the large area with the statue and the water-filled hole. She looked up towards the crow’s nest, but the giant bird was no longer there. When the bird had dropped her next to those chests– was that its way of warning her? Warning her of Petrus? She heaved a shaky sigh. Once again, she was in this bird’s debt. She wished she would have thanked it properly before leaving, but she couldn’t do anything now. Instead, she quietly nodded towards the nest, wishing the bird and its hatchlings a happier fate than she was given. 

She hastily made sure her satchel had all her items. The odd stones, the parchment of paper, the bone she had found, and one of the white talismans– just in case. She hadn’t the faintest idea of what she needed, she didn’t even know where she was to go. Nevertheless, she fastened her satchel against one side of her hip, and her gold dagger on the opposite side, then made a poor attempt at tying back her unruly hair.

Her feet made little to no noise as she quietly made her way out of the ruins. The night grew dark, no other sound but the faint rustling of leaves as she continued. She wondered how she would get out of there. Near the bonfire, while she had been resting, she recalls seeing a distant staircase leading upward. It was her best way out. The beating of her heart sped up with her steps, as she quickly hopped down another staircase, the bonfire now fully visible. It cast its light upon her body in the dead of night, as she quickly made her way left, towards the area of the staircase. 

“Now what the bloody hell are you doing?” 

The girl abruptly halted in her tracks, whipping her head around to the voice behind her. There, the warrior still sat hunched over, face illuminated by the fire, enhancing the creases of his skin and stubble. Her keen eyes jerked over to the battered sword and shield that rested next to him, letting the fire’s light bounce off of their rustic metal surfaces. He faintly smiled when he noticed her hand jerk to the hilt of her dagger, leaning into his leather gloved knuckles. 

“I am leaving,” she proclaimed sternly, muscles tense and legs bent. “I will kill you if you try to follow.”

The man chuckled, raising his hands up in mock-surrender. “I couldn’t care less to try to follow you, believe me.”

They stared at each other from across the bonfire, the girl unmoved by his words. 

“Where do you even plan on going? Back East?” His hoarse voice was very nearly ear-grating, as he continued to mock her. Her nostrils flared as she fought off the urge to punch his stupid face. 

“I don’t know. But I want to get far away from you crazy men,” she snapped, her accent unveiling itself more as her tone went up. 

The warrior seemed amused by her reaction, lying back against the stone wall. “Oh, really? I was going to tell you about a prophecy. A cure for our curse, perhaps.”

The girl didn’t move, keeping the heels of her sandals grounded into the dirt. Her eyes widened, toughness faltering as she found herself interested in what he had to say. 

“But you seem to be well on your way. So, oh well.” 

“No!” 

They both stopped at her sudden outburst, the warrior pierced her with his tired eyes. The air was suddenly thick, the humidity surrounding them a lot more noticeable all of the sudden. 

“Please tell me,” she corrected more quietly. 

The warrior smirked, rubbing his eyes. “Well, since you asked so politely, let me help you out.” 

The girl waited patiently as the man seemed to be recalling the tale, eyes shifting around just in case the cleric were to return. 

“There are these two bells, called the Bells of Awakening, that are placed in two separate locations in Lordran. One’s up above, in one of the abandoned churches ironically named the ‘Undead Church.’ The other is far, far below, in the ruins at the base of Blighttown.” He paused, like he was thinking of something else, before meeting the girl’s eyes, who stood there intently listening to every one of his words. 

“Ring them both, and something happens… Brilliant , right?” 

She furrowed her brows. Was that it? Were those really the only instructions she was gonna get?

They stood in uncomfortable silence, before she asked. “Is… is that it?” 

The warrior looked up at her again. “Well, shit, I don’t know! I’m just Crestfallen, not some damn Prophesier!” She reflexively positioned her body back to its fighting stance, hand again jerking back to her weapon.

The man noticed this, and sighed, chuckling. “No no, I’m sorry, let me help you a little more. One of the bells is up above in the Undead Church, but the lift is broken. You’ll have to climb the stairs up the ruins, and access the Undead Burg through the waterway.” He vaguely pointed towards the distant staircase that the girl had originally planned on escaping to. “The other bell is back down below the Undead Burg, within the plague-infested Blighttown. There are many ways you can go about getting there, if I remember. But I’d die again before I step foot in that cesspool!”

He chuckled at the joke, but it fell flat, the girl simply staring down at him. She did not like the way he spoke of this “Blighttown.” She thought over his very vague instructions. It seemed like a solid plan, right? She had nowhere to go, she had no memory, afterall. 

Her body shifted, hand no longer gripping her weapon. She felt ashamed now, that she’d been so hostile towards this man. His face was blank, still staring at her as if trying to guess her next move. 

“Find Andre. He’s a blacksmith near the Undead Church. He’ll help you out more than I can.”

She didn’t have too many social cues to understand he was taking a jab at her equipment, instead grateful for this information. He’d given her purpose. 

“ Diolch .” 

“You mean ‘ thank you’? ” 

She shot a look towards him, mouth formed into a tight line, before nodding silently.

The man looked perplexed, then leaned closer to her. “Good luck.” 

And that was the last words spoken between the two, as grass rustling in the distance made her stiffen, quickly slinking off from the light of the bonfire. She didn’t look back at the warrior, but she could feel his steely stare bore into her back and the faint curl of his lips. She wondered absently what exactly she was doing, as she bolted her way through the night, anxiously whispering to herself. 

She could have never foreseen the long and formidable journey that lay before her. 

Chapter Text

Y Babi

The sand burned Domhnall’s eyes, vision hazy with exhaustion from behind his little round glasses. The sun’s rays beamed down, scorching everything in its wake over the vast expanse of desert land. Beads of sweat trickled down the crooked bridge of his nose and the weight of what few bags he carried began to feel more like boulders. 

Despite the dire situation, the merchant was relatively used to this kind of climate, as it wasn’t too different from Zena. When the ship stopped, Domhnall was jerked awake by the loud thumping of people moving around. He hadn’t a clue where they had stopped, but he didn’t want to risk being caught by one of the crew members when they inevitably came down to grab their cartridges. So Domhnall secured all his things, wrapped his litham tightly around his face, and slunk back up the stairs. Apparently, the ship was having some maintenance issues, so they were stopped in the middle of nowhere, against the bank of a large desert. It was a perfect place for Domhnall to get away from human civilization. 

Now, he had been walking through nothing but sand for what felt like hours, with nothing but vast dunes and the sun to accompany him. He'd hoped that, by doing this, he would not be found by the soldiers from the West, or any soldiers for that matter, and taken to one of the Undead Asylums to rot. Domhnall couldn’t stand being trapped in a small place. No, no, he needed to stay on the run, if possible. 

The scarf covering his mouth flapped in the wind and sand continued to pelt his small glasses. Where was he planning to stay? Was there any place he could stay in this desert? The world was quickly becoming more and more hostile towards the Undead as he knew it. However, this didn’t bother him as much as it would others. He had grown rather accustomed to surviving by himself.

Domhnall didn’t know how much further his old legs would be able to carry him, his new Undead curse really taking a toll on his body. He wondered: what would happen if he were to drop dead here, left to be plucked apart by the vultures that continued to circle above head, only for his soul to be wrenched back to the living, forcing him to continue on his journey.

The merchant believed the heat was finally starting to kill him when he started hallucinating the thin outline of a small village. Or… at least that’s what he thought, before he got closer. It can’t be… can it? A village? All the way out here?

The endless, deep sand started to give way to a firm road of sorts, one that led into the village. It wasn’t until Domhnall followed the path up to the entrance of the village that he noticed the visions of each structure was stable. Clearly this was, in fact, a small village– only it seemed to have been recently raided, its contents torn apart. 

Domhnall made it to the entrance of the village and scanned the area. The village was quaint,  with pots and plants strewn about on sandstone patios. Its houses were small and wooden, but with large, peculiarly pointed roofs. Some were even elevated on wooden beams, most probably used to keep them out of the sand when sandstorms blew in. Straw decorated the outside of the walls like most traditional Eastern homes Domhnall has seen. Which made him realise his inquiries were right, he must be in the East. If this part of the East rested along the ocean Zena shared, then he was more down South than the well-known Far East. 

Zena had a relatively good relationship with most of the East, though it was the more commonly known provinces such as Sheo, Astyae, Qigong, and Shihua that participated in trading the most. From the stories he'd heard, the Far East was more of a tropical jungle than it was endless desert. The other parts of the East, more isolated from the rest of the lands, lived in small communities as opposed to flourishing civilizations. One tale he’d heard, told to him by an Eastern refugee, had mentioned not to travel straight across the Zenian Ocean, for the desert lands of the East had terrifying, foreign threats of its own. He wondered, could the abandonment of this village have possibly been caused by one of those very threats?

He assumed he was only seeing a small part of the village, as most of the homes were now reduced to mere piles of wood, belongings scattered about and remnants of blood staining the sandy roads. The undead felt himself cringe in sympathy as he imagined women and children being slaughtered. He wondered how many families were broken. What a pity.. It must've used to be a lovely village, he thought. 

The blood caught his attention, as– with great caution– he made his way further into the village to examine. He shifted his bag to the side, flapping his long robes out from underneath him as he knelt down to the sandstone. He reached out with a finger to wipe the thick blood, feeling it between his thumb and index finger. Odd… it was still relatively wet. Had this raid happened recently? If it had, said raiders were nowhere to be seen, thank the gods. 

The survivor ( and collector ) in him had decided it would be wise to take what was left. He certainly didn’t want to waste perfectly good items, after all. Perhaps he could sell what he found? And so, he started down the road, looking through what parts of the village still stood. Had anyone survived? Had some been able to flee? If he was to take what was left, he certainly didn’t want to run into any survivors. 

Domhnall pushed open the curtains that shielded the entrances to each door, searching through some of the still-standing homes. There wasn’t much to look at on the inside, as most of it was covered in blood and broken down. He gracefully stepped his way over a multitude of dead bodies, all strewn about inhumanely. Violent depictions of struggle were very apparent in everything, and Domhnall had to distance himself from the scenes, simply thinking for himself. Unfortunately, much of the valuables have already been taken, but Domhnall knew he had a much more keen eye than those barbarians. He had managed to find some jewellery, small pieces of Titanite, and other things he could pluck off of the dead bodies. 

Some moments of carefully looking through the abandoned homes had passed and Domhnall had been working through some small, wooden drawers when the muffled sound of wailing met his ears. He was startled out of his thinking, immediately unsheathing his gold dagger and turning towards the entrance where he came in from. A child? Here? Some kind of trap perhaps… but- no no, it couldn’t be. Sorcery, maybe?

Domhnall was struck completely dumbfounded as he carefully walked out of the home, dagger held firmly in front of his person. He listened carefully for the sound, the cries of this child. It was wailing, wet and loud, occasionally stopping to take a breath, only for it to continue louder. Domhnall’s heart thumped louder, which wasn’t at all helpful as it obscured his ability to gauge which house the noise was coming from. 

The baby’s sobbing did not stop, so that was a good sign that no one else was there. Domhnall eventually followed the noise until he narrowed it down to one house. The cries were louder in his ears as he quietly pushed open the shredded curtains, noticing the way blood clung to the material, making it heavier. 

He slowly walked past the small door, only to be welcomed with more blood and shattered belongings. It broke his heart, the sight of dolls and play toys torn apart on the straw floor. The small tables and chairs, indicating a large family, still stood. Domhnall counted at least six chairs, including one that was shattered to pieces. He continued to follow the sound through what he assumed was the common area, into another room. His heavy breathing stopped when he noticed the body of a woman and a few children, all laying limp and coated in their own blood, gathered around in a last embrace. 

Some of the bodies were so badly mutilated, you could hardly make out any of their features. The children, varying in age, wore traditional abayas, though the individual colour of them was no more. The woman also wore a dress garment over her body, and a loose head scarf was now draped across her face, concealing any of her facial features. 

Domhnall moved closer, only to pause when he stepped on something hard. A tiny, leather sandal. Surely one of the children. His heart ached, quickly stepping off of the little thing, and surging forward.

The woman, which Domhnall could only assume was the mother, was cradling a small, blanketed bundle. She was slumped over it protectively, bloody arms wrapped loosely around it. The bundle shifted, and the cries started up again. A tiny being, Domhnall thought. He slowly pried the mother’s arms from the baby, gently resting them to the side as he reached in to grasp the bundle of cloth. 

His heart ached further when the little thing squirmed around restlessly, chubby little hands poking out of the soft cotton cloth. Domhnall was uncertain about what to do, so he removed the cloth to let the baby poke its fuzzy head out.

Domhnall's breath caught in his throat when he was met with large, golden eyes. The baby's hair was simply tufts, but its colour was an abnormal muted purple. Its skin was tan, freckles covering its chubby nose and plump cheeks. Its cheeks were stained with tears from its restless crying.  However, now, it was smiling up at him, its eyes turning to thin crescents. The thing was very much still alive.

Domhnall slowly pulled down his litham, so that it lay tucked under his chin, as he gazed in awe at the baby. Its mood seemed to be completely changed, as the baby squealed with delight, tiny hands reaching up to the merchant’s disgruntled face. As he gazed down, he felt tears prick the corners of his aged eyes. His throat constricted, as he slowly lifted a slim finger towards the baby for it to grab at. 

He had not felt this way in a long, long time. 

Time stopped for Domhnall as he held the baby up. He felt whatever hollowing he had slowly accumulated retreat, a familiar warmth returned that he hadn't felt since turning Undead. 

He once dreamed of being able to grow and protect his own family, but that felt like ages ago. After experiencing the harsh reality of Zenian life, left with little to no money and partnering up with a traitor of a man, his dream was crushed. Since then, he had only ever thought to live for himself. Being all alone, he had grown so accustomed to that way of life, he preferred it. 

What was he to do? He contemplated abandoning the child, forgetting this had ever happened. But… the thought only made him miserable. He knew he would regret it later, as the two sides of him battled on different conclusions. 

The baby stopped, noticing the man’s solemn expression. Its smile dropped, confused, as it tilted its head to the side. 

Domhnall blinked suddenly, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He then quickly fixed himself a smile, cooing down at the baby. 

“Hello lass.”

The smile returned to the baby’s face, as radiant as the sun itself as she beamed up at him. 

Domhnall hadn’t a clue how this baby survived, how she lived healthy and smiling even when she was surrounded by her dead family, inside her broken home. They were much alike in that regard. Both lost everything, yet still they both persevere. It was inspiring to Domhnall. It made his Undead heart feel so much more human than his life back at Zena ever had. 

“ Arggghhhhh… ” 

The merchant’s attention snapped from the baby, body tensing as he turned towards the entrance of the small hut. A Hollow, gaunt and pruney, slowly lumbered into the home. It walked slumped over, arms dangling at its sides and its jaw slack open with decaying teeth. It wore the similar Eastern attire that the rest of the dead villagers had on, meaning he must’ve been one of them, the unlucky few to have taken the curse.

Domhnall quickly set the baby down behind him, using the long flaps of his robes to conceal and protect her. The Hollow suddenly groaned, abruptly picking its pace up and leaping forward, a sharpened stick held tightly in its skinny fist. 

The merchant unsheathed his dagger and blocked the attack in one action, the jewel studded weapon glinting in comparison to the Hollow’s dirty stick. The Hollow’s weapon snapped when he twisted the dagger, forcing it to stumble back on unsteady legs. The baby began to wail, little voice crying out for him, making the merchant’s heart clench within his chest. 

Domhnall had been distracted momentarily by the baby, when the Hollow attempted its attack once again, violent hands coming up to grab at the merchant's litham in an attempt to choke him. He jerked back, elbowing the Hollow’s thin ribs and managing to twist himself around. His dagger made quick work of its leathery flesh, slicing open its chest and pushing all the way up to its throat. Domhnall turned his head away in disgust as rotten blood spewed his robes and head covering, but he was grateful that none had got on the baby. 

The baby’s crying stopped abruptly when Domhnall turned back to pick its tiny body up. Gently, he rocked the baby, whispering reassurances down at her. Though teary eyed, she beamed up at him. What a beacon of infinite joy in a rotten world , Domhnall thought.

He felt that in all his days of hunting for treasure, out of all the trinkets he'd found, this was the most precious one of them all. It was then that Domhnall made his decision.

He wanted this child to be his own. The most valuable treasure he’d ever received.

Chapter Text

Odd Encounters

The Undead girl pushed herself through the thick muck of the sewer hall, the stench making her throat convulse. 

She needed to make it to this blacksmith, Andre, that the warrior had told her about. If what he had told her was true, that Andre could help her, then she’d be able to make it to the Parish. She was too wrapped up in this new task to even bother questioning the fact that everything she was going off was told to her by a man she had already concluded was deranged. 

Her sandals were steeped and the sludge of the water made her cringe as it clung all the way up to her shins. She had little to no supplies, no armour, and nothing but a tiny excuse for a weapon to protect her. The men of the Shrine would have scoffed at her. Reality was, she was too blind with hope for her own good. But that didn’t matter, not now at least, as her mind was now fully set on ringing those bells.

The sewers were dead quiet, save for the splashing waters and squelching of muck as her legs pushed on. What sounds she made echoed eerily down the dark, stone sewage system. Everything reeked, wet moss growing on the stones and branching out like claws. The girl flinched, sensing what felt like a few detached limbs brush against her under the water. She clutched the rusty, gold dagger and held it in front of her, shoulders painfully tense as she awaited for something to jump out at her. All this talk of the dangerous world outside of the Shrine had really gotten to her. If that forsaken Shrine was considered a safe haven, then she had yet to prepare herself for what layed beyond.

Squeak!

The girl sped up her steps a little, determined to find an exit before she suffocated within these dense walls. She mumbled to herself incoherently as she continued to will her muscles to push through the thick substance. She was already exhausted, her Undead body still not used to all of this activity. 

Squeak, squeak!

She stopped, glancing behind her. She eyed the darkness down the hall with furrowed brows. She could have sworn she heard something. She fixed her grip on the little dagger before continuing even faster than before. It must be her anxious mind, curating ludicrous scenarios to drive her insane.

However, her heart stopped in her chest, as not a moment later, the sounds of scurrying little feet in thick water echoed through the sewer; first muffled and distant, then closer. And closer.

Squeak, squeak!

In a moment of startling realisation, the girl whipped her head around to look behind her, quickly readying her dagger. But before she could react accordingly, she was tackled violently and pushed into the muck.

She gasped in surprise, stumbling back up to her feet. There, standing only a few feet from her, was a giant, perhaps three feet tall, dirty rat. Its ugly snarl and crazed, whitened eyes were the only things she could make out from within the shadows. It leapt out at her again, as she attempted grabbing her dagger out from the muck. The rodent bit her arm, jagged teeth harshly sinking into her flesh. She screamed in anguish, trying to rip the rat off of her, but it only forced her under the water again.

The girl choked out, desperately searching for the damned dagger, but the darkness of the sewage water made it impossible to see anything in it. The rat was on her again, but this time she managed to kick it off her. It flew a few feet away from her, slamming into the water. The girl saw her opportunity, continuing to haphazardly feel around for the hilt.

Damned this small weapon! And damned these giant creatures! The foul water had drenched her, making her eyes sting, and the gaping wound the rat had torn off continuously bled into the water, seeping down her arm and branching out against the liquid.

Finally, she found the dagger– or at least the point of it, as it stabbed up through her hand. Her scream was short lived as she heard the rat scurry back towards her. She promptly ripped the dagger out of her palm without a second thought, and grabbed it by its hilt. This time, when the beast jumped out at her, she drove the dagger into its exposed throat as far as she possibly could with her good hand. It fell back into the water, recklessly flinging itself around as its high-pitched squeaking made her ears start to ring. She did not wait a moment longer as she harshly twisted the dagger into the flesh, running the blade down its body, cutting right down its stomach. Thick blood splattered onto her chest and face as she quickly tore it back out, the rodent’s rotten blood plastered all the way up to her shoulder.

It made one more, ear-piercing squeal, before going completely limp. Its hairy body was matted in water as it lay dead within the sewage sludge. It took a few seconds for the girl to actually convince herself it was dead, staring at it wide-eyed and panting heavily. After ramming the dagger into its stomach a few more times, she stood up– or at least tried to. She sucked in air through clenched teeth as she examined the ugly wound. It stung badly from the contaminated water, that and the rat had likely been carrying a couple of diseases, as its stout body quite literally had fungus sprouting from its intestines. Her entire right arm was completely limp and battered, which meant that until she got it fixed, she’d be using one arm to defend herself.

“ Coc oen! ” She cursed out loud, attempting to wipe the blood from her dagger off with her drenched clothes. 

She made a quick decision to tear off two pieces of her wet, linen shirt; one for the bite wound, the other smaller one for the bloody hole in her palm. The contaminated water that covered the rags made her wounds sting painfully, but it was better than bleeding to death, she supposed.

The girl didn’t wait a moment longer before securing her bag again and making haste down the hall, clutching her arm, hoping to the gods there weren’t more creatures down the way.

It took a few moments of speed walking before she spotted an opening off to the side, faint, morning sun seeping down onto the staircase that led up. She peeped her head into the opening, eyes needing a moment to adjust to the sudden light. The opening led to a staircase, which seemed to lead out of the sewers.

She recalled the warrior’s vague directions. Through the Undead Burg and to the Undead Parish. This must’ve been that very Undead Burg. She almost bolted up the stone stairs, ready to be greeted by sweet light, when she heard them .

The Hollows… She thought fearfully. Their slow, sorrowful groaning and growling was distant, yet it was enough to send a shiver straight down her spine. Was the cleric right? Truly? Was this their fate? She didn’t want to see them, she had avoided them thus far.

The girl’s heart beat faster– erratically. No, no I cannot , She fervently thought. Maybe she could find a second way further down? She looked down the hallway, trying to make out anything within the ill-lit sewers. There, she saw it. A metal bar door? She decided it was worth a try, so she kept on walking through the hall, past the staircase, in hopes that maybe there is another way out that would allow her to avoid them. Maybe this was all in vain. If both men were right, then these zombified humans were infesting the entire kingdom. She was gonna have to approach them, to fight them at some point. There was no way of avoiding that.

She continued on, walking in the dead silence of the sewage system, hopes still dangerously high. The sound of her heart beating filled her ears, so much so she could barely hear the sloshing of her footsteps anymore. She gripped her arm, eyes kept forward.

Then, like a wonderful miracle; light. In the distance she spotted light! She slowly approached it with uncertainty.

There, sat the metal barred door she examined. A distant firelight seeped through the bars, making the water under it glisten dully. Beyond the gate, there were no sounds of growling, no sounds of heavy, drowsy footsteps. No Hollows. O diolch byth!

She quickly brought out her good hand, grasping the rusty handle of the door and tugging.

Nothing.

She tried to push it. Then pull it.

Nothing.

She became a bit desperate then, so she rattled it furiously. The bars clattered together, echoing up and down the sewage.

Nothing.

Her heart sank to the hollow pit of her stomach, the same frustrating disappointment she felt when trying to remember things. It swelled up in her chest and compressed her breathing like a heavy rock. She slumped down against the bars, the blood seeping down her arm finally starting to make her dizzy. She had only just started her journey, and she had already almost been killed. How was she supposed to save herself– save everyone? All alone?

“What am I doing? ” she silently whispered to herself, using a hand to support her suddenly heavy body.

“Dearie?”

The wheezing voice startled her out of her skin. She had been so deep in her own thoughts she didn’t even hear the sloshing footsteps approaching from the other side of the gate. She twisted her body so she could look back at the owner of the voice.

Behind the bars, stood a slim figure dressed in torn and tattered clothes. Its boney hands rested on the metal bars, arms so skinny they looked like they would fall off at any moment. Its darkened, leathery skin clung to nothing but pure bone. Its mouth was slightly slack-jawed, and there was barely any hair atop its head, covered in a headscarf that looked as if parts of it had eroded away. Its eyes were just two, gaping black holes, as it stared back down at her.

A Hollow.

The girl immediately jolted herself as far away from the bars as she possibly could, scrambling back against the mucky water. The Hollow looked surprised for a second, letting its hands fall and jerking away from the gate.

“H-H-Hollow…” She pointed, eyes wide and voice trembling.

The Hollow simply stared back at her, before letting out a shrill little cackle, sounding more amused than anything.

“Why of course! What else would I be?”

The girl sat there in the muck, stunned into silence. This creature was horrific, a terrifying look into humanity’s dark core. Her mind scrambled, tears pricked at the corners of her wide eyes. In that moment, she wanted to die; to no longer have to subject herself to these horrifying beings, in this terrifying world. She tried to say something, but was only capable of gasping and shaking her head.

“My goodness, dear. Calm yourself. I’m not that hideous!” 

The Hollow slowly inched back towards the gate, boney hands resting on the bars. It didn’t scream, didn’t try attacking her. It simply stared down at her with Hollowed sockets. 

“Ooh, you’re injured, Dear. Let me guess. The dreadful rats, yes? I can tell, those things carry infections with them.” The girl simply stared wordlessly up at it, frowning as the frail Hollow used the metal bars as leverage to lower itself into a kneeling position.

“Here, I may have something.”

The Hollow quickly rummaged through the various array of pouches resting against its hip. The girl caught a glimpse of weird plants, herbs, pouches of powders, and an assortment of arrows as it dug to the bottom. Finally, with a celebratory ‘ Ah-ha ’ it pulled something out. The Hollow extended its arm through the space between the bars, boney fingers opening up to reveal a clump of moss. It was earthy and dark, but it had the same shade of purple that resembled the girl’s hair. 

The girl, still slumped into the muck, looked up quizzically. The Hollow giggled. 

“You eat it, Dearie. It’ll help the poison filter out of your body. These kinds of things are rather valuable to Undead. Usually I don’t give my supplies out for free, but you’re a cutie. I like you.” The Hollow exclaimed, holding the moss clump out further for her to take. 

This Hollow… was trying to help her? Genuinely? But Petrus said–... No, I can’t trust him. 

The girl finally lifted her good hand, generously taking the moss clump, the prickly, fuzzy feeling making her stomach churn at the idea of consuming it. The mysterious Hollow silently watched from behind the gate as the girl picked pieces of the moss, slowly putting each bit in her mouth. It was exactly what one would assume moss tasted like, and the girl nearly gagged it back up had she not swallowed it as quickly as possible. Surprisingly, it dissolved rather quickly, but the taste lingered as she scrunched her nose in disgust. 

“Vee hee hee, you’re not from around her, are you? New to the Undead life I assume? Ahh, It always takes the best of us, doesn’t it?” After finishing what she could of the moss, the girl looked back up to the Hollow who was resting both hands back against the gate. “You’ve come at a bad time, really, Lordran used to be a wondrous place before the curse. But it's not all bad! In fact, I quite like it here. I have water, moss, moisture, these nice iron bars. Nothing good has ever happened to me in my human days. I much prefer this life. You’ll learn to live with it, just as I did.”

As the effects of the moss soaked in her flesh, the girl slowly hoisted herself up out of the water, now standing a few inches taller than the hunched Hollow. Guilt slowly sank into her gut, embarrassed with the way she had reacted to the Hollow. 

“ Diolch, Colli . Thank you.” 

The two silently stared at each other, the girl feeling like she needed to explain herself. “I don’t have a name. I can’t remember it. I don’t remember where I came from, either, before I ended up in Lordran.” She sighed begrudgingly. 

The Hollow tutted, shaking its gaunt head, the rags swaying with its movements. “Memory loss can be a nasty thing with this curse. It's quite normal. Usually Undead shirk their previous names for new ones. You’re a pretty girl; Youthful, human, and you have a nice exotic look to your eyes. You look like an Amice– or a Joan.” 

The girl felt a tad uncomfortable with being closely inspected, and the names didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t know if it brought her solace or simply made her sad knowing others experienced a similar loss of memory and identity. She wondered, was that why the warrior never told her his name? Because he didn’t remember? 

“Do you remember your name?” 

The Hollow stopped its persistent chatting, piercing the girl with the empty sockets where its eyes should have been. Was it weird that she only just realised the Hollow barely had a nose? “Yes Dearie, I remember my name. It was Ursula, named after my mum. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I rarely talk to anyone anymore, all I do is business, no real time for chit-chat.”

The girl understood, sort of. She appreciated how open this Hollow– Ursula – was being with her. She almost didn’t want to leave, compelled to sit here and talk to her forever, but she was on a journey. She cannot be distracted. She needed to ask Ursula if there was a different route she could take to get to the Undead Parish, or at the very least get more thorough directions than what the warrior gave her. 

“I am looking to ring the Bells of Awakening. Do you know how I can get to the Undead Parish?” She paused for a second, processing her next words.

Ursula looked up, surprised. Her expression was stale and unreadable because of her state, practically skinless and skeletal, but nonetheless she managed to be quite expressive with her movements and the wild gesturing of her hands. 

“Dear me! That journey is hardly a place for such a dainty young lady like yourself.” The Hollow exclaimed. “Many Undead have attempted that trial and all have failed. As far as I’m concerned, no one has ever rang the second bell. Ever.” 

A feeling of frustration arose suddenly. She’d heard this all before. The more these people laughed at her, the more she wanted to ring these stupid bells out of spite. She had no other choice! She preferred sacrificing her life for the greater good than wandering aimlessly without a clue as to who she was. If these bells will cure her, will help her remember everything, prove to people she is worth something, then she doesn’t care where this journey will lead her. 

“Please, just give me the directions. I have already made up my mind. I will try my absolute hardest to lift this curse.”

Ursula seemed taken aback by the girl’s sudden desperation. She sighed through what was left of her nose. “Fine, if you insist. Go back down along this hall, up those stairs over there. That’ll take you to the Undead Burg. Only unkempt crooks and liars to be found there. Perhaps a few merchants and such. Hardly a place for a lady like myself!”

The girl looked behind her, back towards the opening, sunlight still seeping down the staircase and into the sewers. It seems like I have no choice but to go that way , she concluded grimly. She looked back towards the Hollow, mustering a tired, yet genuinely thankful smile. 

“Personally,” Ursula began abruptly, and the girl inched closer to the gate so the Hollow could take her hands in her own leathery ones. “Out of all the Undead I’ve seen pass by, embarking the same journey as you, I hope you succeed, Dear. Then I'll be able to say my moss saved the life of Lordran’s saviour.” 

The Hollow playfully squeezed and patted the girl’s hands, which made the girl smile warmly, heart aching painfully at the sudden kindness. If Ursula had eyelids, she would’ve definitely winked at her. Ironic, really, that a Hollow has treated her better than the healthy Undeads back in Firelink.

“Thank you. You are very kind to me– too kind to me. I promise I will try my best.” The girl said earnestly.

And that was the last exchange they had, before the girl made her way back down the sewer hall, through the sludge. She heard Ursula call out “When you remember your name, stop by again and tell me! I am ever curious!”

She smiled and nodded her head, but it was filled with uncertainty, eyes cast to the ground with longing. It wasn’t long before she made it back to the staircase, right within hearing-range of the mindless moans and groans of the Hollows. She firmly held her dagger in her good hand, fingers tightly wrung around the hilt. She will be frank, she was not looking forward to participating in close combat with these disturbing creatures. They were once human, remember that, she told herself before sucking in humid air and making her way up the steps. 

The light hit her a bit too hard, nearly making her reel back in shock and tumble back down the steps, but she managed to steady herself. One step after another, up the long, tunnelled staircase, she emerged out of the sewers, and it was almost as if she’d travelled to a different world. Noises became more clear, and before she had anytime to take in the atmosphere of the Burg, she was bashed over the head. 

She stumbled back, with a new piercing headache. She didn’t have to look at it to know her attacker was a Hollow, who had used its small, wooden shield to strike her. Shaking off the initial shock quickly, the girl lunged forward, dagger pointed out so that it easily pierced through the space between leather and chainmail. The Hollow was too slow to react, and fell to the stone ground with a guttural screech surprisingly easy. 

The girl heaved a sigh, examining the Hollow that now lay at her feet. The Hollow who had attacked her was that of a low-ranking soldier, armour dishevelled and a mere figment of what it once was, and wielding a standard sword and a round, wooden shield. Her attention snapped up quickly to more groaning ahead of her. She knelt down behind some rotting barrels, so that she was hidden from sight. Surely enough, three other Hollowed soldiers rounded the corner, staggering about mindlessly. Their skin and skeletal faces were similar to that of Ursula’s, their limbs boney and ridged. They were so devoid of any muscle, their armour looked too large and their metal helmets rattled with their lumbering movements. 

She tried to not let it get to her, but she couldn’t stop the churn of her stomach and the clench of her throat, as she quietly watched from behind the barrels. What had this kingdom become? Was it truly all this one curse’s doing that caused such a devastating fall from grace? It was too much for her to wrap her aching head around at the moment, so she focused on a way to take them down. She noticed one of the Hollows wasn’t wielding any weapons, which was strange, to put it frankly. However, it was possible the Hollow could’ve discarded it at some point. 

As the Hollows neared her hiding spot, indifferent to the dead body belonging to their ally, she knew she couldn’t wait much longer. She leapt out, causing some of the Hollows to stumble back. Thankfully, it seemed the Hollows had very delayed and slowed reflexes, making the girl significantly faster. She stabbed her weapon up into the spaces between one of the Hollow’s ribcage, prompting the soldier to let go of its weapon, letting it clatter loudly against stone. 

Once that Hollow fell, she jumped back to get some distance, trying not to let her sandals slip against the wet messiness of the ground. The other sword-wielding Hollow didn’t give her much time, before it stumbled over to her, mouth slack and swinging its weapon wildly. 

She had planned to quickly snake her arms around the Hollow’s to disarm it, but as she used her dagger to block the swinging sword, she caught the formerly weaponless Hollow raise its thin arm. Her heart stopped, quickly letting go of the other Hollow and attempting to leap away. But before she could get far enough, something was thrown at the floor, and she was blasted across their fighting area, hitting the stone floor. She yelled in anguish as a burning sensation seared through the left side of her face and arm, making her skin bubble and blister. Her vision blurred with pain, but she couldn’t just sit there, noticing the bomb-wielding Hollow hobble towards her. She grinded her teeth as she clenched her wound, and in a vain attempt, propelled herself forward with her legs, piercing the Hollow with her good shoulder and crashing directly into it. 

The girl fell to the hard floor, curled in on herself as the Hollow stumbled back. She didn’t need to look up to know the Hollow had fallen off its high spot, to its death. With the relief of momentary safety, she grunted in pain, eyes screwed shut as the searing burning of her skin would not cease. She knew she couldn’t rest here, however. More soldiers could and most definitely would come for her. She ignored the pain as much as possible as she pushed herself up, hands and clothes soaking wet from both sewage water and the humid air. Cradling her side, she stood over the two bodies of the Hollows that had fallen. On the ground, near the second Hollow, was the metal shell of a bomb. It must’ve killed the Hollow in the act of throwing it. A good thing she moved out of the way in time, she supposed. 

She weakly stumbled her way across the short, wooden bridge that connected the stone platforms, making her way up some steps and through an entrance into what seemed to be some sort of home, filled with nothing but barrels and boxes. All of this, certainly wasn’t just here to protect Gwyn’s city, was it? If so, what were they being protected from? What war transpired here? Everything about this, from how the houses were repurposed, to how the Hollows were dressed, seemed like some kind of sick fever dream. 

The girl made haste, the weird quietness of the area starting to make her anxious, as she climbed up two flights of rotting stairs. It was bizarre that everything here was coated in a thin blanket of moss. Lordran wasn’t that humid at all, more cold and arid. It only gave everything a more decrepit feeling. 

Once she had finally made it up the house with little to no threats, the morning sun hit her face once again. The house had led her out to a stone bridge that overlooked the lands below. It wasn’t too long of a bridge, so she could easily spot the Hollows waiting at the other side. She perked up immediately, her good arm flying to her blade again. She didn’t know how many more injuries she could handle before she died, or fainted from pain. She crouched down, preparing to let the Hollows run across the bridge. Maybe she could lure them to push them off the sides, she thought. However, before she could really do anything—

“ARRGHHH!”

The horrible roar and the heavy flapping of wings startled the girl, making her promptly whip her head towards the sound. She could barely comprehend the sight before her, horror sinking its horrible teeth deeply into her flesh. There, up in the sky, flew a large, red creature. She had never seen anything like it! At least, not from what little memory she had. It had a long neck and slick scales covering its entire being, and it was diving right towards the bridge!

The girl, in a sudden spark of reflex, jumped back down a few steps and back into the house, rearing the corner of the opening to hide behind its mossy walls. Not a moment later, the ground under her rattled and shook vigorously, air whipping past her from the sheer force of the beast’s landing. She held her breath, slowly peeking from around the corner. 

She watched in bated breath as the winged creature scanned the bridge, its eyes narrow and its pointed snout flexing as if sniffing them out. Suddenly, thankfully, its long neck craned the opposite way from her, down to where the Hollow soldiers were feebly throwing their bombs and blades towards it. 

With a large intake of breath, one that could’ve shook the very atmosphere, the beast blew fire out of its mouth, scorching all the way down the bridge. The girl immediately jerked back behind the wall, trying to shield herself from the heat that only encouraged the sizzling of her burnt skin. The light and the sheer force of the fire stunned her, making the girl practically tremble in fear. The screaming of the Hollows could be heard down the bridge, as they continued to be scorched alive. 

The fire stopped abruptly, but only once the Hollows had all been turned to nothing but burnt meat. She begged and begged that the beast won’t blow its horrid breath down her way, effectively suffocating her in the house, but it didn’t seem to acknowledge her. Instead, it beat its large, leathery wings again, gusts of wind nearly blowing her off her feet as it lept back off the bridge and took flight.

It took a few moments for the girl to truly believe it was gone, slowly peeking back out of the doorway. It had killed all of the Hollows for her, their bodies now black and strewn about the other side of the bridge. Now was her chance! She scanned the morning sky diligently, quickly making her way across the bridge. Her heart pounded in her ears, both from her blistering headache and her panic. 

Once she made it across the bridge, and up another flight of stairs that lay at the end, she stopped to let herself breath. Her hands flew to her shaky knees as she heaved in air, threads of her long, unruly hair obscuring her vision. The sky was clear, and the parapets of the battle walls were outlined by the sun’s rays. Gusts of wind brushed past her and over the protective walls of the Burg, making her realise just how high up she was from the ground. 

She was in pain. So much pain that not even Ursula’s poison moss could cure her. A part of her wished she was back at the—

Just then, the familiar sounds of fire popping and crackling met her ears. But unlike the beast's fire, this one was a calm, much smaller fire. A bonfire. She immediately got back up, hopefully scanning the stone walls and boarded off doors for where it might be. She followed the sound, up yet another flight of stairs, and around the corner of an entrance. 

There, in the centre of the storage room, sat a quaint bonfire. Its gentle, flickering light lit up the whole room, shining up against the decrepit stone walls. It looked the same as the one from the Shrine; its fuel was a pile of bones and dust, with a curled, iron sword sticking out of the centre.  

Relief flooded her, chilling her burning skin and letting the tenseness of her muscles go slack. The exhaustion of her mind and body finally caught up to her, the overbearing pain of her burns now too much to handle, effectively shutting off her brain. And so with a heavy, trembling sigh, she lowered herself to the ground, and let the darkness take over her once more. 

Sand brushed against her face as she kept her little head ducked down into the safety of her dirty cloth she was bundled up in.

The warm crackle of a makeshift campfire filled her ears, and the warmth reached her in a comforting hug as it beckoned her. It encouraged her to pop her head out from under her cloth, perhaps even peek her curious head around. The chest she laid against rumbled as the man chuckled, light and chirpy. The baby blinked a bit, still rather light sensitive, as she looked up.

The man had kind eyes that crinkled up when he smiled. He had a litham that wrapped around his head and covered his mouth, yet there was no coldness in his expression. He had small circle glasses that sat on his crooked nose, and an aged scare that cut through his half concealed face.

“Aye Siwmae.” He whispered, voice soft, as he lifted the baby girl out of the bundles and up to meet his face. She giggled delightfully, chubby, tan hands coming up to poke at his wrinkles.

“My sweet baby.” The man softly bumped their heads together.

He rested her back against his chest as he looked on into the flames. The cave was dark, but it would shield them from the sand for the night.

“What will I name you, hm?” He breathed. Everything was quiet, save for the fire and the occasional noises that emitted from the baby as it squirmed around.

He glanced back down at her, and feeling the eyes on her, the baby looked back up to meet them. Gorgeous, up-turned eyes, gold irises turned yellow in the firelight.

After a while of silence, the baby noticed the man grow teary-eyed. And then– he smiled, practically whispering.

“Atiri.”

Chapter Text

Semta Morhn

The sun slowly rose above the horizon, shining down on the land before them, the vast spread of sand dunes making the desert seem like a restless ocean. 

Domhnall silently gazed from the cave and beyond the cliff, his back resting against the jagged, rocky wall. The campfire he had set up that night was now nothing but a pile of dry wood, which emitted the gentle wisps of smoke from its contents. Naturally, Domhnall hadn’t got a wink of sleep. Didn’t need it, after all. No, he needed to stay awake to watch over her.

Domhnall looked down at the baby, Atiri, sleeping soundly against his chest, her breathing coming out in little puffs of air as her small chest rose and fell. It was a good sign the baby had lived through the night, her survival making the merchant continuously anxious. 

He needed to find a village, perhaps a place with food and better shelter than a cave. After all, he couldn’t simply feed her olives and food he brought from Zena forever. A series of plans circulated in his mind as he carefully removed Atiri from his chest and tied her so she rested safely against his back. This would make it significantly easier for him to wield other things if necessary. After the baby, still fast asleep, was secured against him, he lugged all his things, using his feet to kick apart the campfire. 

Carefully, and with a tired sigh, Domhnall climbed down the ledge of the cave, planting his sandals back firmly against sand. He had originally hoped to beat the morning sun, but it seems as though that was not an option as it rose quickly above the sky. 

The aching in his back had begun again, but a quick scan across his surroundings was all he needed to spot a dead, thin tree. Domhnall marched over to it, experienced hands breaking off a thick branch, long enough for him to use as a kind of cane. The sound of the branch snapping seemed to make Atiri stir against him, but nonetheless she stayed silent. 

Domhnall had always been an expert at navigating, especially in places unoccupied by civilization. This desert was no exception. However, it wasn’t treasure he was looking for this time, it was… well, somewhere to keep this baby safe. Perhaps if he could find a water source, say some sort of river, civilization would not be far away.

And so, with the sun as his guide, he continued further down East. 

The merchant walked for gods know how long, the arid atmosphere and his own sweat stuffing his senses from underneath his scarf. Torrid heat continued well into noon, his palms growing incredibly sweaty where he gripped the stick to stabilise himself. Quite often, Domhnall would check on the baby, who would wake up every once in a while to tug at the back of the merchant’s scarf. Domhnall would feed her what he had, enough to keep her alive until they found a place to stay. His mood would quickly be lightened at the sight of Atiri, as she slowly munched on crushed up olives. She hadn’t cried, not once, and that alone made him determined to keep going. To push through. For her.

They had made it a few miles from where they had left the cave, the sun now above them. Domhnall had kept his eyes on the ball of light, adjusting his glasses and using his hand to shield his eyes, dependent on the sun for their only sense of direction. 

It took a while for the merchant to notice, too busy cooing back at the baby, to realise the sand beneath his feet was… rumbling? 

He was inclined to think it was simply his imagination and paranoia taking hold of him, but then the sound of rumbling caught his attention. Put on high alert in an instant, Domhnall quickly scanned around the area. Nothing. The baby on his back seemed to sense the sudden tenseness in her caretaker, for she too went silent and still. 

Domhnall listened intently to the noises, looking around the seemingly barren desert. The rumbling, more like the sound of sinking sand, slowly became louder and louder. And louder. The sounds started to become almost unbearably loud now, but still nothing appeared, just the endless sand. It sounded as if the noise was– no. It was as if something was moving towards them. From… under the sand.

It got closer and closer, so that the sound was right beneath them. Then, it stopped abruptly. Domhnall was stuck in a state of confusion, hanging onto his stick as he looked below him, down at the grains of sand. Something seemed to click, a terrifying realisation, like a stab straight through the chest. Domhnall began to sprint away from where he was standing, nearly dropping his walking stick in the process. 

After some time of running, Domhnall stopped and looked back at the spot. Atiri was quiet against his back, shifting anxiously and grabbing at his hair scarf again. He was stunned into silence, as the giant beast burst through the sand, so loud and abrupt it nearly made his hearing go out. 

It was terrifying, its body long and serpent-like as it lunged up and out of the sand. Its bones, like a surrounding case with a spine, covered its flesh. At its head– which had no face–  was flower-like, fleshy petals opening to reveal a dark void which Domhnall supposed was its mouth. As its giant body leapt out of the sand, its head opened, seemingly trying to consume anything that was above it. 

The giant monster made the terrain rumble beneath Domhnall, as it slowly sunk back into the sand. The merchant was frozen in shock, only brought back into reality when he heard Atiri begin to wail out. He hadn’t a clue what to do, so he resorted to not staying in one place on the sand. As the serpentine beast’s body sank, the sand around it sank with it. Domhnall struggled desperately, but the grains beneath him tried to sink him down into the giant hole. The whole ground was moving underneath him, and he fell to his hands and knees, trying to grasp out. 

His heart plummeted to his stomach when he felt the cloth at his back loosen, as the little body against his back began to slip out. Atiri screamed, chubby hands attempting to grasp out in vain. 

“Atiri!” Domhnall heard himself yell, but the sand whipping around them made him choke and gasp out. 

His quick reflexes took control of him, as his arm quickly reached out to catch the baby, just as she was about to fall down the gaping sinkhole. He cradled her tightly like a lifeline, trying to lift her up enough out of the sand.

Sand surrounded his body, but he made sure that his back was stuck out, to protect the baby. He reached out with the hand that wasn’t holding the baby, quickly grasping his walking stick. With what little strength he had left, he pierced the stick into the ground before him. He groaned, arms shaking as he hauled himself out of the sand and away from the gaping hole the serpent had descended into. The merchant’s other arm flew back to the bundle strapped to him, cradling the baby so she wouldn't fall out in his efforts to free them. 

Once his legs were free, Domhnall quickly scrambled to get out of the sunken hole’s radius, running further away. They were far from safe, because the rumble of tunnelling began again, targeting the merchant. The rumbling once again stopped under him, signalling it had found its prey. His old heart beat erratically, and he immediately jumped just out of the way as the serpent lept back out of the sand,  barely grazing the two with its opened maw. 

Domhnall fell back against the sand, protecting Atiri with all he had. The merchant didn’t wait before quickly taking this chance to run away from the second sinkhole that was to form, trying to plan and think of a way to get away from the beast. 

Domhnall scanned the barren desert, looking for something. Anything! His sand stricken eyes suddenly caught on the jagged silhouette a few feet away. There, off in the distance, he identified a lightly coloured rock that jutted out of the sand. Wrapping the baby’s small body in the loose robes that draped his body, he quickly sprinted over to the rock. Holding Atiri close to his chest, he leapt up to the rock with practised agility. 

He moved to the centre and hugged Atiri to his chest when the sounds of the monster paving its way through the sand started up again. The rumbling nearly made him topple off of the rock, but he knelt down and kept as silent as possible. It was a last minute idea, and a very far fetched conclusion, but he could pray and pray that it would save them from being the beast’s next meal. 

Domhnall waited with baited breath as he carefully listened to the beast circling around them from under the ground, almost as if scoping out the area. It lost us! Domhnall hoped. After a long moment of waiting anxiously, the beast seemed to have lost their tracks and scent, as its rumbling grew more silent and tunnelled off. 

Domhnall waited there, letting the erratic beating in his ears slowly silence as the deafening noise of the horrific monster was no more. The sand was still again, and the sun continued to shine brightly upon the two. 

He let out a relieved and tired sigh, coughing up what sand remained in his lungs. He gently lifted the baby from his chest, meeting each other's eyes to let her know they were both safe now. Atiri, though clueless as she was, got the message, and her radiant smile returned to her face once again. 

“It’s gone, dear. We’re safe now.” 

Despite the terrifying situation they had just found themselves in, Domhnall couldn’t help but have his mood brighten at the sight of her. Giant sand serpents. Domhnall made a mental note of this, now worrying about the other possible threats that resided in these forsaken lands. 

With certainty that the beast was gone, Domhnall dropped down from the rock, securing Atiri against his chest and putting his walking stick firmly against the sand. Once he gauged where the sun was and where it was heading, Domhnall continued on his journey for civilization, but with this new threat, he had his doubts that any village would be found for miles and miles. 

Many hours passed of walking through endless sands. The sun was now setting, bringing on a gorgeous dark canvas of stars, and the wind was finally beginning to chill. The desert air was still whipping around him, as he took one exhausted step after another, using his cane to keep himself up and alert. Atiri had gone back to sleep in his arms, curled up and hiding in his robes from the cold with her fuzzy purple head nestled against his chest. Poor thing hadn’t eaten in a while, Domhnall thought, or bathed for that matter. The merchant hadn’t been experiencing the same, as his new Undead body was surprisingly resilient. He had much to get accustomed to, as being free from the burden of hunger was a small positive to a much larger negative.

It was just when Domhnall had started to lose doubt, still following the now invisible sun, that he witnessed it. There, in the distant horizon, silhouetted by the moonlight, sat a large village. The peaks of the houses and the paving of the withered road stood out like a miracle from the gods themselves. 

Domhnall had to keep himself from becoming too relieved, because something felt off about the whole thing. Perhaps this village had also succumbed to raiding, or perhaps something else had gotten to it first. Either way, the merchant kept quiet and his movements calm so as to not wake Atiri. 

Domhnall made his way to the village as cautiously and carefully as he could, trudging up the slight slope the village sat on. It was dark, barely any light outside of the small candles that were placed about and the stars above. This meant that it was definitely inhabited by people. However, whether they were hostile towards Undead or not was what kept him on his toes. Unlike the village he had taken Atiri from, this one was filled with square homes made up of sandstone. It was a very old village, evident by the cracks in each home and the worn out rags that were draped over some of the entrances. There wasn’t much greenery, same as most of the desert, however there was a surprising amount of small potted succulents and palm trees placed about. 

Domhnall continued his way down the stone paving that cut through the centre of the village. From here, he could even see that the road led up a rocky hill, larger houses sitting closer to the top and along the way down. There was even what looked to be a large watchtower of sorts at the very top. This was definitely a wealthy city, so… where were all the people? Other than lit candles and small healthy plants, there was no other sign of life. Or, that's what he was inclined to believe until he heard the silent footsteps of two, maybe four people. 

In one quick motion, Domhnall grabbed his dagger with one hand, his other going back to cup the baby’s sleeping form, and turned around swiftly, dagger outstretched and ready. His breath left his lungs when he saw them, a large group of them, all silently surrounding him. Hollows. Of course! He thought defeatedly. The only reason such a city would be abandoned is because of the Undead curse. 

They were, for lack of a better word, horrific to look at. Their bodies were decrepit and decaying, Hollow in all forms literally and mentally, just as the stories of merchants had told him. They all varied in sizes and clothing. Their robes, saris, dhotis, and other various attire draped over their gaunt forms. Domhnall bent his aching knees, ready to fight any of them off if he had to, dagger pointed threateningly at them to keep the creatures from coming any closer to his baby. The Hollows seemed intimidated by him, as they all stepped away, hands raised in fear. 

Domhnall paused; they seemed anything but hostile. They were all quiet, and if anything, they seemed rather curious of him. Suddenly, after enough tense silence, a shorter Hollow weaved its way through the crowd, raising its boney hands almost as if to calm the crowd. It seemed older than the rest of the Hollows, which was an unusual thing to be able to point out. The Hollow looked to Domhnall, then the bundle at his back. 

“ Ē'uṭā baccā… ” came the Hollows throaty voice. 

Domhnall reeled back in shock, eyes widening from under his glasses. He hadn’t expected it to speak.

“Why have you come here, Kēṭā?” The old Hollow paused, “and with a human child, nonetheless.”

The merchant couldn’t help but feel perplexed, all eyes of the Hollows on him, making him feel incredibly out of place. 

“I come from Zena, to escape the Undead hunters. This is… my baby.” Domhnall paused hesitantly. This town being a Hollow civilization changed everything, so he was unsure how much they could actually help him and his baby. But he must try, or she was going to die. “I come here in search of food and shelter for her.” 

The old Hollow paused, placing its frail hands in front of it. “Well then, it's been a while since we’ve seen a baby. She’s precious, but we don’t have much to offer.” 

The Hollow turned over to the crowd. Domhnall tried to listen in on the conversation it was having with another Hollow, but couldn’t make out anything. Were they deciding if they wanted to let him stay? Domhnall didn’t know how the idea made him feel, living with a bunch of Hollows. What if they… Well, Domhnall didn’t actually know what Hollows did. But he was still recovering from the betrayal back in Zena, and he was far from trusting people again, especially with Atiri. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the old Hollow turned back towards him, giving him a surprisingly warm smile through dried lips. “Welcome to Semta Morhn, Kēṭā. Village of the Hollowed. I am Norma Zahour, the elder of the village.”

Chapter Text

First Death

“Atiri…” She whispered quietly to herself. 

The girl, now Atiri, gazed down at her hands, letting the light of the fire highlight the crevasses in her palms. 

Her eyes fluttered to the feeling of warm flame against her face. The feeling of the stone floor was uncomfortable to lay against, but that discomfort was miniscule compared to the utter relief she felt with the burden of her wounds now lifted. Although she had passed out, for who knows how long, she awoke feeling refreshed. The rat bite filled out, the scalding burn marks were no more, and the blood in her body seemingly replenished. 

She thought back with grim resentment to the cleric and warrior at the Shrine, back to what the warrior had told her. About how the bonfires scattered throughout Lordran resided there so the Undead population could have a place to rest. Was this what he truly meant? A replenishment of health and humanity?

Atiri slowly lifted herself from her laying position next to the bonfire, letting the quiet, small storage room calm her senses. 

I remembered my name, Atiri thought, as if in denial. It wasn’t much, but this is everything she could’ve asked for. That dream– no– memory was only a little fragment, but it was enough for her to remember over and over again. Where was that? Had she remembered something from all the way back to babyhood? And most importantly; who was that man? She knew the answers would not come to her easily, but that was ok. She was ready to fight for them. Perhaps more would be revealed to her as she journeyed. 

She looked about the room; stout wooden buckets and woven baskets strewn about, mouldy sacks propped against the corners, large barrels and crates stacked on top of one another, and a few dim torches mounted on the walls. Plus a small staircase to her right that was so crumbled down it currently led to nowhere. She was in a Burg, and though what that meant alluded her, she connected the dots enough to realise this was a place once inhabited by civilians, now raided by war. A city turned military outpost of some kind, where soldiers stood their ground, most likely to protect the capital that was this mysterious Anor Londo. But from what?

After feeling her senses come back to her, Atiri pushed herself off of the ground, into a standing position. Her clothes, something the bonfire could not recover, were in tatters. She frowned down at herself. Maybe she could take the armour off one of the Hollows she came across? Or perhaps she might find some stowed away, left behind at battle.

Either way, she tied together what little protection her clothes offered, picking up her items, and made her way back out the arch door, back out to where the stone walkway diverged. Sunlight seeped from above the large arch that bent overhead, and parapets lined the walkway. A large, ominous stone wall stood off in front of her, cutting the sun off at its horizon. The Undead Parish must have been over the wall, if she could find a way in. 

Smoke and the remains of battle suffocated her senses, and she coughed as she looked back down the way she came, down the bridge the dragon had first attacked. No use in going back there, now she had no other choice but to continue onward. 

Ahead of her was a narrow walkway, lined with parapets, that led into an archway of what seemed to be another, abandoned house. Simply squinting through the sunlight, she could spot the Hollow soldiers waiting on the other side. They were just…eerily staring at her. 

One quick look upward was all it took to spot the Hollows up above, standing on elevated wooden platforms made on higher roofs. They had no weapons, which was all the indication Atiri needed to know they wielded bombs, the same bombs that nearly scalded her to death. She conceived of a plan, then. 

Quickly, with renewed strength, she sprinted down the walkway, stopping just short of the arch opening. Three Hollows perked up from inside, one of them busting in through the wooden door to the side. They were different from the ones she's seen– instead of wooden shields and battered swords, they had metal kite shields and thick axes. It didn’t matter though, because she wasn’t going to have to touch a hair on their heads— or lack thereof. 

Bombs of fire came crashing down against the narrow path, but Atiri managed to launch herself back down and behind the parapets. The anguished screams of the Hollow soldiers being cooked alive in their armour and blasted off of the tower made her ears ring. The Hollows up above seemingly uncaring of their comrades. 

Once the path had been cleared, Atiri knelt down behind the parapets and scrambled back down the path, making it safely under and into the hall. The blasting of bombs stopped abruptly, the Hollows above turned conflicted as their target seemingly disappeared into thin air. 

Atiri let herself breathe again, wind whipping under the arches and making her hair brush against her face. She combed it back irritably, before looking around. She spotted another iron gate from behind her, though it was completely cluttered and overrun by vines, and when she walked up and tugged at its handle it made no move to open. Then, she looked to her left, over to the wooden door the Hollow soldier had burst through.  

Peeking out of the door for any other soldiers, she crept through and under the rotting contents of the homes. The Hollows above seemed to be deaf to her whereabouts, so she took this as a chance to see if there was any leftover supplies. Preferably ones that weren’t destroyed and rotting. Makeshift wooden platforms draped in curling vines loomed above her, and the soles of her sandals scraped against the cold stone floor, unstable and aged with time. Little flecks of fire fluttered about in the air, making her eyes and throat burn; however the fire seemed to be coming from below the elevated part of the Burg. 

Making her way up a few steps, Atiri entered what seemed to be a small, dainty house. The entrance to the house was a small open arch, so it didn’t do much to conceal any secrets. The house was split into two rooms; one had a short hall of three tables and a few chairs, cluttered with books, plates, and unlit candles. The other, which Atiri had to step through another entrance to get to, bordered by damp wood, was a plain square room. It also had a few tables and chairs, with household objects like jugs, pots, plates, and even two cupboards placed on each end. Everything was dull, dirty and aged, and Atiri noted how everything was haphazardly strewn about, some chairs even knocked over. Was this some kind of living quarter? Or perhaps a place of eating? 

To her dismay, the room was devoid of any food or water, and there was no sign of any leftover armour or weapons. However, something caught her attention, far off against the dark wall at the end of the room: It was the silhouette of a long box. A chest. 

Atiri quickly made her way over to the corner, batting away cobwebs and smoke that obscured her path, spitting out the ashes that kept assaulting her mouth. She crouched down, examining the chest. It was like everything else in this place; beaten, mossy and burnt. It looked similar to that of Petrus’ chests, but she merely assumed that was how all of Lordran’s storage was. 

Thankfully, the lock seemed to have been broken off, so the hatches simply gave way when Atiri lifted its lid. A part of her was expecting to find more of those godsforsaken eyes, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, she found three to four black bombs, similar to the bombs the Hollow soldiers had been throwing at her, but… well, black. 

Perfect! Now she could have an advantage over the Hollows. Atiri reached in to pick them all up, stuffing one after another into her satchel, hoping they’d fit. They were rough, yet surprisingly light and approximately the size of her closed fist. Satisfied with her findings, she closed the lid when—

“ Arrrghhhh… ”

Before she had anytime to react whatsoever, a sharp, piercing pain shot through her chest and across her entire body. Her breathing ceased, and blood spurted out of her mouth when she attempted to let out any sort of scream. She shakily looked down to find the tip of a sword poking through a bloody hole in her chest. She gasped and gagged, her body going limp and lifeless as fear struck her senseless. 

The blackness of her vision was quick to take over, putting Atiri back into that endless state of slumber. 

Unfortunately though, as the curse took back hold of her soul, she was returned to the living. 

From the darkness, fire engulfed her, turning her vision to a bright, unbearable white. It was as if she was being rebuilt within these flames, because she then fell back to the ground, hands barely catching herself as she nearly hit stone.

Atiri jerked up, her heart suddenly beating loudly in her ears. Her hands immediately flew to her chest, feeling around for the wound and gripping herself as the pain of her death lingered like a ghost. Her body started shaking again, mind still stuck on the blackness that took over. I died. I’m dead. Why can I still feel? Am I hollowing? How did I not see the Hollow coming? How did I not hear it?  

Reluctantly, her mind was brought back to Petrus, and what he had told her. Can get maddening, he had told her. She hadn’t understood at first, not truely questioning the ominous implications. She hadn’t truly understood what Hollows were, how they became a Hollow. But this, the feeling of her body and mind stopping after excruciating pain, the feeling of flying so high, only to come back to where you had left off. Forced to keep going, to keep living. For all of eternity, with no rest or radical freedom. With no chance to finally leave your place in the mortal world, with a promise for eternal slumber. Being forced into immortality without any of the good parts. 

Now she understood what he meant. It was terrifying. 

She calmed down, or at least tried to, clasping her grimey hands against her head. She clamped her ears shut as if trying to stop the pounding in them, fear sweat trickling down her forehead. It was then that she took in her surroundings, grounding herself back to reality. The bonfire sat there, flickering and popping pleasantly as it had always done. She was back in the storage room, she realised. 

Not only did the bonfire serve as a beacon, and a form of healing the physical form, but it served as a place of reviving for Undead? Atiri silently looked into the flame, scanning the length of the coiled sword stuck into it. No wonder the Firekeepers were important. What would happen to us if we didn’t have these bonfires?

Atiri’s eyes widened in realisation, quickly flipping open her satchel that thankfully still sat against her hip. She was pleasantly surprised when she found the black firebombs, still comfortably stuffed in the leather contents. She supposed it was a good thing the Hollow wasn’t conscious enough to steal from her dead body. Atiri sighed, rubbing her narrow eyes. She really was trying hard to look on the bright side now, wasn’t she? 

She needed more supplies, she reminded herself. Ursula had mentioned something about a few merchants like herself, and if that was true, she needed to find them. 

So, after tearing off a piece of her sleeve to tie her unruly hair up into a mess of a ponytail, Atiri gathered her things and made her way back out of the storage room. She looked out upon the damage the winged beast had caused with its fire, making haste down the steps that led to the different levels and hoping none of the Hollows would come back to life. 

Atiri made it down to where the wooden barracks were still standing, all pointing in the opposite direction. This is the direction she came from, but a quick glance to her left revealed a short path she had run past before. There, up a few steps, was a small platform, and on it stood two Hollow guards at the ready. These Hollows, unlike the others, wielded spears and long iron shields. 

Atiri had made the mistake of making eye contact with their Hollow sockets, forcing her to engage in combat. When the soldiers made no move to engage first, she quickly skidded across and up the stairs to get closer, as was required with her weapon. With each enemy, Atiri had slowly started to get the hang of working around her disadvantages. She was light on her feet, attempting to weave around the soldier’s shields and get them from behind. But they were persistent bastards. 

Their movements were steady and calculated, unlike the others. Every time Atiri attempted to get behind one, they would back off, and the other one would snag her with its spear. It was like a weird waiting game, waiting for when they let their shields down to give her that golden opportunity. 

An ember from the the smoke below caught in Atiri’s eye suddenly, making them burn painfully and screwing them shut. She was quick to realise her mistake, for one of the Hollows took the chance to lunge at her, spear outstretched like it needed the blood. The point of the weapon just barely missed her as she slunk behind the soldier, jamming her dagger deep within its gut. It, like the others, screeched out in pain, before she twisted the dagger from within, effectively shutting it up. 

While she was doing this though, the second spear-wielding soldier attempted to get Atiri in her back. The point managed to jab into her shoulder, the searing pain quickly registering within her muscle. Blood began to gush from her shoulder blade, as the Hollow made an attempt to run it straight through her. But Atiri was stronger than them, she knew that. Her hand gripped the wooden pole of the spear with her free hand, stopping it from going any further. 

Atiri sneered at the Hollow, before using brute force to rip the spear out. Then, she yanked the spear right out of the soldier’s frail grasp, just in time for the Hollow to lunge at her again. Its body crashed into her, forcing her down to the ground. However her body hit wood, not stone, and before she knew it she was falling through crates and down a formerly hidden flight of stairs. The two tumbled down, but Atiri managed to get the Hollow under her, repeatedly bashing its head against the stone edge of one of the steps. 

The soldier went limp beneath her, thick blood gushing out onto the staircase. Atiri heaved a tired sigh, already feeling her replenished body ache painfully again. She had no armour, simply flimsy garments, so it was expected. She got back up onto her feet, rolling her shoulders and wiping grime off of her skin and face. Blood steadily seeped down her back, however it wasn’t too deep of a gash for it to be life-threatening. That said, she would’ve definitely ended back up at the bonfire had she not stopped the spear. 

Atiri grumbled “ Cachu hwc… ” as she looked around. They had fallen down a staircase, which had led down to a darkened room. It was similar to the storage room she had found, but with a few openings in the mossy walls to let light in. There were longer, larger crates propped up against the wall, and a wooden cabinet stocked with the remains of plates and vases in the corner. The cabinet had space behind it, and if the telltale sounds of grinding was any sign…

The Hollow shattered the wooden furniture, revealing itself as it swung its axe through blind anger. It was the unpleasant feeling of her soul momentarily leaving her body that caught her off guard. The Hollow wasn’t too hard to get rid of, but not after it had sliced her across her stomach. She’d definitely need to rest back at the bonfire again after this, Atiri thought grimly. 

Once the sudden spike of adrenaline weared off, ears still blaring from the crashing of wood, she made her way over to what she assumed was the exit of the room. Already on high alert, dagger firmly held in both hands, she turned the corner where the soft sunlight beckoned her. 

She lunged when she spotted someone in her peripheral view, brandishing her dagger for a killing blow.

“Ah! S-stop! Stop! What is the meaning of this?!” 

The brittle, high-pitched voice yelped out, causing Atiri to snap out of her fight-or-flight and stop dead in her tracks. She looked down at the man she’d almost stabbed to find a Hollow, dressed a bit similar to that of Ursula, with his slim arms up in front of his face. 

“Animal! Are you mad?! I’m just sitting here!” He was still curled in on himself, rambling for his life. 

Immediately Atiri felt ashamed, having nearly harmed an innocent. She let her arms fall, dagger going back to the strap on her hip. 

“I-I’m sorry, I thought you were one of them. I won’t harm you.” She mustered a disarming smile down towards the seated Hollow. The Hollow let his hands fall, revealing his shrivelled face and black sockets. 

“Well, I should hope so! Not like I was in the position to put up much of a fight you nitwit!” He scolded her, gesturing around animatedly. 

Atiri looked down, noticing the carpet he sat on with an array of trinkets and supplies. Her eyes darted up to him excitedly, making the skittish Hollow flinch again. 

“I was searching the Burg because I heard merchants still resided here. By any chance, are you one of them?” she said.

He looked perplexed by the girl’s motives. “What the hell else do I look like?”

“Right. Of course.”

She scanned the items laid out before him, still feeling like she should do something more than apologise. She slowly bent down to the little display shop, pausing for his permission. 

“Go ahead! I’ll run my weapon clean through your chest if you try to steal anything, though, so don’t expect any charity. Supplies as good as these are tough to come by these days.” The Hollow exclaimed sternly.

Atiri was offended by his bluntness, but she supposed it was justified. She simply assumed that was how it was with everyone here. It was your survival over everyone else's. A realisation suddenly hit her while looking at the goods– she had no idea what to pay with.

“What… what do you take? I don’t have any coin or…” She felt embarrassed when the Hollow stared at her incredulously, making her promptly clamp her mouth shut. 

“Coin? Pfft! Perhaps a few decades ago! Now? Here? Coins mean nothing. Their only purpose now is to look pretty.” He shook his head, “No, no, I trade for souls! Bits and parts of it that Hollows and Undead drop when they die. The more powerful the soul, the better!” 

Atiri stared at him, eyes wide and frowning. People here used souls as currency? Trading them like they were as simple and expendable as anything else? This place grew weirder and weirder by the passing second. Did she even have souls? was the question she needed to be asking herself right now.

“I heard your struggle back with those Hollows! Surely you must’ve picked up a couple on your way here. If not, then you’ve got no business in my shop!” 

So the bastard had heard her struggles with the soldiers, she narrowed her eyes. The merchant seemed to be losing his patients at her dubiety, so she quickly shifted into a kneeling position and patted herself down. How would she even transfer souls? She sighed, reaching into her satchel not expecting to find anything new, but paused when her hands felt something… cold? Slowly her hands lifted out, palm opening up to the merchant to reveal a clump of bright, white wisps. The merchant rocked back in his seat, amused by the girl’s wide eyes. 

“That’ll be more than enough.” The Hollow cut into their silence with a satisfied tone, quickly picking the small little souls out of her hand. 

A set of chainmail armour immediately caught her keen eye, the individual chains bathing in sunlight like something holy. It was almost an exact replica of the suit the warrior had, but with the actual headpiece and alot less rusty. She picked up the leggings piece, rising up from her kneeling position, letting it lay across her arm. It was a bit too heavy for her, and she knew that aspect would bite her in the arse later. Atiri didn’t like the idea of confining herself with metal, it simply didn’t seem right, as she had gotten used to quick fighting. However it would be nice to not have her legs get snagged everytime she entered combat. She set the leggings back down in exchange for the lighter, leather greaves that she spotted. They seemed to be worn around the calf of the legs, protecting the shins. She could wear these along with her sandals, she thought.

Then, Atiri looked down to where the smaller supplies were showcased. An odd looking set of keys laid in a box, each groove a different shape. 

Atiri shifted the leather greaves in her arms to point down to the keys. “What do those open?” 

The Hollow’s head turned down to them, bending over his oddities to pick them up by the loop they were all attached to. He dangled in his grip. 

“This is the Master Key. This beauty can open any lock in Lordran.” The Hollow said, almost dramatically. 

“Any lock in Lordran? Why would you be selling something so powerful?” Atiri asked sceptically, eyeing the keys. 

“Listen, I haven’t actually tried it myself. I just heard the stories, could very well be lies for all I care. If you want it, take it. If you don’t, don’t. Either way, when you die and Hollow, I’ll simply sell it to someone else.” 

His odd comment aside, she may as well. If these stories were true, this was very well an absolute steal. She took them off the merchant’s hands, trying to find room in her satchel to stuff them. 

Atiri definitely ended up getting her money’s worth, as she bought a golden rock called an “Orange guidance soapstone”, which the merchant said could write messages that cross timelines, though she knew he was probably just trying to get rid of it. She also bought a set of at least twenty throwing knives, something that would be helpful with enemies she didn’t want to get close to. Though she hadn’t a clue how to effectively use them, she would learn. 

She looked around some more, an odd sword catching her attention, however unlike everything else, it was placed behind the merchant. It was flat and sleek, slightly bent towards the end. It looked rather familiar to her, though she couldn’t place why. But when she asked, he simply got all defensive about it, or her— he for some reason referred to it as a her—, so she opted to not pester him about it. She supposed that was what becoming a Hollow entailed. A loss of mind, and a need for soul. 

“It is getting treacherous in these parts. A horrible goat demon has moved in below. And up above, there’s that humongous Drake, and a bull demon too! If you stick around this place, it might end up being your grave.”

“Wait, Drake? You mean the red winged beast?” Atiri, now with a full satchel and no souls to spare, tried to start up a conversation with the merchant. 

“Yes! Drake, Dragon, whatever in gods’ name you people call them. Are you really as stupid as you look?” 

Atiri ignored the last comment, now set on getting more information. “And this bull demon, is this the one guarding the path to the Undead Parish?” 

The Hollow merchant preoccupied himself, now neatly adjusting all his wares on the dirty carpet. “Mhm, you can even hear it from here sometimes. Haven’t seen it in person though, thank the gods. I think it's stationed to guard the bridge connecting the Burg and the parish. One thing is for sure though, they hate us Undead.” 

Atiri frowned, deep in thought about how she could possibly get rid of the demon, already anticipating the amount of deaths she would endure. Suddenly, she looked up to the merchant, a new fire ignited in her gold eyes, one that almost startled the merchant. 

“Then that is the direction I will go.” Was all she announced, before turning on her heels to walk back around the corner.

“H-hold on a minute! Just what do you think you're gonna do?”

She stopped, but didn’t bother looking back at the man. 

“I’m going to kill the beast.”

Chapter Text

Virgo Alba

“Please, Father! Don’t do this!”

“You leave me no choice, child. You have been afflicted, and the afflicted path thou shall take.” 

“But what if I don’t return? What if I cannot find it? What if I–”

“Silence! Thou shall not speak out of turn, child. If the gods will it, and you do not return with it, then you will forever be banished from this family– from this kingdom. Such is your fate!”

“M’lady? M’lady! Please wake up!” 

Rhea jolted awake, eyes snapping open only to be met with the sight of her bodyguard kneeling above her, worry etched on his face. She was panting softly, heart beating against her bird rib cage, as her vision slowly became clearer. It was only then that she realised tears streaked her pale cheeks, which she promptly brushed away with a gloved hand. 

“Ah, my sincerest apologies, Vince. I– I must’ve had a nightmare.”

Vince frowned, vibrant blue eyes saddening. “I understand, M’lady. This trek is bound to be harrowing. We all have a right to be worried.” He perked up, however, eyes now glinting with enthusiasm. “But don’t you fret! Nico and I will protect you with our lives! You won’t need to tire yourself the entire way there.”

Rhea, though knowing full well that these reassurances were rather empty, still found them comforting. Knowing she would at the very least have her childhood friends stand by her side. Rhea gave Vince a soft smile, conveying to him that she was grateful for his unrelenting optimism, to which he gave a toothy grin back. 

Rhea slowly seated herself upright, dusting off the invisible dirt from her ivory maiden’s gown with dainty hands, folding them against her lap. She glanced over to her second bodyguard, Nico, whose eyes were overshadowed by the metal brim of his helm as he whipped at the blade of his greataxe. 

“Nico!” Vince called over to his friend. “Are you prepared to leave?” 

Nico glanced up at the two, nodding and mumbling something inaudible. The trio then set off, making their way out of the little abandoned home within the Undead Burg that they had spent the night in. The trek to Lordran had been arduous, tiring them all to the very bone, so a nice rest was exactly what they had needed. Rhea was still struggling to adjust to not needing any sleep.

The sun shone down on them brilliantly, making the plating on her companions shimmer. They got into position, with Nico and Vince both in front of her, shields held out before them. Though Vince always tended to wander in front of the other, getting a tad bit too excited to squash the Hollows that wandered to the group. It was quite cute, whenever Vince would glance back towards Rhea after he had done something rather brash, seeking her approval. He had always been that way, even when they were simply children playing about. 

Rhea’s task was to clench her ivory talisman, hiding within the security of her companions, yet ready to use any healing miracles if need be. Whenever one would find themselves with a gashed arm, or a bruised face, she would hold her holy cloth up to her rosy lips and whisper an incantation in Latin, letting gold strands of light engulf their injuries. 

“M’lady, look at this!” Vince called back.

Rhea glanced up, just in time to see Vince flick a piece of rubble far off. The rubble made a light clank, alerting a Hollowed soldier and making it twist and turn confusedly, trying to make out the origin of the noise. 

Rhea giggled softly back at Vince’s grin, covering her mouth with dainty hands. However, once she noticed the Hollow was now coming right for them, taking a swing at Vince’s turned head with an axe, she called out.

“Vince! Look out!”

Before the blow could land, Nico slammed his own great axe into the skull of the Hollow, throwing its useless body away. Vince turned to Nico, now bearing a more sheepish smile, as Nico grumbled inaudible strings of sentences and wacked Vince’s blonde head. Rhea, though much preferring the boys to be more careful in their journey, found that the occasional jest served to distract her from her anxieties. 

Nico and Vince were practically inseparable. They had been small schoolmates when Rhea had met the two, and even then they’d stuck by each other's side. They were practically brothers. It truly was a shame Rhea was never allowed to spend much time with them, but she never doubted her family’s judgement. She was a daughter of nobility, and thus did not associate herself with many. Even then, she was still grateful that the church had assigned them to be her escorts, for she would have it no other way. 

After a time of skewering stray Hollows left and right, the three made it down the narrow stairs– where the light of the sun could no longer touch them– and to the entrance of a sewer hall. To the trio’s dismay, this was supposedly one of the only ways of getting to Firelink that was still functional. 

Nico went in first, shoes sloshing around in the dark murky water, with Vince following close behind. Rhea, however, paused at the last step, cringing at the thought of getting her nice white robes tarnished with sewage water– and right before they were to meet up with someone, no less. 

Vince sensed Rhea’s plight, for he turned back around, sloshing his way up to her. 

“Ah! No worries M’lady! This is no place for someone like you. Allow me,” Vince exclaimed, before turning around and offering his back. 

Rhea smiled, warmed by the thought, before getting on the other’s back and hanging on to the cloth of her dress, as she was carried through the sewer halls. 

“Thank you, Vince. That is very kind of you,” she said, voice hushed so as to not have it bounce off the stone walls. 

“Anything for you, M’lady!” He replied, following Nico’s lead through the dark hall, until the trickle of sunlight was visible once again.

Working down the stairs that lead out of the sewers was tedious, as there had been a horde of Hollows seemingly awaiting their arrival. However Vince and Nico had begun to devise a strategy that involved pushing off enemies who resided near cliffs, using their metal shields as opposing forces against the Hollow’s frail and unsteady bodies. 

Rhea looked on as she stepped down the last couple of steps, admiring the view. Here it was: Firelink Shrine. Abandoned sanctuary of the gods, and supposed home to the First Flame. Granted, it was a bit of a disappointment from the sun-basked cathedral she had originally thought it was, but the old ruins still gave a serene sense of tranquillity that was like a breath of fresh air from everything else they had witnessed thus far. 

Carefully, the trio made their way down the winding path of grass and cliff sides until the Shrine’s bonfire was visible. Rhea gazed at the flickering light of the centre fire, before noticing a man swathed in chainmail sitting close to it. The split second eye-contact the two made was enough for Rhea to promptly look back down at her entwined hands, flushed with embarrassment. 

Of course, Vince was quick to notice this, irritably calling out to the forlorn man. 

“Hey! Don’t you dare look at M’lady like that!”

Rhea’s embarrassment only worsened, peering back over to the man whilst trying to reassure Vince that it was fine. The man raised a brow– and from afar– Rhea could almost make out a smile.

“Like what? Like that pathetic girl won’t last a day here?” The man suddenly called back. 

Like dogs ready to pounce, both Vince and Nico were by her side, weapons unsheathed and teeth bared. 

“You heathen! You stand in the presence of nobility and decide to insult her! I should slice right through you for that!” Vince yelled over. For a boy, he was certainly trying to put on the persona of a man for her. 

Both Vince and Nico readied to go forth and fight the man, who had already begun to reach for his own sword. Rhea grasped both of their armoured arms, suddenly terrified of having to witness any bloodshed. 

“Vince, Nico, I beg of you–” She pleaded, before hearing steady footsteps approach from behind them.

“Cease this. All of you.” 

Immediately Rhea recognised the voice. Only one person she knew had such a melodious and clerical voice that was always capable at diffusing a situation. Rhea, Vince, and Nico stopped what they were doing, turning around all at once.

“Petrus!” Vince exclaimed, the trio relieved to finally see a familiar face. 

Petrus sighed, looking over all of them, his eyes momentarily catching on Rhea. He then looked over to where the man was still seated, hand paused around the hilt of his weapon. 

“Apologies,” Petrus curtly called over, before hastily coercing the group away from the bonfire. 

Petrus led the group through the Shrine, allowing Rhea to glance around. It was rather lovely, not to mention it felt much safer here than anywhere else in these forsaken lands. The sun was still high in the sky, like it was reassuring them they were in good hands, as its glorious rays trickled past clouds and illuminated the various plant life covering the sanctuary. 

Rhea then glanced over to Petrus from under her white hood. He hadn’t aged a bit since she had last seen him– an effect of the Undead Curse, no doubt– and his eyes were still that calm blue she had always appreciated. Memories of her childhood still flooded her mind, bringing with it memories of a middle-aged human Petrus, who would look after her and serve as her very own guardian of sorts. Rhea smiled faintly at that, realising that this aspect of him had yet to change, as he still– even in his undeath– upheld the promise he made to her father many years ago. The promise to protect her. She gazed at his tired face, wondering how he had been faring in these treacherous lands all by himself. 

Petrus suddenly seemed to sense her gaze, eyes flicking over to her. She felt a bit embarrassed, so she lifted her head a bit higher and smiled up towards him. She felt her insides warmed when he smiled back, almost fatherly. Oh how she missed him, truely. Before she was able to dwell on past memories any longer, the quiet arguing of Vince and Nico stole her attention.

They all continued up some stairs, revealing a quaint hall, away from prying eyes.

“Ohh, Petrus. I apologise for the prolonged wait, this place is… truly horrendous. We ended up having to come up from the forsaken village of the Burg,” Rhea explained, absently playing with the gold rope that was tied around her small waist. 

Vince perked up. “Yes! Can you believe the things that reside there? We very nearly got ripped to shreds by terrifying canines! And then–” 

The combination of Petrus’ hardening stare and Rhea’s raised hand prompted Vince to close his mouth, which he did so swiftly. Nico inaudibly mumbled something to Vince over his shoulder as Rhea walked up closer to Petrus. 

The two wordlessly smiled at each other, though Rhea’s was filled with uneasiness, gloved hands now clamped around her royal ivory talisman. She so desperately wanted to tell the cleric everything she felt at that moment, perhaps even cry to him. But no, the thought that she still wanted to approach the man the same way as when she was a child felt silly. And he would most certainly not appreciate that.

“No need to worry about the wait, M’lady. I could’ve waited as long as you needed.” Petrus bowed his head down ever so slightly towards her. 

The maiden gave one last smile, nodding. She then scanned the cove around them, hooded head turning to the area at the end of the hall, cluttered with long vases, deciding that it would serve as an exceptional spot for prayer. One more before they begin the real journey. She gestured down the way to Petrus. “May I pray here? We will…” she paused, looking back to her companions. “Need all the help we can get.”

Petrus let out a hum that could have been taken as a chuckle, nodding down at her. “Of course.” 

Rhea knelt there so her knees rested against the sharp grass, ivory dress sprawled out around her like a flower. Her hooded head was bowed in prayer, hands laced around her talisman and held in front of her. She focused as much as she could on praying, silently mouthing pleas to the gods, but her mind continued to wander to memories long passed. 

Memories… of her last moments as a human. 

It brought tears to her eyes, stinging them as she squeezed them shut. She remembered the way her bed had felt, silk sheets and plump pillows supporting her heavy head. Her golden curls sprawled out against the bed, like liquid gold seeping out of her head. She was glistening with a sheen layer of sweat as a female servant tended to her by wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. The way her eyes grew hazy, and how much pain she had been in, like a thousand swords had pierced her body. Her head was scorching hot, and her pale skin was covered in horrid red rashes. 

She recalls how the doctor had come into her bedroom earlier to examine her, as well as the horror on her mother’s face when he had given the bad news. She had come down with smallpox, and she was likely not to live past the night. Oh how she could barely even cry in the moment, the blistering headache only making her want to sleep. She didn’t see her father that night, which hurt her the most. Why hadn’t he come to see her in her last moments? She had thought to herself in the dimness of her bedroom, as she anxiously laid on her deathbed. 

However, all of those feelings could have never compared to the shock she endured when she woke up in the middle of the night, suddenly feeling like she had never been infected with the disease in the first place. She had heard stories, of course, horrific tales of the Undead Curse. But when she adjusted herself upright on the bed, her cotton nightgown slipping off her shoulders, the Dark Sign had replaced her rashes. 

She had been so terrified in that moment, shaking with sobs against what was supposed to be her deathbed. But she quickly grew more terrified as to what was to be done with her once word got out. That was when she jumped out of bed, soft and quite like an elk being hunted, and made a daring escape out of her window, running off into the village, the moon towering over her.

In that moment of panic, she remembered Petrus, and quickly made her way down to where his rectory resided. It was the place given to him by her family when he had been anointed. When she had arrived, she was basked in both moonlight and torch fire, her white gown flowing elegantly around her in the soft breeze. The large wooden door stood before her, as she knocked lightly on its surface, turning her head anxiously for any other villagers. Rhea sighed with relief when the cleric eventually opened it, although the man she saw before her was not the same Petrus she remembered. He seemed in the midst of mourning, eyes watery like a deep ocean. 

He frowned down at her, almost in an angry kind of manner. “I am readying myself to leave Thorolund for good. What do you want?” He snapped, voice almost breaking. 

It had only been a few days since Petrus himself had been proclaimed dead, only to be brought back to life by the very same curse. And thus, the church and noble houses banished Petrus, tasking him to travel all the way to Lordran and seek the Rite of Kindling. A sacred artefact the church desired dearly. But this was exactly why Rhea had to see him. 

“Oh Petrus…” Her voice trembled, breaking out into tears for the second time that very night. Trembling hands reached up to the collar of her dress, pulling it down her breast to reveal the inky black mark. 

Petrus’ eyes widened, before quickly pulling her into his living quarters. Rhea still remembers the conversation they had that night, beneath the dim light of the rectory. How Rhea sobbed into the wooden table he seated her at, but unlike how he did when she was younger, he did not hug her. In fact, he didn’t even give many words of reassurance. Instead, he was stern, telling her exactly what was to happen, that she was to tell her family– as well as the church– and that they were most likely going to send her off as well. Though to where, he wasn’t certain. 

“Oh no! Please, I cannot bear to tell them! To have them send me away! I don’t want to go alone!” She had pleaded desperately. 

There was little to no emotion shown on his face before he sighed deeply. “You may hide here for as long as you need after I leave. Just until you are ready to tell your father. They will be looking for you come morning.” 

She had been so relieved of his generosity, and had in fact hid there long after Petrus had left Thorolund. Apparently the entire kingdom had panicked once hearing the daughter of Thorolund had disappeared without a trace. Word had gotten out that many her age had fallen ill and passed away, but Rhea only revealed herself after finding out that two of those victims had also been cursed and had risen from the dead. Vince and Nico. 

After that, all three of them had been sent off to Lordran, coincidentally set to meet up with Petrus. 

These memories suddenly became far too much for her, realising that she had completely given up on praying all together. So, Rhea simply deemed herself finished, quickly wiping more tears from her face and letting her hands fall to her lap. She was hesitant, before turning her head around to Petrus and making eye contact with the older cleric, prompting him to make his way over to her idly, weapons still in hand.

“Ready?” He asked her, his eyes softening as she looked back up at him. 

“I believe so.” She hesitated, her voice soft. “Have you met Vince and Nico before?” 

Rhea attempted to start up a conversation with him, in a feeble attempt to keep her senses calm, and was pleased when he opted to play along. “Yes, I believe so. You went to school with them, correct?” 

Rhea nodded her head, crystal blue eyes downcast. “We were not even able to finish before the illness took us. Last I had heard they were both bed-ridden sick before they… turned . It’s… it’s terrible to think about, really. I don’t know how you handled it by yourself.” 

Petrus seemed to know what she was referring to, as it had been some time. He sighed. “Yes. I believe most of it happened after I left Thorolund. I’m sorry to hear it took a good number of the younger population. Did they ever find out the source? Certainly from some kind of uncleanly animal, derived from poison or rot.” 

Rhea simply shrugged. “I would not have known. I only heard through the cracks of the rectory walls. I would listen in to the conversations the villagers would have.” The maiden smiled at the memory. “Just like how Anno–”

“Don’t speak of her.” Petrus snapped, demeanour shifting for a split second. 

Rhea’s smile dropped instantly, suddenly finding the patterns of her sleeves very interesting. 

Deafening silence ensued between the two, until Petrus decided to change the conversation.

“Vince is… well he is definitely determined, which is good. However, he needs to be careful as I do not think the catacombs will take kindly to his attitude. Nico is more quiet. Hopefully that will serve to balance his friend out,” Petrus remarked, a bit exasperatedly, making Rhea smile again.   

It worked, causing her lips to quirk ever so slightly and turning to look over at the two boys who seemed to have picked up their conversation again. “Nico is nonverbal. I don’t believe he has ever learned to speak properly, so he prefers to stay quiet. Vince does most of the talking for him.” Rhea paused, exhaling softly. “He may seem a bit misguided, but they both are brave and noble. I am very happy I won’t be embarking on this journey alone.” 

She then turned to look back up at Petrus, smiling warmly up at him. Her features were pale and soft, with rosy cheeks and a small rosy nose that made it seem like she was constantly cold. Gold curled hair peeked out from under her garments, matching the gold encrusted in the hems of her sleeves and the clasp that held her cloak together. Oh how out of place she was in Lordran, like a small bellflower in a garden of weeds. How the sheltered and pampered life she had lived under her father’s wing could’ve never prepared her for a life of undeath. 

Petrus hesitated slightly, but only slightly, before returning the smile, as warm and as comforting as Rhea needed it to be. That was enough for the maiden, as she sucked in the cold air around them, signalling that she was now ready. Petrus lended his gloved hand down to her and she took it graciously, lifting herself up from her seated position and off the hard ground. His hand practically dwarfed hers completely, he noticed, before he let it go so she could brush off the flecks of dirt and grass that now clung to her dress. 

“Vince, Nico,” Rhea called to them, voice barely able to raise loud enough for the two to even hear her. “We should make haste. Petrus has waited here long enough and we shouldn’t waste his time.” 

Both clerics looked up at the same time, halting their chatter and standing at attention, their armour clanking around awkwardly. Whilst the two were gathering their assortments of heavy weapons and shields, Petrus took the time to check he had everything he needed. 

Rhea, not having brought too much with her supply-wise, simply watched them. It still broke her heart that she was forced to leave the majority of her belongings back in Thorolund. She was advised to travel lightly as it was most optimal for this specific trek. However she did bring one personal item from home. 

The little maiden silently shifted her ivory cloak, so she could pull out the necklace that was draped snuggly around her neck. It was a locket, gifted to her by her family. It was the only thing she had been allowed to keep before leaving. It gave her a sense of comfort, which she intended to keep closely amidst a land full of horrors. 

Rhea glanced up once the men had secured their armour and various instruments, quickly stuffing the locket back under her layers of clothes.

“Are you prepared, M’lady?” Petrus asked, sympathetic eyes gazing down towards her meek frame. 

How could she possibly be prepared for what was to come? Either way, she nodded silently at her guardian, trying to use her hood to conceal the slight tremble of her mouth. And thus, the four of them made their way out the alcove and past the centre of the Shrine. 

Rhea gave one last glance over to the mysterious forlorn warrior, who had seemed to already beat her to it, locking gazes. His deep eyes revealed nothing but the emptiness in his soul. A heretic forsaken by the great Lords. 

She frowned at him, before turning back to continue following her group. Through the ruins of the sanctuary and towards the Catacombs. She took this time to relish what was probably going to be the last time she will bask in the sun’s glorious rays for a while. 

And all she could do was hope and pray to the gods. 

“ Vereor Nox… ”

Chapter Text

Black Knight

The storage room had served her nicely as a resting spot, for what it was worth. But now was not the time to become attached, as Atiri had to push on through the Burg and get on with this journey. Besides, she had a bull demon to slay. 

The girl had spent her time examining the assortment of wares she had bought from the merchant. Knives, bombs, leather greaves, and the odd Master’s Key ( which she was certain was a waste of souls ). She sprawled out all her belongings, attempting to at least try and make the weight she had to carry a little lighter. 

Atiri sorted out the leftover moss she had received from Ursula, as well as made some room for the black bombs she found within her satchel. Though tempted to throw away the odd bone and the talisman she found within Petrus’ chest, she knew deep down that that would be a poor idea. She rolled up her cotton pants so she could struggle to securely strap the greaves to her shins, the armour pieces very clearly made for bulky men. 

Once finished, she promptly made her way out of the room, back to the open walkways of the Burg. After hacking and slashing her way through the few feeble Hollows that had risen from the dead, Atiri continued on down the same direction she had taken the last time. Now, however, she was ready for anything. Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself in as many languages as she could remember. 

It didn’t take too long to return to the path leading past the home in which Atiri had found the black firebombs. All she had to do was deal with one of the sword wielding soldiers who defended the way. She quietly stood at the frame of the entrance, listening for the stalking footsteps of the Hollow who had killed her. When she couldn’t make out much noise above the gusting wind, she flipped open her satchel to grab a simple fire bomb. It was hefty in her closed fist, its contents rough and eroding, as she quickly turned to toss it through the entrance. Atiri could only hope, just from watching the Hollows use them, that all it needed was impact to explode. 

And she was right, because not a second later the bomb burst into flames and smoke. Atiri ducked back around the entrance of the house, having to shield herself from the force of the blow, hot air bursting out of the home’s entrance and windows. She waited quietly, listening as the fire began to calm down. Suddenly, an odd feeling grew in her chest, as a few, glowing white orbs entered her soul's pouch. Got him.  

There wasn’t much time for celebration though, because the immediate panicked footsteps that could only belong to more Hollows began thumping down the stone stairs ahead of her. Two Hollows turned the corner, armour rattling and broken weapons raised. Unfortunately, they had seen her from her original hiding spot, so a sneak attack was not optional. Atiri attempted to run her weapon through the first one, before a fire bomb was thrown from the top of the staircase, landing at the base and forcing her to jump back. The fire had lightly scalded the two Hollows, but that was all she needed to know before immediately planning a way to take out the bomber. 

Atiri grabbed one of the Hollows by its metal plating, before shoving it back into the second soldier and over to the staircase. Once again, the clumsiness and lack of control the Hollows had made pushing them around much easier, catching them off guard long enough for the bombs to make a hit. Atiri surged them forward, the Hollows screaming as she climbed up the stairs, using them as human– or rather Hollow– shields against the bombs. 

The force of the explosions nearly sent Atiri tumbling back down the stairs a couple of times, but when she got to the top, unable to see from behind the Hollow’s backs, she threw the bodies forward so they slammed into the bomber. The Hollow fell to the ground with the weight of its lifeless companions, its pack of bombs flying out of its hand before exploding against the ground. Atiri was quick to shield herself, but not after the sensation of embers sticking to her clothes and skin stung her. 

It took a few moments before the ringing in her ears silenced, as she looked down at the decomposing bodies laying before her. She felt bad, really, to use anything as brutally as she did. Their pained cries and weak bodies, once as alive as she, now nothing but the simple dreg of humanity. But what choice did she have? It seemed as though everyone here was devoid of any sympathy, resorting to inhuman acts that had essentially become the norm. 

Atiri forced herself not to think about if the Hollows had known each other in their former lives, about the possibility that they might’ve been friends who deeply cared for each other like any other soldier. All she could hope was that they were so far gone, they had no consciousness to mourn over their dying kingdom. The same kingdom they had fought to protect all their lives. 

The open area she was in was like all the others. Cobblestone beneath the flats of her sandals, the arid humidity making the straps of her greaves itchy against her skin. It was cold, yet the humidity made the hair that wasn’t tied up stick to her face irritably. From where she stood, she could spot the wooden beams and makeshift platforms that rose above the Burg, letting the other bombers from before see below them. However they were facing in the direction she came from, so they shouldn’t pose much of a threat for now. 

Atiri scanned ahead of her. Yet another home sat before her, its entrance closed off by a wooden door, unlike the other house. To her left was another path around the house, however she decided that if this house had been like the other, then it was worth searching through. She simply had to be more cautious of what she turned her back to. 

The girl neared closer to the house entrance, tugging on the rotting knob of the door. The old wood rattled, as it made no move to open. She could try to bash through it. All of its parts were old and rusty, it probably wouldn’t take much effort. Then, Atiri remembered the key she had bought from the Hollow merchant. May as well put his folklore to the test, she thought. 

Thwump!

Atiri’s breath halted for a second, body stock still, like she had turned to stone. She lifted a hand to comb through her tangled hair, before grasping an arrow. An arrow that had just barely missed her and caught tangled in her hair. She whipped around, plucking the arrow out and looking around for the aggressor. 

She looked up, following one of the short spiral towers that stood before her and meeting the eyes of another Hollow. Just as she realised the Hollow was pulling its bow taut, readying its aim right at her head, she leapt to the base of the tower. The arrow missed her, as she made sure to get out of the Hollow’s line of sight. 

Atiri didn’t wait to give it the chance to process what she was doing before quickly climbing the spiral staircase to the top. She nearly slipped on a clump of moss that had sprouted in between the stair’s cracks, but nonetheless made it to the top. The Hollow, too stupid for its own good, barely had time to turn around before Atiri grabbed it by its ankles, tipping it over the parapets and letting it fall. Its body hit the cobblestone harshly, its boney limbs making an audible crack that nearly made Atiri throw up, before its soul made its home inside her pouch. 

The girl swallowed uneasily, clenching and unclenching her fists as her heart began to hurt from the sudden continuous spikes of adrenaline. Luckily, however, the little tower gave her a nice view of the rest of the Burg. Wind blew her hair, rustling more strands out of the ponytail she made, as she scanned her surroundings from this new vantage point. 

From here, she could see the end of the Burg, all its little towers and houses coming to a halt at the stone wall. There was a path below her, one that led through a group of spear-wielding Hollows and up a side staircase that led to an entrance inside the wall. From there, she could assume that there would be more staircases, hopefully ones that lead up to the top of the wall. The parapets of the large stone wall were outlined in sunlight, however, as she continued to squint, there was no sign of any bull demon. Two towers, similar to the one she stood on at the moment, were placed at the ends of the wall. 

Her eyes went back down to the Hollows. There was a path that led around the home, however, that path led directly to the Hollows, and they seemed to all be expecting her arrival from that direction. It didn’t take an expert to realise that there were too many for her to take head-on, and the fact that they all had shields, something she didn’t have, was not a good sign. She had to shield her eyes from the sun, as she squinted harder, planning an alternate route. Perhaps the house would lead her in the same direction, yet would allow her to sneak around the unsuspecting enemies. 

Atiri let a smile tug at her lips, proud of her newly conceived plan. She would’ve taken the time to pat herself on the shoulder had she not been so utterly exhausted. She had not once thought about resting, growing quite cocky now and trying to ignore the weariness in her thighs and shoulders. 

With her mind made up, already feeling an odd sensation of bloodthirst fill her chest, she made her way back down the tower, bolting over to the entrance of the home. Now with renewed quickness, as there very well could be more archers lurking from above, she shuffled through her satchel at her waist, successfully ruining her former efforts to organise it. Pulling out the bundle of keys, trying to silence the clattering of them all at each movement, she slotted one through the lock of the door. 

Holding her breath, Atiri twisted the handle, and was relieved when she heard the noises of the lock clicking. So the merchant was right! Atiri thought with satisfaction, finally confirming she had made a good purchase. Not long after, the door creaked open as she struggled to push it past all of the moss and vines cluttering the area. Once she confirmed that there were no noises of possible enemies within, she slipped inside the dimmed enclosure, scanning the area for any items or weapons of sorts. 

There was nothing new about the house that she hadn’t already seen. Wooden tables, a few windows coated in cobwebs, a long snuffed out fireplace, and a few forlorn shelves of useless belongings. She crept through the house, pushing aside furniture to make sure she wasn’t missing anything, trying to ignore the way dust blew up into her face every time she moved something. The placement of everything was notably odd, furniture out of place as if trying to defend something. 

Atiri brushed her filthy hands irritably on her linen shirt, only making the colour more and more distant from its original tone. Perhaps she had been wasting her time? 

That’s when she noticed light seep from the other end of the house, directing her sight over to a back door, which was blocked off by a bookshelf. This was… very odd indeed. Atiri moved over to the side of the shelf, using as much arm strength as her body allowed to push it out of the way. She was relieved to find that this opening was in fact a back door, leading to a small grass-filled space. The dust of the house filtered past her as she noticed a chest sitting at the edge of the garden-like structure. It was almost as if the owner of this house had been protecting the chest, or even hiding it. Whatever had happened in this village, there had definitely been victories, even if they were small and only served to help Atiri on her journey. As she lifted the hatch of the chest, she could only try to fill in the blanks for herself. 

More dust bursted out from the inside, making Atiri gag and choke, and she batted the dust from her face. She wiped her cheek, only to find that the so-called dust was… gold? The particles stuck to her skin, shimmering and gleaming under the sun like it was the sun itself. 

Now Atiri had only grown more confused, having expected it to be a weapon or more bombs, as she peered down into the chest. The coffer was filled with the stuff. Sacks of the resin substance laying at the bottom, the gold contents seeping out like liquid. She reached her hand down to cup the concoction, a slight shock bolting up her arm when she made contact. Atiri quickly jerked her hand away, wiping the odd liquid powder substance off and matting her frizzing hair back down. 

The substance confused her completely, however, the effort made to keep it hidden made her believe it was something worth taking with her. There were small, brown sacks already inside the chest, so she simply used them to carefully scoop up as much of the substance as the pouch could hold, tying the opening with rope. Now satisfied, pouch heavy in her grasp, Atiri strapped it alongside her satchel, securing it to her waist. 

She then peeked around from the back ledge of the home. Her speculations were right, thank the gods, because now she was on the other side of the Hollow soldiers, their backs turned to her as they scanned the path around the house. And now, she had a direct path to the stairs leading up and into the spiral towers of the giant wall separating her from the Undead Parish. 

Atiri, as quietly as the soles of her shoes would allow, lept down the ledge. The stairs were right there, and the anticipation of getting away from the hoard of Hollows was suffocating her. However, even through her desperation, Atiri noticed the Hollow waiting up the stairs, next to a barrel laid on its side as if ready to be pushed down. 

The appearance of the Hollow caught her off guard, and for too long, because some of the hoard from earlier had started to patrol back down her way. She panicked, quickly slipping down a couple of stairs that had been, thankfully, right behind her. The stairs had led down under the house, to a sort of dark alleyway, dark enough for her to crouch down onto the steps and none of the soldiers would see her. 

Cachu! How was she gonna get past them? Maybe she could wait for them to walk back over, and somehow take out the top Hollow without any of them noticing. 

In the midst of her fervent thinking, she realised she didn’t think to check the alley before slipping down. Her heart stuttered, as she quickly whipped her head around to check behind her. When she saw nothing, she decided to check further down, stepping one after another down into the darkness of the alleyway. 

Atiri’s last step met the base of the stairs before her eyes caught sight of the silhouette standing before her. It stood, relatively motionless at the end of the alleyway, the darkness keeping her from making out any features. The black figure, haunting and noticeably out of place from everything else she has witnessed thus far, stood over the dead body of a shrivelled up Hollow. It lay limp in a puddle of its own dark blood, which was also plastered on the walls and stone ground making her think the Hollow had been dragged down this way. 

That’s when Atiri realised the signs surrounding her. The narrow path was lined with doors blocked off by planks of rough wood. Gashes and cuts marred the walls and signalled that fighting had occurred.  Scratches that looked to have been caused by fingernails lined the wood like many had been dragged to their deaths. Whatever this thing was, this was no ordinary soldier.

The head of the figure turned to her in the darkness, catching her standing star-struck at the base of the steps. Atiri, still unable to make out what she was going against, seized her dagger and held it in a firm, yet trembling, grip. 

The figure stalked closer to her, its footsteps clashing against the stone floor like it was covered in metal, forcing Atiri back up the staircase a few steps. She breathed heavily, immediately trying to scan the enemy for any weak spots. However, nothing could’ve prepared her for the sight before her, as the figure finally walked into the faint sunlight shining down the stairs. 

It was terrifying, like nothing she had seen before. It was large, easily towering over her, and its body was strong with wide shoulders. The figure was a knight, but its armour was ebony black and jagged like no other. Its helmet concealed its face, with wing-like symbols at each side and a dark slit in a cross for the eyes, making it seem emotionless and the embodiment of calm. Thick blood smeared against its pristine armour, a resemblance of a hand print right at the split of its eye slit. 

Atiri felt all the breath leave her, blood going cold as fear nearly made her drop her dagger. She staggered back, but the knight simply looked down at her, devoid of any emotion. It reached an armoured hand out when Atiri attempted to retreat back up the steps, grabbing her arm with so much harshness she nearly blacked out. She had absolutely no chance of escaping, she soon realised, as she screamed for her life. She attempted to get the death grip off of her, but to no avail, as the knight pulled her back into the darkness. 

It was already so dark, Atiri barely had even seen the glint of its large sword rise above her, before raining down and paralysing her in one fell swoop. The sharp, clean edge of the black sword stabbed through her with little to no effort, like she was a simple piece of food, cutting off any last screams she let out. 

And just like that, she was back in the faint memory of being pierced through the chest, before being dragged off through the sand as life slowly slipped away from her. The black figures loomed over her, staring her down with no emotion as she screamed for help until her lungs went dry. And for the third time, and many to come, she died. 

But just like the first few times, the thumping of her heart and the vision of a black flame slowly returned to greet her once more. 

And just like the first few times, Atiri was returned back to her body. Rising up from the flames that chained her to the mortal world, only to come back to consciousness. Laying in the storage room, next to the calm crackle and pop of the bonfire.

Chapter Text

Deux Cloches du Réveil

The crow was as graceful as Oscar could have imagined. Deep black feathers rustled against the harsh wind as it flew with the force of something divine. Its large wings beat against the sky with loud thumps as it carried the knight in its claws. 

Oscar would have to admit, it was an odd form of transportation, but it was much better than having to find his own way from the Asylum to the Kingdom. He absently wondered if the crow could simply drop him off at the doorstep of the First Bell, but he presumed that some places were territory forbidden to this bird. And besides, it would make this journey a little too easy.

The chill as they flew through clouds made his armour damp and obscured his vision of anything below them, but once they cleared, the land of Lordran it finally revealed itself to him. They flew over villages dotting the land that expanded off for what seemed like forever, rows of large walls that towered and structures reached as far up as the clouds. The sun glared through the clouds in arrays of gold and orange, forcing the knight to squint through his visor to make out the towers and bridges lined with parapets. It was truly as grand as the legends foretold. 

The crow dipped down slightly, seemingly by instinct, as they neared his destination. As they got closer to land, Oscar could spot the Bell of Awakening, up high on the distant Undead Church. His heart jumped at the sight from under his various layers of armour. He knew it existed, or at least forced himself to believe, but seeing it before him made everything so much more real. It was the precise motivation the knight needed. 

The crow tightened its vise-like grip on Oscar’s armoured arms as it flew over another brick wall and over the tops of a giant tree. As they got closer, Oscar could see all of the intricacies in the architecture below him, as well as an aqueduct that laid between one of the walls, when the crow abruptly swerved around. The knight nearly yelped out as the bird dived down at what he could only assume was its destination, just barely avoiding the clustered leaves of the tree. 

Just as the greenery of the thick tree cleared from his vision, he saw a circular-like area sitting on a cliff, outlined with broken arches and stairs. Even from here, the bright orange of the bonfire could be spotted, and that was all Oscar needed to know exactly where the bird had taken him. Firelink Shrine. 

Before the knight could put much thought into it, the bird unclasped its claws from around his person, forcing him to brace himself for contact with the ground below him. His feet hit the grassy ground first and he made sure to hold on tightly to the sword at his hip so as to keep it from ripped from him. His heartbeat began to quiet down in her ears as he pried his eyes open to peer back through his helmet. Oscar glanced up, letting the excess black feathers of the bird flutter past him. He watched the bird fly up to a perch within the Shrine. 

Oscar wanted to be angry at the beast for that haphazard landing, but he couldn’t tell if he was angry at the bird itself, or at the gods. Either way, he found more humour in it than anything as he dusted himself off, quickly checking for his shield strapped to his back. 

Once confirming that he hadn’t actually lost any of his belongings in the fall, he turned around to the centre of the Shrine, hoping to rest for a moment at the bonfire. He halted mid turn, noticing someone else had already made themselves comfortable at the fire. A man in standard chainmail armour was seated against the stairs facing the fire. Perhaps an ex-knight, or soldier of some kind? Oscar speculated to himself. The man seemed to have sensed the knight’s staring, because he looked over to him, dark brows furrowed questioningly. 

Oscar, grateful that his own face was hidden from sight, slowly made his way over to the bonfire and set his things down. He had originally planned to sit, but now he only felt weary knowing the Shrine was already inhabited. He hadn’t a clue if this man meant him harm, and even if he did, Oscar was much more equipped for a fight than the disgruntled warrior was. However the knight was taught to assume everyone was hostile, for his own safety. 

After having looked around for any other possible Undead who had made the Shrine their resting place, Oscar made his way closer to the man, though not close enough to warrant any kind of unsafety. The man regarded Oscar’s armour with a tense stare, eyeing the gold encrusted designs of his royal blue tabard, acknowledging the knight’s nobility. The knight tried to ignore the unwelcomed feeling of shame that filled his gut.

Before the seated man could say anything about it however, Oscar spoke up, his voice levelled. “Hello. Do you by any chance know where the FireKeeper of this Shrine is located?” 

The man before him blinked, a faint look of surprise on his face. He stared up at Oscar for a moment, narrowing his eyes. “How did you know we had one?” He asked suddenly, voice breathy. 

Oscar didn’t exactly feel like explaining himself too much with a stranger, however he understood the confusion. And if the motive behind the question was to protect the firekeeper, then he could respect that. It would be rather impolite to interrogate anyone he had come across without giving a reason, after all. 

“I heard of this Shrine before becoming Undead.” He paused for a second, thinking about his next words. “I simply assumed most bonfires had a FireKeeper, no?”

Surprisingly, though not exactly reassuringly, the man gave a grim chuckle before replying, “You’d be surprised. There are barely any left at all.” 

The thought both surprised and saddened Oscar, but the man didn’t give him any time to ponder it before speaking again, curt and simple. “She’s down the stairs right there. Just don’t expect to have any small talk with her.” 

That was all Oscar needed to hear before promptly making his way down the winding flight of decrepit stairs. The man didn’t seem to care much about his distant attitude, which was good, however he was definitely sceptical of Oscar. It didn’t matter though, for he was not going to stay here for long. 

Once the knight made it to the bottom of the staircase, down into the lower open area of the Shrine, his eyes almost immediately rested on the hole in the cliff’s side, blocked off from the world by metal bars. A prison cell, Oscar quickly realised. He softly sighed, strong chest deflating in sympathy as he carefully stepped closer. The crunch of grass beneath his sabatons surely alerted the woman, however he tried his best to not startle her. 

Oscar gingerly crouched down so he wouldn’t tower over her, as well as be able to peer into the dark hollow of the cell. He was met with the downcast eyes of the woman, who was slumped against the dirt walls of her encasement. Her maiden’s dress was raggedy and bloody, as well as the pale hands that rested against it. Her hair was matted with dirt, yet he could see that under it all the strands were a gorgeous gold that could only belong to Astoran natives. She seemed absolutely defeated, drained of all hope and life as she sat helplessly, waiting out her life.

Oscar felt horrible, examining her through an enclosure like she was a rabid animal. Firekeepers were by far the most disrespected class of any sort of role to exist. The women were treated horribly by the church, like they were nothing more than the curse they tried to relieve people of. Oscar had always been taught in his family that chivalry had no bounds, especially when it came to women. It was a code of honour that Oscar stood by, even after he turned Undead. 

By mere decision, Oscar lifted his fingers slowly to unclasp the helmet from his head. The motion made the Firekeeper still ever so slightly, most likely believing he intended to hurt her. He lifted it from his head, revealing his face to her as an attempt to show his respect, as well as calm her. The woman seemed surprised, even if it was only shown by the tightening of her mouth, as she lifted her vacant gaze to the knight’s bare face. She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with her head reclined against the wall, and that was alright. She didn’t need to say anything. 

“My name is Oscar. I am a knight of Astora. I’ve come to relieve the lands of the Undead Curse once and for all,” he calmly explained to the woman, his helmet no longer obscuring his voice. 

The Firekeeper simply continued to stare at him through the bars, scanning his face with her discoloured blue eyes. She slowly nodded, signalling to him that she understood, however there was no hope in her expression. Only doubt. She must have heard this a lot, as many had attempted this journey, only to meet an untimely demise. He supposed that she would only believe him once she was free from her shackles. 

Hesitantly, so as to not put the woman on high alert again, he reached for the pouch attached to his belt, as well as his Estus flask that hung at his hip. He pulled the rough forest glass of his flask, its golden liquid significantly drained from his battle with the Asylum Demon. The Firekeeper seemed to understand, because she weakly lifted her hand out to take the flask. 

Oscar then reached into his pouch, flipping the leather flap open so he could carefully pull out a flickering, white soul. It was different from the average soul, though it wasn’t a lord’s soul either. It had little strands of light spiral and curl out from the soul’s centre like little vines, making it resemble a sort of flower. A Firekeeper’s soul. 

Oscar glanced up at her, thick blonde brows furrowing. “I found this detached from its owner. I don’t know what happened to her, but I didn’t want to leave it stranded,” he admitted sadly. 

The woman examined the soul solemnly, which was only to be expected when you looked down upon the excess of one of your sister’s very being. However this definitely was not the first time she had seen a stray Firekeeper’s soul, as unfortunately they were harvested quite frequently by mad men, knowing that their souls held a great amount of power and value. Just another inconvenience for the poor women trying to do their job.

She moved herself closer to the entrance, reaching from around the bars to take the flickering thing carefully, cupping it in her marred palm. Oscar watched in awe as the woman crushed the soul in her fist, noticing the way her hand shook with effort, as the light made an audibly shattering noise in her grasp. She held the crushed soul in her closed palm, before taking and gently lifting Oscar’s flask, the leftover liquid sloshing around. He continued to watch as she examined it, before carefully setting it beside her. Then, the woman held her fist over her cupped hand, unclenching her thin fingers and letting the now gold light pour out. 

The Firekeeper carefully moulded the quickly solidifying gold liquid so it made the same shape as his flask. She worked with the experience and precision that only a woman who had dedicated her entire life to this exact craft would have. Once she patted it down, carefully pinching the top so it would form the mouth of the bottle, she held the new Estus flask in her hands. 

The Firekeeper reached through her enclosure to hand Oscar his now two flasks, which he took into his gloved hands with great gratitude. 

“You have my thanks,” he said, eyes crinkling up as he smiled warmly into the darkness. 

She didn’t smile back, dirty face only expressing the same misery and defeat she had before, merely nodding once again before resting her head back against the dirt walls of her prison. Oscar understood, or at least tried to, as he put both flasks against his belt before rising from his crouched position. He adorned his helmet once again, strapping it securely to his face so that all of his features were now hidden from the world. He quietly made his way back up the staircase, only the gentle jingle of his armour signalling his venture back up the Shrine. 

Unsurprisingly, the man hadn’t moved, still sitting on his rump with a sombre expression on his face. He abruptly glanced up, peering from around the flames of the bonfire when Oscar decided to sit across from him. Oscar quietly deflated, muscles relaxing at the much needed rest, even if it was just for a moment. The orange of the fire reflected off their metallic protection, as the two men sat in an odd tense sort of silence. 

“You Astorans usually flirt with every woman?” The man asked suddenly, the facelines of his smirk enhanced by the fire’s light. 

Oscar stayed perfectly unfazed by the comment, used to people throwing useless jokes and insults at his Astoran heritage. “Not flirting. It’s respectful. And yes, we treat our women with courtesy,” he responded from under his helmet. 

That seemed to get the man to let out a faint chuckle, shaking his head before falling back into silence as he only continued to stare down into the fire. This man, bizarre as he was, quipped Oscar’s curiosity. May as well humour him as long as he was here.

“Do you have a name, Warrior?” 

The man paused, dark eyes shooting back up to look at the emotionless barrier of the knight’s helmet. Oscar knew immediately then, from that hesitant reaction, that he had no name at all. People, especially those who were Undead and travelled great distances, harboured their names like it was the last thing they could remember about themselves. And for most Undead, it was. 

The man thought for a second, though it was hard to tell, as he was not very expressive with his face. Even though he very clearly had no answer to his question, he was too stubborn to say as much. Finally, he spoke up. “Just call me Crestfallen. Once heard someone call me that some time ago.” 

The name was sad, though supposedly not wrong. Crestfallen tried to say this name whilst coming across as nonchalant, however the faint quiver in his sigh suggested otherwise. 

“Well,” Oscar began after a particularly loud pop from the fire brought him back to the moment, “A pleasure to meet you, Crestfallen. I am Oscar, a knight of Astora.” 

Crestfallen rolled his eyes at the formal greeting and title, and even Oscar cringed slightly at his habit. They continued to sit there like that, Crestfallen now leaning back against the stone, running a gloved hand through his dark tousled hair. Oscar wanted to do the same, but was far too on edge to slip his helmet back off around the man. The day had slowly turned to night, Oscar realised, as the darkening sky lit up with a canvas of stars. It was fascinating how easy it was to lose track of time. How quickly days passed on like nothing but an endless cycle once you became Undead. The passing of days, afterall, no longer meant things such as how close you were to your end. Not when you didn’t have one. 

The knight was reminded of something as he looked back down at the bonfire.  Casually, as to not alarm Crestfallen, he grabbed at his belt for his Estus flask. He pretended not to notice the man looking back at him from around the fire, as he held his flask firmly in his gauntlet, its golden contents nearly run dry from his battle with the Asylum Demon. 

Oscar uncorked the bottle with experienced fingers, lifting the mouthpiece to the bonfire’s restless flames. He watched through the slits of his helmet as the fire slowly curled towards the flask, aided by his guiding hand. One would believe that the fire of a bonfire would scorn an Undead– and usually most fires would. Not these, though. Not the fires derived from the First Flame itself. Undead could do as they please with its flames, and it would never harm them. 

The flames were pulled into the flask by an unknown force, sinking to the bottom and turning to liquid gold right before their eyes. Oscar waited for the flask to fill completely, watching the flames turn to the same luminescent liquid he had consumed earlier. Once he had decided the amount would suffice him until the next bonfire, he promptly pulled the bottle away from the fire, its flames trying to follow the flask back to him before straightening. He then securely plugged the cork back in, the now full flask weighing reassuringly in his grasp. 

“Are you travelling somewhere?” 

Oscar glanced back up, slipping the flask back into his belt. Crestfallen’s solemn eyes pierced him from around the fire, his features only darkened by nightfall, as the fire’s glow danced across his chainmail suite. 

“Yes, I am. I am going to ring the Bell of Awakening.” He simply responded, though only grew more doubtful of himself as he watched the man’s lips curl into a mocking sort of smile. 

“Sorry– the ‘Bell of Awakening’? Do you mean the first or second one?” Crestfallen chuckled, his smile only growing more amused, dark eyes crinkling up into crescents as the knight before him visibly stiffened. “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t know there were two of them?” 

Oscar tightened the hand that rested on his thigh at the mocking tone of the man, yet managed to disperse the anger that tried bubbling up from his chest. Instead, he decided on questioning him further. Either the man was trying to foil his plans, or he was right and Oscar was to bite back his pride and admit the prophecy had been untruthful. Had his family not known? Perhaps because he had only ever known the first part of the prophecy, the existence of a second bell had never resurfaced?

Either way, Oscar pressed on, ignoring his growing shame. “I had only ever known of one. The one described in the Astoran prophecy, up in The Undead Parish. Please, tell me about this second one.” 

Crestfallen gave an exhausted sigh, as though he had the same experience of explaining this to a multitude of people before him. Oscar patiently watched as the man rubbed his temples, before beginning to describe the lengthened version of the prophecy. However, the way he explained it gave off the impression that he himself has attempted this adventure before. Interesting , Oscar thought.

“The Second Bell is down below this very Shrine. Down in a place called “Blighttown”. Are you familiar with it?” 

Oscar thought on it for a second, yet he had only ever heard stories of the famed locations in Lordran. Blighttown had never been one of them, so he shook his head. 

“It's a fucking nightmare of a cesspool. If you ever plan on heading down there, I suggest giving up while you still have a chance and heading back to where you came from.” The knight had almost been startled by the man’s sudden vulgarity, his voice laced with his own regrets and frustrations. 

“It seems like you have ventured down there yourself before. Does this mean you’ve wrung the First Bell before as well? Yet you have failed with the second?” Oscar, staying unfazed by Crestfallen’s attempts at deterring him, asked. 

Crestfallen’s gaze hardened once again, seemingly caught off guard, dark eyes scanning Oscar’s helmet. Oscar returned the gaze sternly, though not threateningly, as he quickly realised his blue eyes were now visible through his helmet thanks to the enhanced glow of the bonfire. Through only his eyes, the man seemed to slowly be filled with grief, as he glanced down at his hands. Oscar realised that his question had been interpreted as an accusation, or even a backhanded insult, and quickly tried to redeem himself. 

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to open any wounds. I only ask because I plan on going there myself. That is all.”

Crestfallen looked back up from across the bonfire, his demeanour visibly changed from the comment. “Fuck your bloody apology. Go off and ring the bells for all I care. There’s another Undead already halfway to the First Bell, if they aren't already Hollow, but you seem much more capable than either of us .” 

Oscar felt a pang of guilt return to him. Clearly he had misstepped into forbidden territory, and was no longer welcomed here– if he was at all to begin with. It was clear that his assumptions were right, however. This man was definitely not lying about a second bell, as whatever he experienced down there must’ve been the reason for his current predicament. Oscar knew the lands of Lordran were harsh and unforgiving since the collapse of the Age of Fire, but was it truly this bad? 

And, about his second comment, had another Undead arrived here before him? If what he was saying was true, then most probably she had not made it far. Either way, Oscar knew he needed to get on with his journey. Perhaps he would run into this Undead along the way? 

The knight said nothing else as he gathered his things, standing back up. He paid no attention to the man before him as he quickly assessed his position. It was dark, which meant he would have the advantage of sneaking up on his enemies from the Shrine to the Burg. He could’ve stayed here at the Shrine and waited out the night, but he no longer felt he had the right to. 

Oscar gripped his imposing sword with determination, before turning his helmet to look at the Crestfallen once more. ‘Wherever you have failed, I will succeed. Do not worry.’ He was tempted to say, but quickly bit his tongue after realising how poor that sounded. 

Crestfallen stared at him, his former anger being snuffed out to reveal something much darker, as he gazed at the knight’s imposing body. His form, silhouetted by the flames of the fire, glistened like some divine hero. Something in Crestfallen’s gut visibly twisted painfully at the sight– the sight of his fancy weapons and the gold that encrusted the blues of his outfit. 

“I have trained all my life for this. I will ring both bells and do whatever else it takes to free everyone of this curse. And maybe then you will be freed of your guilt,” was all he announced, before walking away from the bonfire, and disappearing into the night. 

Chapter Text

A Tale of Old

The shaking wouldn’t stop. The darkness crawling into her vision wouldn’t cease. All Atiri could do was lie on the stone floor, in the same place she had ended up over and over again, replaying her last moments with the knight over and over again.

What was happening to her? Had she given up so soon? Dark thoughts clouded her mind like a room of snuffed-out candles. 

Was this what it was like to Hollow? To give up? To lose what humanity and hope you had left? How long would it take for her skin to begin to corrode, her hair to fall out and have her eyes turn to nothing but holes in her skull? The more she thought about it, however, the more she realised the true pain was none of that, but rather the emotional process one goes through…the realisation that maybe all that hope was for naught. 

“The hell are you doing on the floor?” 

Atiri’s eyes shot open, revealing the Hollow merchant standing above her, looking down through blackened eyes and a slack jaw. His old, tattered merchant rags hung loosely around his head. 

Atiri blinked repeatedly, once again desperately attempting to shake the dimness of her vision. 

“I– I– I can’t m– move…” she croaked, limbs still shaking with a horrible anxiety that continued to tighten her chest. 

The Hollow continued to stare at her, then clasped his hands together as he peered around the storage room. His attention returned to her, and whatever hope she had gained from seeing his decaying face disintegrated as she helplessly watched him unsheath his long sword. 

He silently held it over Atiri and she knew what he planned to do. The shaking came back with such force she barely realised tears were trickling down her paling face. 

The Hollow stood over her for what felt like ages, contemplating his next actions as he held the sword above her hollowing heart.

He sighed, exasperated, and let the sword slide back into its sheath. Relief washed over her, if only to attempt to extinguish the other feelings rushing through her mind.

“You owe me souls for this, y’know.” He grumbled.

His slim fingers searched in a pack attached to him, pulling out the familiar flame. Black and white in all its unusual essence. A humanity! 

He knelt down and pressed it into her chest, just below her currently pronounced collar bone, then backed away as the light consumed her frail body. She could’ve very well cried of relief right then and there, as she simultaneously felt the spreading darkness be sucked back into the pit of her Dark Sign. Atiri felt her skin and body piece back together, the muscles under her flesh returning to her control, just like the first time it had back within the Shrine. 

Atiri sat propped up on her elbows, relishing in her ability to breathe freely once again, even if those breaths were filled with the ash and decay of the Burg. She looked over to the merchant, who had seated himself cross legged at the other side of the room. 

“What happened to ‘I’m gonna slay a bull demon’ , hm? Seems like you gave up pretty quickly.” He mocked her with his high pitched voice, not even bothering to look up at her as he brushed his sleeve delicately over his sword. 

Atiri simply felt overwhelmed, watching him with intense gold eyes. “I… I was killed by… the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen.” 

The Hollow looked up. “The bull demon?” 

She shook her head, though stopped immediately when it made her dizzy beyond belief. “No, no. It was a black soldier. A giant man with no face and a large sword. I didn’t see him– I– he hid in the same place I had I didn’t know–“ 

“A Black Knight.” 

Atiri paused, glancing at him. “What?”

He sighed, continuing to use his frail fingers to gingerly care for his sword. “They are called Black Knights. They’re soldiers of Lord Gwyn himself. Helped him fight in all his wars, even when he was no longer in Lordran.” He looked back up at her, tilting his head. “I didn’t know they were here. Though I suppose that makes sense there would be some leftover to continue to harass us Undead.” 

Atiri frowned, pulling herself up to a seated position, absently holding her hands out to feel the warmth of the fire flow through her skin. It was good to feel again. She paused, suddenly jerking her hands to pat herself down for all her supplies. She pulled out a sack of the gold powder she had acquired, weighing it in her hand to confirm she still had the same amount as she did before. Still all there, she reassured herself.

“I wanted to ask you, what is this stuff?” She questioned, opening the bag so the gold powder could be seen and holding it out to the merchant.

He looked up from what he was doing, carefully laying his sword down. “You’re gonna need to bring that closer to me, my decrepit body doesn’t feel like getting up.” 

Atiri sighed, forcing her weak body up so she could kneel closer to him and plop the bag in front of him. He examined it, holding the bag up and dipping his fingers in to feel the stuff. He startled himself when the substance gave his fingers a light shock, jolting back. Atiri noticed the way his flimsy clothes stood up with the static. It made her smile despite herself. 

“This is gold pine resin. Now where the bloody hell did you find this?” 

Atiri gave a look of surprise. “Just in the back of a locked house, just down there.” She pointed backwards, gesturing around the opening of the room they were in despite it being little help at all.

“Why? What is it?” she probed.

“Well I just told you what it is. The real question is… no wait, never mind.” He disregarded that trail of thought, seemingly figuring out the answer for himself. “I’m shocked there’s still some left after all this time.” 

Atiri grew somewhat frustrated, however none of it was directed towards the merchant. “What?” she asked, then sighed, opting to ‘ask the real questions’. “What is this place? I mean, what happened here?” 

The Hollow merchant looked from the powder, directly at her. Though she had no way of knowing what emotions were going through him at that moment, she could tell he was… surprised by the question. 

“I… guess a non-native like you wouldn’t know that stuff, would you now? Well…” He seemed genuinely pleased with her curiosity, but quickly remembered himself. “That’ll be thirty souls first.”

Atiri tried not to groan, instead reaching into her nearly empty souls pouch to fork over what little she had left. He did save my life, she reasoned. 

Once satisfied, the Hollow began explaining. “This Burg was in the crossfire of a large war. The war between humans.” He lifted one slim palm. “And the gods.” He rose up the other. 

Atiri’s eyes grew wide. Wouldn’t that be a completely useless war? How in the world could humans ever be able to rise up against the gods? Those were the first questions that popped up in her still hazy head, though she opted to stay quiet, motioning for the merchant to continue. And continue the merchant did.

“But first, I will need to go back in time some so you get the full picture, yeah?” Atiri nodded at him. She should hope so! Otherwise she’d be paying souls for nothing. The Hollow cleared his dry throat, making a show of adjusting himself in his seated position. 

“Many, many years ago, though I'm not certain exactly how long, there was no time, no concept of life or death, and most importantly, no light. I believe this age was called the Age of Ancients– or was it the Age of Dragons? Oh whatever. It was an age before fire, an age that ended when the first ever fire formed in the pits of the world. The First Flame.” The merchant dragged out the last sentence, giving the essence of mystery and significance. And it worked, for the girl was leaning forward in anticipation, completely forgetting the fact that she had died moments before. 

“The First Flame,” he began again, “was of origins unknown, however it attracted the interest of four beings down in its kiln. These beings came from the dark, and took parts of the First Flame which turned them into great humanoid beings with powerful soul’s of Lords. These beings were: Gravelord Nito, the first ever to die. The Witch of Izalith, mother of life and pyromancy. Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight– whom I assume you are already familiar with– and…” The merchant paused mid-sentence, voice trailing off. He pondered for what only felt like a few seconds before shrugging nonchalantly. “Some other bloke I can’t remember the name of. But there were definitely four of them! I remember that at least– I think.” 

Atiri would’ve become antsy about the gaping holes in the story, but couldn't blame the man for not remembering. He was doing much better than her at remembering things, after all. 

“Anyway, they all banded together to kill the dragons of the land. They even gained the assistance of a dragon traitor, Seath the Scales– or was it the Scaleless? Anyway– who informed Gwyn that the dragon’s weakness was lightning. However, they obviously didn't kill all of them, as we have both seen, but they killed all of the ancient and powerful ones. After all of that, Gwyn and his children founded the capital of Lordran: the mighty city of Anor Londo. And thus, the Age of Whatever was no more, and the Age of Fire dawned upon all the land. Now, we had things like time, sunlight, plant life and whatnot.” 

“So… where did we come from if we are not Lords? Did the Lords create us after?” she asked, but closed her mouth when she noticed the visible pause in the Hollow. 

“Uhm… in truth? I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with the fourth guy, but we never got Lord souls or anything like that. In fact, the Lords treated us like shit . But holy suck-ups will surely tell you otherwise.” It seems as though some questions she would simply have to answer herself.

“But yes. The gods had us humans under a strict rule, or so I've heard. Especially Gwyn, though I’m not sure as to why. Regardless, the humans, specifically humans who showed some affiliation with the Undead Curse, were treated like the vermin of the world by Gwyn and his knights. So much so, that they began to revolt, starting this Man against Deity war. Of course, being the city of Lords, Lordran was hit the hardest. And to quelch all the uprisings, Gwyn sent out his famed Black Knights all over the lands. Word got out that Gwyn had taken drastic measures to punish the humans and their rebellion in its earliest stages, and fear of being caught forced many of them to either go into hiding, or to side with powerful enemies of Gwyn.”

“Either way, this Burg is a product of that war,” he divulged, then lifted the bag of gold pine resin. “And this material was one of the small ways humans were able to even pose a threat. It is lightning in powder form, used to cover weapons in it to slay Gwyn’s demon soldiers. Using the god’s very own weapon against them, so to speak. The house you looked through must have been that of a former revolutionist, thus the need for such extreme measures to keep it hidden. Suppose that didn’t stop you though.” The merchant ended with a wheezy chuckle, swiftly tying the sack back up. 

Atiri graciously took the sack, now with the knowledge about its past importance. “So, is that why there was a Black Knight down in that cove?” 

The Hollow nodded. “Yes. Like many of the soldiers here, these Black Knights are in a cycle of insanity, so they are stuck to their posts and assignments for eternity, even if Gwyn is no longer here to reinforce it. Bit sad when you think about it, so I’ve simply resorted to not caring at all.”  

Atiri frowned, pausing at one of the statements. “Gwyn isn’t here?” 

The merchant seemed to be perplexed by the girl’s lack of understanding, but nonetheless indulged in answering her. “No, he isn’t here. He left his city behind when he went to try and rekindle the First Flame when the Age of Fire began to end. He was never seen again, and no one has any idea what happened to him.” The merchant seemed to pipe up once he noticed Atiri still crouching before him, using his boney hand to shoo her off. “Now bugger off. Go kill that bull demon and make my life easier. But don’t expect me to spare any more humanities if you die again.” 

Atiri lifted herself up from the ground promptly, knees aching from her crouched position. Once again, she gathered her things together for what felt like the hundredth time, patting the medallion that still hung loosely around her neck and tucking it back into her flimsy shirt. 

As she made her way towards the stone arch exit, she turned back to the Hollow merchant, who made no move to follow her. Atiri managed a smile. A genuine one, this time. “ Diolch yn fawr iawn .” 

The Hollow cocked his head to the side. “Is that your odd Eastern way of saying ‘Thank you’?” Though he no longer seemed to be mocking her. A genuine comment spoken to aid her. 

“Yes. Sorry… Thank you .” She nodded, before turning away and walking back out into the sun’s luminescence. 

Chapter Text

Taurus Demon

The wind continued to brush past her, like she was a stick withstanding the harsh currents of a river. Atiri weaved her way through the ruins of the Burg efficiently, having gone through the same path enough times it showed like a map in her mind. Now, she had grown used to the ash that floated its way into her lungs, stifling coughs that might alert any nearby assailants. 

Soon, she found herself back at the same split path. The open door of the little house, and the road that curled around the back were now in view. One path had at least five soldiers. The other, a Black Knight. Both lead to the staircase that would take her into the watchtower. However now, she knew about the soldier and its barrel trap, as well as the Black Knight. And she was prepared. 

Atiri rummaged through her little pouch, pulling out one of the ordinary firebombs she had bought. She crouched down, eyes narrowing towards the path filled with awaiting soldiers, silently listening for their clumsy footsteps. 

Atiri held the bomb firmly, then pulled her arm back above her head. With a small grunt, she threw it down the path, not even waiting to hear the explosion before darting off the other direction and back into the small house. The bomb exploded, shaking what was left of the home’s furniture as Atiri skitted through and out the back opening. 

When she was met again with open air, noises of Hollows screeching and groaning filled her ears. Clumsy clanks and missguided footsteps belonging to the remaining Hollows reared around the house, perfectly out of the girl’s way. 

Atiri jumped down from the little ledge once again, landing like a cat. She whirled around to make sure the Black Knight had not trudged up the stairs and out of the alleyway. When no sign of the knight presented itself, her gaze shifted back up the narrow set of stone stairs. Like she remembered, the entrance was guarded by one final Hollow at the very top, a barrel set on its side in front of it and a torch ready to light it aflame. 

The Hollow’s attention snapped down towards Atiri, realising that the girl had already begun to quickly make her way up the steps. The Hollow didn’t dare hesitate, like all of its sorry life had all led up to this moment. The torch in its hand was brought to the barrel, and not a second later, its old wood was set on fire in a loud burst. 

Atiri readied herself as she watched it tumble down the steps, barreling towards her. In the split second before it could collide with her, she launched herself into the air with as much force as the muscles in her legs would allow. The barrel rolled right under her, its fires just barely grazing the fabric of her pants. 

As soon as her feet were planted against the stone once more, she bolted up with a renewed force, up the stairs as if the Black Knight was just behind her. The Hollow had no time to react, no time to process a second approach, before Atiri was shoving past it, pushing its brittle body over the ledge of the stairs. 

Its scream was cut off as it hit the ground, but the girl couldn’t care less as she reared into the opening of the watchtower. Like all the other buildings, it was dark and filled with dust, the only light source coming from dimly lit torches that flickered persistently. 

Atiri paused to gauge where she was to go next. Right ahead of her were the first steps to a long, winding staircase that spiralled up the pitch black tower. She knew just from the outside that getting to the top would lead her up and over the wall, giving her access to the civilization that resided within its protection. And in due time: the first Bell of Awakening. However, she would have to get past the bull demon if she wanted in. 

The ear-grating sounds of groaning and clattering armour from down where she had come from startled her out of her thoughts, wasting not a second longer before continuing her sprint up the spiralling stairs. 

Her heart thumped loudly in her ears, as by the thirtieth step she began to feel winded by her efforts. A couple of times, she had tripped against a dent in the old stone, nearly making her tumble all the way back down. But she swallowed whatever embarrassment that nagged at her, reassuring herself that none of the warrior, cleric, no either merchants were there to see her, as she continued up and up each level of the tower. 

Finally, long after the noises of the agitated Hollow soldiers had died down behind her, and just before she had very nearly passed out from exhaustion, Atiri arrived at the top level, the staircase ending so abruptly she nearly tripped on herself once more. She bent down, grasping her knees and chest, heaving as she attempted to gather herself. Purple strands of dirty hair fell into her sight, signalling to her that she needed to re-tie her hair. 

Once Atiri gathered, she stood tall, lifting her expecting gaze. Surprisingly, she was met with what seemed to be a fog barrier. The wisps of fog churned endlessly, obscuring the doorway and any visual aids beyond it. Atiri cautiously glanced around, confirming to herself that this was in fact the very top of the tower. No more stairs, no other doors or possible exits– this must be her destination. Was the demon waiting beyond the fog? These lands had already proven to be filled with oddities and quirks, so she wouldn't be too surprised. Or at least that was what she told herself, pulling out her small dagger and holding it close as she inched towards the mysterious barrier.

The tendrils of fog seemed to gravitate towards the girl’s person, slowly merging its filmy contents into her. She was surprised when she was able to get through the fog with minimal effort, pushing through until she felt the warm sun and gusting open air hit her face again. 

Atiri unclenched her eyes and let go of her bated breath, looking back at the barrier she was now on the other side of. Almost as if its very purpose was to seal one’s fate. That they either came out victorious, or did not come out at all. She suppressed the shudder of anxiety that spiked up her bones, looking back ahead of her. 

She now stood at the wall’s alure, the altitude making the wind around her cooler and harsher. Battlements lined the old stone exterior, with a twin watchtower standing by at the very end of the alure. It seemed that the watchtower opposite of her was her way out and over to the other side of the Burg’s wall. This must be the place the merchant had talked about when he said there was a demon guarding its path. Atiri stood her ground, silently, awaiting for any signs of the beast’s looming presence. However, the walkway before her was– oddly enough– vacant of any threats. 

Atiri narrowed her eyes through the blinding hot rays of the sun, slowly and carefully making her way down the decaying walkway. Her attention snapped behind her in an instant when she heard the all too familiar noise of a bow being pulled taut, quickly leaping out of the arrow’s path. It just barely missed her head, whipping past like a dart. 

The girl scowled up at her aggressors through the blaring sun. The heads of two Hollow archers poked up above the parapets that resided at the top of the watchtower she had come out of. They were the same, slow minded Hollows she had kept running into, but they could’ve very well sniped her in the back had they gotten the chance. 

Atiri darted back to the fogged off entrance she had gone through, finding a ladder that scaled the watchtower walls. She grasped the ladder’s rustic bars, its contents crumbling into her hands and giving her skin a green colour. She shook it slightly, listening to it rattle, just to test that it would not in fact collapse under her weight. Once satisfied, she used her slim limbs to clamber up the bars. As she neared the top, taking note of the time it took her to make it all the way up, she glanced skyward. Only then did she realise that she was face to face with one of the Hollow archers, who was looking down at her with its empty eye sockets from its perch. 

The Hollow began pulling its bow taut once again, arrow nocked and loaded, before Atiri had much time to react. She gripped the top bar of the ladder with one hand, as she swung out of the arrow's path. She hissed in pain as the arrowhead skimmed the knuckle of her fist still hanging on to the ladder, blood gushing out from between the fingers. Atiri had to quickly swap out hands to grasp the ladder and keep her from falling to the ground.

“ Cachiad! ” Atiri groaned in frustration, before using her wounded hand to grab one of the Hollow’s brittle ankles and force it to go flying off the side of the alure. 

She did not hesitate a moment longer before pushing herself up to the top of the tower. The second archer didn’t have much time to ready its bow, before it too was sent flying off the side with a loud shriek. Now, she stood at the top of the watchtower by herself. Using her blouse to wipe off the blood of her knuckles, she inched her way towards the parapets of the circular tower. 

The tower overlooked the long strip of the alure, all the way over to the second tower. Just as she assumed, there was a fog wall on the opposite side of the alure.  She supposed this was her exit and her way down to the other side of the wall. Atiri scanned her surroundings for any other signs of danger, as well as what she assumed was meant to be her battle field. Though hauntingly enough, the edges of the alure were far too close to each other to allow her, much less a full-sized demon, to fight.  

Perhaps the Hollows had been placed here on purpose, Atiri thought slowly. To kill her while she was distracted by… whatever threat resided ahead. 

Her heart started beating faster as she tried to identify anything up ahead. Yes, it was definitely waiting for her on the other side. Maybe it was waiting for her to get closer to the would-be exit, to catch her off guard. Simply standing here waiting for something to happen won't do her any good, that is for certain. So, after sucking in her breath like it was her last and adjusting all her items to a secure position, she climbed back down the ladder. 

From there, Atiri made her way down the alure strip, bracing herself for what she was about to encounter. Nothing had appeared yet, so she walked closer and closer to the other watchtower where her exit resided. Then, all of the sudden, the sun no longer shone down on her, a large shadow casting itself from its perch. She would have thought that it was the watchtower’s shadow looming above her, except– No . 

Atiri’s gaze slowly lifted from the path, up and up, until she was met with two, piercing yellow eyes, all the way up from the top of the second watchtower. Before the girl had much time to do anything other than quickly back away, the large beast dropped down with a thud that rattled the entire structure they were standing on. 

Much to Atiri’s horror, it was big. Its body was hairy and beast-like, its form hulking forward. Its legs, much like any digitigrade species, were hook-shaped and bent back. Its arms, however, were human-like and packed with an inhuman amount of muscle to carry what looked to be a giant, bone carved axe that spanned across the width of the alure. The weapon, though blunt and lacking any actual edge, was coated in a layer of dark, decaying blood. Most definitely adept at crushing bones with a simple swing. Its head, as the merchant’s name for it suggested, was a bull– or more ram– skull with thick curved horns on either side of its head. The beast’s face was in a permanent snarl, its teeth bared and plastered with blood. 

It was a terrifying thing to look upon, as nothing could have prepared Atiri for it. It seemed as though this was a very drastic leap from the flimsy Hollows she had been killing before. 

Atiri’s skin ran cold, her brain freezing momentarily to desperately process her next move. Before she could strike any kind of hit on the demon, like she had planned before, it began to stomp towards her at an alarmingly fast pace, each time causing the ground below her to shake. So, with her mind made up, Atiri bolted back down the alure, trying to get any form of distance between her and the large beast. 

Her brain, though scattered, managed to quickly formulate a plan, as she hurried back down the alure. The small ladder, she thought. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder, only to be met with the demon now bolting after her, its footsteps making the ground rumble. Though her heart leapt up into her throat, making her lose any breath she had been panting, she concluded that the ladder was far too small and brittle to hold the beast and she could hardly imagine it attempting to climb the ladder with its bent legs. 

Once making it to the base of the ladder, Atiri’s ears were filled with nothing but the quick approaching thumps of the demon, the sound becoming deafeningly loud. She quickly grappled the rusty bars, hauling herself up and off of the ground as quickly as humanly possible, the ladder rattling about with her efforts. Up and up each step she managed, and louder and louder the footsteps became. She didn’t dare turn around again, for she was now acutely aware that it had caught up to her. She heard it emit a guttural grunt, before a large beastly hand attempted to grab her ankle. She yelped, yanking her feet up to the last level, the claws of the demon only just grazing her flesh. 

Just in time, Atiri had reached the top of the ladder, propelling herself up to the watchtower with strength she hadn’t realised she possessed. Sweat beaded down her face, the gusting wind of her high altitude only serving to make her skin sting. Her body shook with shock and her heart had yet to realise she just barely escaped, blood trickling down her ankle and staining the old stone ground. Luckily for her, the beast had not followed her up the ladder, however, the sounds of the beast’s stomping had paused. All she could hear was the tell-tale breathing, heavy and wet, that signalled to her that the beast was waiting below. She had nowhere to go, and the demon was well aware of that. 

Atiri quickly tried to calm herself down and think. She looked down at her dagger, its gold, although dulled and coated in blood, still managed to show. She couldn’t kill the beast with this little thing, could she? No, no she didn’t think she could. However, something clicked in her brain, as she quickly began searching through her satchel. The alure, she began, was too small for both of them, the beast taking up all the space. Sweat fell from the strands of her purple hair and into her line of sight, but it didn’t matter. She pulled out her fire bombs, weighing them in her hands, before looking back at the ledge of the watchtower, where the demon waited. She sucked in a breath, as large as her lungs would allow, hoping to Lord Gwyn himself that this would end with her coming out victorious. 

The bull demon, looking up at the watchtower, waited for its prey to come tumbling down, either that or simply waste away up there. However the rustling of the Undead had ceased, and it was dead quiet. The beast blew out of its snout, clenching its large jaw as it gripped its fierce weapon. Had the thing expected the girl to suddenly leap out from the ledge with a battle cry, dagger held down so that when she fell to the alure, the dagger would be embedded into its skull? Probably not. 

The beast roared up towards the sky in agony, making every one of Atiri’s bones rattle as she slammed onto the ground. The fall most certainly fractured a few ribs in her bird chest, however, there was little time to dwell on it, before she rolled under the beast, sprinting back down the opposite way of the strip with a newfound certainty. 

Shaking off the shock, the demon whipped around towards Atiri’s sprinting form, and stomped down after her. She used the sound of the beast's footsteps to gauge the distance between the two, and when the time seemed right, she too, whipped around to face the demon head on. Dagger now absent, she gripped a firebomb in each fist, veins pulsing with vigour and eyes blown wide, as she braced herself to either have her limbs torn from her, or see that her plan worked. The demon snarled down at her, as she watched it rip the tiny dagger out from between its eyes and discard it onto the stone floor, dark, thick blood spraying at her and nearly causing her to lose her composure completely.

The beast grunted, as it lifted its weapon over its head, ready to crash it down onto her, only to be caught off guard again when a bomb was thrown directly at its face, bursting into flames that scalded its flesh and with such a force the beast was thrown back, stumbling on unsteady feet. Atiri didn’t hesitate a moment longer, as she darted back under the space between the demon’s hairy legs so that she was now back behind it, and threw her second bomb at its back. The second one blew up like the last, the force causing the demon to lose its footing entirely, as it stumbled closer and closer to the ledge of the alure. 

Finally, and with not a moment to waste, Atiri ran up to the beast, and pushed its toppling frame with all her might, the muscles in her arms might have burst. With one final roar that nearly broke her hearing, the weight of the beast broke through the parapets, leaving nothing to stop it from falling off the side of the strip. Its roar got quieter and quieter, as it fell through the clouds and out of sight, before the noise abruptly stopped with a loud, distant thump that echoed from below. 

Atiri was knocked to her back against hard stone with the force of her push, laying stiff and panting on the ground. She quickly scrambled up to her knees and to the ledge where the parapets gave way, looking down to the distant ground that lay below her, and the hulking dead body of the demon she had just slayed. 

She let out a long sigh, gripping her ribs and stumbling back slightly as the pain and exhaustion began to settle in. She glanced around, slowly walking over to her dagger and picking it up off of the floor. Scrunching her nose in disgust, she wiped what she could off of the dagger onto her poor blouse, the dark, almost inky black blood of the beast not coming off easily. 

Atirir looked up when she heard an odd whispering noise, catching the sight of the fog wall that had been blocking her exit, slowly disintegrating into the air until there was nothing left, leaving the way out wide and open. It was as if the fog had decided her worthy. 

She let out a shaky, yet utterly relieved breath, wiping sticky sweat from her brow. It was then, like some kind of gentle prize, that the sun peeked out from under the clouds, its warm and ever comforting rays washing the girl’s beatended body, and setting her dagger aglow. 

Atiri gazed up towards the sun, letting the wind now freely brush past her, cooling her sweat. For the first time since she had awoken, she let a single, tired tear run down her cheek, as she held her dagger close to her chest and thought,

Maybe she had a chance at succeeding, afterall…

Chapter Text

Gyda Breichiau Agored

Domhnall was conflicted with separate feelings. He was relieved and grateful for the Hollows' unexpected hospitality, yet still wary and distrustful of them. He scolded himself for being stubborn, though, as he should be grateful he found anything at all in this desert. Especially a place that welcomed his Undead self. All that mattered now was Atiri. If they were willing to give Domhnall and the baby food and shelter, that was more than he could’ve asked for. 

“Thank you, Norma. I am Domhnall. I was not expecting such hospitality from… well-” 

Norma chuckled, shaking her head and letting long gold earrings sway with her movements. “It was never our fault the curse hit us as hard as it did. Shunned from society, we were all stuffed and left behind in this village. Left to fester on our own.” Domhnall scanned the crowd again, now feeling quite shameful for his initial reaction towards them. “But then we found Lady Valda, or rather she found us. She is human. If anyone can help your baby, it would be her.” 

Domhnall perked up at the term “Human”. Norma noticed this and pointed past him. He turned around to see where she was directing him. “She resides at the top of that hill, inside the watchtower. She may come across as harsh at first, but she is a gentle soul, through and through.” 

The merchant nodded to Norma, then to the other Hollows, before turning to go in the direction of the watchtower. “Thank you, again. I will make my way up there.” 

“One moment Domhnall.” He looked back towards the elder. “Could we see her? The baby? It has been so long since we’ve seen one.” 

At first, it seemed like an odd request. But when he thought about it, if these people have been isolated here for that long with eternal life, it was completely understandable. For many, seeing children and babies brought joy. It meant to be able to truly grasp and understand life. So Domhnall nodded, even if it was reluctantly, and unwrapped Atiri from his back with care. Careful as to not wake her, he held her up to the group as they all huddled closer to her in awe. 

“She’s so healthy!”

“What a tiny thing.”

“Her hair is so purple!”

“I remember when my daughter looked like that…”

Norma looked at the baby, sadness growing in her narrow eyes, yet her small mouth was upturned. “Please, if you decide to stay here, we’d all be happy if she could visit us every once in a while.” 

Domhnall didn’t know what emotions were going through him at the moment, as he quietly brought Atiri back against his chest. He hoped that his eyes did not give much away, bringing his litham higher up his nose, nodding silently down at Norma. 

Shaking the sadness from her, the elder Hollow motioned Domhnall over to her with a bony hand. “Come with me, I can bathe her back in my cottage and check for any infections before you make your way to Lady Valda. It is the least I can do for her.” 

Domhnall stared at her, eyes narrowing with unconscious pangs of distrust, then scanning around at the cluster of Hollows still huddled around them. Norma seemed to understand, for she turned around to quickly, but not unkindly, usher the villagers away. The merchant felt guilty, hearing how the old woman had to reassure them all that the baby was in good hands, and would be kept safe. 

Finally, once the Hollows had dispersed back into the dark alcoves of their homes, Norma gestured for the merchant to follow her. Together, they walked a short distance down the crumbled, desert path. Domhnall trailed, what he deemed, a safe distance from the Hollow, Atiri cradled in one arm so he had a free hand at the ready if he ever needed to grab his dagger. Norma didn’t seem to notice, and if she did, simply didn’t mind. Perhaps she was wise enough to understand his distrust, though Domhnall never thought “wise” and “Hollow” would be used to describe the same person. 

They arrived at the sorrowful excuse of a house, one that more resembled a hut than it did anything else, as the elder Hollow calmly brushed past the tattered clothes and dulled beads that hung above the entrance. Domhnall hesitated, standing stiffly just outside the house, almost certain that now was the time the Hollow would try to pull something. It wasn’t until he heard the soft sounds of rustling around and water being poured that he ducked down and into the hut. 

It was small, sandstone walls encasing the room with but a few square holes in them to let moonlight in. The merchant was pleasantly surprised to find plants and other forms of greenery cluttering every corner of the home. Small ferns, baby palm trees, a few junipers hanging in pots from above, and even a plant he recognised as a saltbush. 

“Bring the girl here, dear, so I can scrub her.” 

Domhnall’s attention snapped back to Norma, who had promptly prepared a small vase of fresh river water. He didn’t seem to know what to do, looking down at the now slowly awakening Atiri. As distrustful as he was, a small voice in his head chided himself for being so reluctant to receive the only help he had been offered in a while. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,’ as the saying goes. 

Reluctantly, he handed her over to the old Hollow, who graciously took her with care. Norma unwrapped the baby from her bundle, then sat her in the water of the vase. Domhnall silently watched as she cooed at the little thing, while searching for open wounds or signs of disease, getting the baby used to the cool water. Then, Norma scrubbed the baby with a tattered cloth, while using a jug to run the dirt off of the baby’s soft skin. Water was poured over the Atiri’s head, making her giggle and slap her chubby arms against the water, delighted in the refreshing coolness after hours in the scorching sand. To Domhnall’s surprise– and most probably Norma’s as well– the baby seemed unafraid by the deformed face of the old Hollow. What would an innocent little thing like her care? She was undeterred and unshackled by the horrors of their lands. 

Domhnall was stiff by the entrance the entire time, subconsciously keeping his back against the sandstone walls and Norma within his sight, hand resting atop the hilt of his weapon like a lifeline. He felt quite unhelpful, and a little embarrassed of himself, but what else could he do?

“So, this child of yours. You plan to foster her?” 

Norma’s question startled him out of his inner thoughts, cold eyes glaring pointedly at the Hollow from over the bridge of his dusty glasses. She didn’t look up at him, simply continued on with the task of scrubbing the baby, and didn’t seem at all bothered when Domhnall didn’t answer her right away. Surprisingly, the question stumped the merchant. He had planned on taking care of her, hadn’t he? That is why he wanted to keep her alive at the cost of his own, yes? Domhnall realised that, until now, he hadn’t really had a moment to think about it. Without the rush of adrenaline keeping him on his toes and the constant aching of his heart. Now, though surrounded by Hollows, he felt quite at ease, being in the presence of a wise woman and her plants. 

Why did he care for Atiri? 

Of course, she was a baby. A sweet little thing that needed to be protected. Domhnall, though cold and two-faced as he seemed, had always had a soft spot for children. It served as a reminder that not all of humanity was horrible, and that every living thing started out as a youngster as innocent as a desert flower. But to take up the role of her guardian? As a newly made Undead? What was he thinking? Surely he can’t be so easily manipulated by the thing’s charm. 

There was, of course, his late family. But he didn’t dare think about them now, the sweet faces of his mother and sisters who had already started to blur into obscurity. From that alone, he knew the curse had already taken its effect, as soon as it sunk its deathly teeth into his flesh, marring his body permanently. And that was the scariest part. What was to become of him now? He had already begun to lose the memories of his childhood… were the memories of his killers next? When he had found Atiri, his descent into darkness seemed to be halted, or at least slowed. Domhnall had always coped with his misfortune by using things to distract himself, taking his mind away from his sorrows and keeping it occupied. It wasn’t healthy, but it worked. It was how Domhnall had been able to keep going after his loved ones had passed, fixing his energy on his trinkets and oddities. 

But now, even those were lost. Or at least the majority of them were. He still had his helmet and his dagger, but that was it. And without his hobbies keeping him sane, he was certainly doomed to Hollow. Atiri distracted him, long enough that he very nearly forgot the unfortunate predicament he was in. She was like a guiding light in a time of uncertain darkness. Perhaps, Domhnall thought, he could spend his next years distracting himself by raising the girl. Perhaps he could turn his undeath into something productive. And perhaps, he could rebuild what he had once lost.

“Yes. Yes I do plan to foster her.” And as if his old habits started to return to him, he began to devise a plan. “I will stay in this village, perhaps live in a spare home you may have that is unoccupied, and I will see to it that she grows up happy and healthy.” 

By that time, Norma had begun to lift Atiri out of the vase and dry her off. The old Hollow looked up at him, but her expression was unreadable, obscured by wrinkles and hollowed skin. 

She nodded, satisfied with the merchant’s answer. “I’ll see to it that the other residents know of your intentions, then. They will all be thrilled to know that the child is staying. We have not seen one in a very, very long time.” 

Domhnall watched as Atiri tried to stuff the rage into her mouth, chubby hands grasping out at the Hollow. “If any of you intend to hurt her…” 

“We will do no such thing.” Norma replied, this time with a stern tone that almost reminded Domhnall of his own mother. “I do not know what the lands of Zena have taught you about our kind, but most Hollows are peaceful, if a tad frightened and lost. I understand your caution for your daughter, but I will not have you demonise my people. They have all been through far too much.” 

Domhnall went silent, shoulders visibly dropping at Norma’s words. More guilt crawled into his gut, knowing well that he truly had no experience with many Hollows, outside of the ones he had killed swiftly back when he delved for treasure. He didn’t see much wrong with being cautious at first, but now he simply felt like a fool. 

The hut returned to silence after that, with only the sounds of his baby, now restless after her long period of slumber. Domhnall pondered over the elder’s words, until he decided to break the silence this time.

“May I ask, how did you die?” 

Norma chuckled, though it was more of a cackle. “My goodness, don’t you know how rude it is to ask someone that? You never ask an Undead how they perished in their past life, it is a one-way ticket to getting a sword pierced through you my boy!” She explained, though her tone was humorous, clearly not too bothered by the comment. The merchant instantly felt embarrassed. 

“Yes… I suppose I would find that question offensive as well,” he said, abashedly looking down at his sandals. Domhnall would make sure to remember the advice. 

Norma, seemingly finished with Atiri, bundled the baby back up in fresh rags she doused in water. Atiri squealed, but didn’t fight her as she was comfortably wrapped back up. 

“In all honesty, I don’t remember.” The elder Hollow said, making her way back over to Domhnall and carefully handing him back his baby. “I like to believe I simply died of old age. Though incredibly burdensome as an Undead, it meant I lived a long life. That is more than most Undead can say for themselves. As you get used to the new life, you will stop caring how you died, as the worst of your memories become but a haze. That is one mercy this curse offers us, at the very least.”

Domhnall was silent, letting Norma’s words sink deep into the pit of his chest. He could’ve stood there, regretting all of his decisions up until now, wishing he had done so much more while he was still alive, but the moving of the little being in his arms, the soft beating of her heart, stopped him from going any further into those thoughts.

“Lady Valda’s watchtower should only be a short walk through the village, and up the hill.” The elder Hollow nodded, gesturing with her boney fingers and giving what Domhnall could only assume was a smile for Hollows. “Simply follow the path and talk to her, she should know where to put you and your baby. Again, don’t be discouraged by her attitude. She means well.” 

Domhnall looked down to where the old Hollow had pointed, barely able to identify the dark silhouette of the watchtower from a distance. “Thank you, Norma. Truly,” he said to her, more solemnly than he intended. “And, it's Atiri. I’ve chosen to name her Atiri.” 

Norma seemed pleased with the name, nodding her head in approval so that the rusting jewellery that hung off her head lightly jingled together. “Well, I hope both you and Atiri will come back down here some time to visit. It would bring us all a lot of needed hope to see her face.”

Domhnall only vaguely nodded, still deciphering whether or not he liked that idea, before turning away from the hut and walking back down from where they came.

The desert air was crisp and chilly, letting the rags Domhnall draped himself in flap elegantly through the wind. Atiri had gone quiet again, likely still sleepy from having her nap interrupted, so the only noises were the nature around him and his own footsteps as they crunched through sand. 

As he walked down the road of the village, he felt all eyes on him. Hollows all in their broken houses and little nooks all peeking their heads out to watch the Zenian merchant and the human child make their way to the watchtower. He felt odd in that moment, trying not to look back at them all. Some had even tried to reach out to them, others silently tilted their head to the side like it was the first time they’d seen anything like it. This was nothing like the stories Domhnall had heard. Nothing like the tales of the Undead humans who’d gone mad. Mad with blind rage and vengeance. But these Hollows didn’t seem anything like that. They seemed frail and scared, like they’d truly been victims of this curse. 

Domhnall tried not to think about it as he trudged up the hill and weaved his way through rocks. It took some time, much to his old legs’ despair, before the watchtower was now right in sight, ominously outlined by the moon. He walked up to the wooden door, using the metal door knocker to alert anyone of his presence. The merchant only got through two knocks before the door swung open, revealing a disgruntled, pale woman. 

“ Kē? I’ve already sent a message out for more shipments, it's far too late to be knocking on my door now– ” The woman abruptly stopped her angry rambling, sharp silver eyes narrowing at Domhnall. “And you are?” 

Domhnall tried to not get discouraged by the woman’s bluntness, recalling what Norma had told him, and tried to adorn his merchant voice once again. 

“I am Domhnall– Domhnall of Zena. I am a newly turned Undead who fled my homeland and I– ” 

“Zena? Good lord I haven’t heard that name since the truce Carim had made.” She interrupted him, the name of her homeland rolling off her tongue with rolling Rs.

Her voice was orotund, and the way she talked was quick and pointed. She had long, silver hair that was knotted into a braid and draped across her shoulder. Her face was ghostly pale, and everything about her features were narrow, from her thin eyebrows to her pursed lips. She was wearing a white cotton blouse that had elegant ruffles at the ends and tight, leather black leggings, as well as an ominous rapier that hung at her sharp hip. She was the walking physical form of the Carim stereotype, and Domhnall was almost immediately exhausted by it. 

“Lass, I bring a human child with me. I was hoping you would allow us to make ourselves at home.” He paused to think. “And also provide some spare food?” he added. 

She paused, looking at him pointedly, most likely not flattered by the fact he had interrupted her. However after she seemed to process what he had said, her silvery eyes immediately darted down towards the baby, still wrapped tightly in her bundle of cloth. 

Domhnall quickly backtracked. “I will work for it, if I must. I am quite skillful at– ” 

He was cut off, as she quickly grabbed the baby out of his arms, rushing inside the opening of the watchtower. Domhnall, sputtering a quick “Excuse me!” went in after her. 

The door gave way to the watchtower, its first floor having been made a common area, with walls of dark cobblestone. Candles were lit and strung about the room, but other than that, the place gave off a cold, professional feeling that Domhnall was quick to notice. There was not much furniture, only a simple table and two chairs, a bookshelf of old scrolls and tombs, and a writing desk with a jar of ink and an elegant quill. There was one, thin opening that seemed to serve as a window, letting moonlight slip in and illuminate a few cobwebs littering the crevices of the room. The merchant wondered how she was able to live in a place like this, then realised that her bed must reside in the uppermost levels of the tower. 

Domhnall’s attention was brought back to the woman, who seemed to have been blabbering on the entire time. “Where in the Gods’ name did you find this one? Is she sickly? Starving? Goodness, has she been checked up–?”

“She’s fine! The elder Hollow– Apologies, Norma– checked and cleaned her.” Domhnall interrupted her finally, feeling the veins in his head pulse with exhaustion and stress.  Lady Valda, who was in the process of setting the baby down on the wood table near the centre of the room, shot him a stern look with her silvery eyes. 

She straightened herself, back poised, as she crossed her arms over her slim chest. She raised a brow, then sighed to herself. “Good to know.” She didn’t seem too satisfied. “Well then, I suppose an introduction is in order.” 

The merchant watched as she slipped her silver braid from off of her bony shoulder, feeling more as if the two were having some sort of staring contest. “I am Tatiana Valda of Carim. I serve as this village’s pardoner, as well as to all those who seek me out.” She worked her jaw. “Though as of late, that has not been often, with how isolated this place is.”

Tatian’s eyes flicked back over to Atiri, who stared back at her with curiosity from her seat on the surface of Tatiana’s table. “You said something about allowing you to make yourselves at home?” 

Domhnall simply nodded, bringing up his hand to rub at his temples. 

“You met Lady Norma, correct? Then I assume you are fully aware of this village’s state. An abandoned Undead village of Hollows, whomst are all hanging by a thread.” Tatiana rested herself back against the edge of the table. 

“Yes, I am aware. However I come here afflicted by the Undead Curse as well, with nothing to take care of a child. I want to stay here, so that I can keep her safe from much worse dangers.” Domhnall paused, peering at the woman from over his scarf warily. “If this village is so abandoned, why is a human like you here?” 

Tatiana’s sharp jaw visibly tensed, body stiffening at the seemingly unexpected question.  Her eyes narrowed directly back at the merchant, scrutinising like that of a hawk.  The pardoner seemed to swiftly recover from her surprise, though, because she opted to instead examine her sharp nails, the various miracle rings decorating her slim fingers glinting in the dim light of the room. 

“I don’t see how that is any of your business, Zenian. I am simply doing my duty as a pious pardoner, and servant of the goddess Velka: Clearing those of their sins.” Her tone was clipped and left no room for further remarks on the matter, but Domhnall didn’t believe her for a second. However, it was bad enough that he had nowhere else to go. And if this woman has as much power over the Hollows here as Norma suggested, then perhaps she is not one to be trifled with. He certainly didn’t want her to turn the entire village against him, so he decided that the best option was to simply let it go. For now, at least.

“Yes, I see,” was all Domhnall said.

Tatiana didn’t seem even the slightest convinced. She irritably drummed the tip of her black boot against the floor, deep in thought now. 

“How about this,” She pipped up suddenly, “You are a merchant, yes? Practically all of your kind are. Meaning you know a good trade when you see one.” 

Domhnall glowered at the condescending accusation of his people, but she was right. He did in fact know a fine trade when he was offered one. “Go on,” he encouraged, eyeing her suspiciously. 

Tatiana smirked, smacking her lips together. “If you keep your nose out of my business, I will supply you and your baby with whatever is needed.” 

The merchant arched a brow. “This ‘Business’ you speak of won’t harm me or my daughter?”

“Absolutely not. That is sinful.”

Domhnall turned his chin up, still glaring at her from above his glasses. That was a fine trade. “Fine. Your business is as good as my business, then.” 

The pardoner seemed to be satisfied with that, nodding silently, before turning her back to the merchant and examining the baby, who had slumped over in a deep slumber within the time the two had spent arguing.

“There is a small house just near this watchtower. No one has lived in it for years, so it is most likely in shambles, however, it is the furthest from the village centre, serving as a good place for privacy.” 

Domhnall felt a wave of relief wash over him, that Tatiana didn’t seem to have any qualms with him staying in the village. And the fact that this house was not going to be amidst the throng of Hollows was quite considerable, for a Carimian. 

“Thank you, lass. Truly.” 

With that, Tatiana handed Domhnall the slumbering Atiri. Carefully cradling her against his chest, he made his way out of the watchtower, back outside to the chilly desert air.

Chapter Text

Grossly Incandescent

Atiri unsteadily limped down stone stairs, clutching her ribs. Thankfully, there seemed to be far fewer stairs here than the first watchtower she had scaled. She continued down each step, trying to keep herself from tripping on the missing bits and pieces of stone that had crumbled with time. Boxes and crates, just like the Burg, littered every corner. The girl nearly stubbed her toe on one when she turned a corner. The stairwell was oddly humid, only enhanced by the flickering torches scarcely propped along the walls. It all made the sweat on her brow condense into little beads that trickled down her olive face, catching in her mauve eyelashes. 

That bull demon was horrid, and Atiri had a sinking feeling that it was far from over. If what that warrior had said was true, then what she had experienced so far paled in comparison to what lay ahead. She was especially dreading this “Blighttown” place, assumed location of the Second Bell of Awakening. If that lone warrior couldn’t do it, and so many before, then what chance did she have? 

No , Atiri decided, now is not the time for second guesses . Someone had to do this and she didn’t think she would ever be able to live peacefully knowing it wasn’t her. Whatever happened, no matter the deaths she was to endure, she must persevere. Either that, or she was to face the same fate as the sulking warrior. She inwardly cringed at the mere idea that they were alike. 

Eventually, as Atiri made it to the last few steps– or lack thereof– she felt the warm sun’s light rest upon her skin once again. The exit to the stairwell was now visible. With a hand firmly placed against the hard wall, attempting to steady herself, she made her way to the arch opening. 

The wind, now more steady because of the lower altitude, served as a pleasant force that helped dry off the sweat and tears from her face as she exited the stairwell. She walked out into the open and realised quickly, twirling herself around to get her bearings, that she was at a split path of sorts. 

Across from her: A simple, plank door studded with dark iron. The walls it was embedded within were mossy with a kind of sewer green, so much so that one could barely make out where the door began and where it ended. There was a rotting lock that hung heavily at the knob, implying that what lay within was more undaunted territory. 

To her left: The main path continued from under the wall arch where she was standing. It led out to a large stone bridge that had protruding sides enclosing it. Atiri was quick to notice dark chalky burn marks that smeared certain parts of the bridge's path, and she was immediately put on high alert. Her eyes followed the trail as it continued down the path until she spotted the large entrance opposite to where she stood. Unfortunately, it was heavily guarded by more Hollow soldiers. Some wielding spears and shields that glinted in the sun, others carrying bows knocked and loaded with arrows. 

And finally, to her right: A view of the noon sky, cluttered with grey clouds. A set of stone stairs lead down to what Atiri could only assume was a… balcony?  

She was immediately drawn to the last option, moving away from the arch she came to peer over the stairs. They led down to a second layer balcony, the steps splitting off and around to the larger level. And through the chorus of nature, she was able to make out the faint sound of something– or rather someone– humming. The tune was strangely muted, like it was being passed through something metallic and hollow. Atiri, curiosity quipped, inched down the steps, legs sore from the amount of stairs she had been forced to scale thus far. Each step felt like hell against her bloody ankle, yet the soft gusts of wind and the comforting presence of the sun peeking out of the clouds made it all a little easier to bear.

As Atiri reached the second set of stairs, that mysterious someone was finally revealed to her. There he stood, at the end of the balcony; a large knight with a broad stance, back turned towards her. Immediately the vibrant red of the feather fluttering from atop his steel helm caught Atiri’s attention, sticking out like a flower’s bloom in an arid desert amidst the continuous gloom of Lordran. He had a well-toned frame, draped in a muted white tabard and secured with a dark leather belt, in which his sheathed sword hung at his hip. His muscular arms and legs were protected in a layer of tight-fitted chainmail, its contents glittering under the sunlight in a similar way the warrior’s had. Though his armour covered every inch of the man’s body, his hands– peculiarly enough– were left bare, showing healthy ( very human ) tanned skin, which had steel cuffs adorning each wrist. 

Though Atiri had been under the initial impression that everyone had either wanted to kill her or wanted nothing to do with her, this man seemed very different. The knight seemed otherwise oblivious of the girl’s presence, still humming pleasantly to himself, the sound bouncing off the insides of his helm creating an odd sound. Still, Atiri approached steadily, slowly unsheathing her small dagger and assessing what it would take to kill the man if need be. Or, if push came to shove, she could always send him off the side of the balcony, similarly to the bull demon. 

The knight ceased his humming suddenly, helmet turning around just enough to reveal two black openings within the surface of steel, allowing him to catch a glimpse of Atiri. She froze, body going rigid in her slightly crouched position, accepting that she had been caught, ready to pounce. However, the knight’s posture didn’t give any signs that he was at all threatened, which may have hurt the girl’s dwindling pride had she not been relieved to meet another soul who didn’t want to dispatch her. 

“Ah! Hello there!” The man greeted, voice warm and surprisingly silky, echoing from under his great helm. “You don’t look Hollow, far from it!” 

Atiri’s eyes widened in surprise, thin eyebrows disappearing behind her unruly hair. At least she had managed to retain her humanity after everything, she supposed. She seemed to be at a loss for words, however, as she simply stared up into the slits of his helm, only managing to make out the faint glint of crystal blue eyes, umbrellaed by gold lashes. 

The knight seemed to sense the other’s hesitation, eyes crinkling up slightly into what must be a friendly smile and taking the opportunity to introduce himself. “I am Solaire of Astora, an adherent of the Lord of Sunlight.” He explained, strong hands motioning to himself grandly. 

Atiri blinked slowly, processing all the extensive, foreign words that had just been thrown at her– or rather gracefully offered to her? Eventually she managed to find her voice, distracted by the opposing emotions duelling inside of her. 

Maybe it had been the fresh sensation of shock from having just slayed her first eight foot demon, or the blood that was steadily seeping from out of her body. Either way, her muddled brain had configured the response: “Solaire… that's a very pretty name.” 

Atiri startled when Solaire had laughed heartily, which vibrated off from inside his helm and made his chest rumble, seemingly delighted by this exchange. It made the girl smile, even if it was a weary one. 

“It is, isn’t it? It is French for solar.” He put a strong hand over his heart, looking back up towards the blaring sun. 

“French? Then does everyone from Astora speak it?” Atiri asked, curious to find out more about these strange, foreign lands. 

Solaire didn’t turn from the sun, tilting his helm considerably. “Yes! Indeed we do! It is our native tongue, and many of us are named accordingly. Look no further than the strong willed men and women of Astora to find some peculiarly magical names.”

Atiri greatly admired how fondly the knight spoke of his people and land, but couldn’t help the envy that gripped her at the notion. 

He turned towards her, sunlight bouncing off the metal of his armour. “What about you? Have you any homeland– or name to go by, at the very least?” 

Atiri perked up, clearing her throat and ignoring the spittle of blood she managed to hack up. “I am called Atiri. Though I cannot recall where from, unfortunately,” the girl began, rejoicing at the feeling of her own name against her tongue. “I am embarking on the Undead journey to ring the Bells of Awakening, so that I may find my memories and free our people.” 

Embarrassingly, she had recounted that explanation over and over again in her head, if anyone were to ever approach her about it. However now, she said it with pride blooming within her chest, a renewed and unwavering certainty she hadn’t had before. 

Now, Solaire turned around fully to face her, the sun behind him outlining his person and causing him to glow like some sort of deity. 

“Ah! So you have embarked on a journey as well then? Excellent! Then the way I see it, our fates appear to be intertwined. In a land brimming with Hollows, could that really be mere chance?” 

Atiri cocked her head and frowned confusingly, whilst putting more weight on her unscathed leg so she wouldn’t tumble right over. 

“So what do you say? Why not help one another on this lonely journey?” He asked, lifting up an opened, calloused hand. Atiri blankly stared down at his open palm, confused by the unfamiliar gesture. 

Solaire chuckled warmly, not at all discouraged by her lack of knowledge. “This is a handshake; we use it to decide on matters. All you do is clasp your hand with mine.”

Atiri brightened at the explanation, enthusiastically clasping her tan, clammy hand with his stronger one. The knight shook their joined hands firmly. 

“This pleases me greatly!” He exclaimed, then gingerly opened up her smaller palm so he could place something within it. Atiri, for what felt like the twentieth time today, grew addled, carefully examining the ivory white piece of sharpened stone he had given her. It looked like some kind of opaque crystal shard, with a thin piece of tanned ribbon wrapped around its base. Atiri whipped her finger against it, noticing the way its contents rubbed off on her like white chalk. 

“We are amidst strange beings, in a strange land. The flow of time itself is convoluted; with heroes centuries old phasing in and out. The very fabric wavers, and relations shift and obscure. There's no telling how much longer your world and mine will remain in contact.” Solaire explained, gesturing grandly with his hands and voice passionate like a storyteller’s. 

Atiri hadn’t the faintest clue as to what he meant, but supposed it had to do with the dwindling of the Age of Fire. It would make sense that more than just civilizations were beginning to fall apart with its nearing end. 

“But, use this to summon one another as spirits, cross the gaps between the worlds, and engage in jolly co-operation!” The tone in which Solaire had presented that term only made Atiri more excited. She was finally not only going to be aided in battle, but by a strong, capable knight. 

“Yes, thank you Syr Solaire! I could certainly use the help.” Atiri weakly laughed, feeling blood continue to seep out of her. “What journey are you on?” Atiri asked.

“Well! Now that I’m Undead, I have come to this great land, the birthplace of Lord Gwyn, to seek my very own sun!”

Atiri paused. “You… want a son?”

Solaire chuckled, hands bashfully coming to rest at his chest, before shaking his helm, so that the bright red feather swayed. “Goodness no! I mean a sun!” He pointed skyward, to the large glowing orb of light that continued to shine from up above. “Like this one!”

Atiri now stared at the knight like he had grown a third eye, mentally scanning him to decipher whether or not he was jesting. His… own sun? Was there some kind of weird Astoran custom she was unaware of?

Solaire seemed unable to maintain eye contact, looking back up to the sky. Even though his helm concealed all of his expressions, it was still fairly obvious that he was embarrassed, now tucking his hands into his leather belt. 

“Do you find that strange? Well… you should!” Solaire exclaimed. Atiri felt bad suddenly, quickly fixing her face in a more neutral expression– or at least trying to. The knight simply shook his head. “No need to hide your reaction. I get that look all the time! Hah hah hah! ” 

“No no, that is a perfectly reasonable thing to seek! I…” She contemplated carefully on what her next words would be. “I suppose everyone is seeking their own sun, in a way.”

Solaire seemed to perk up at that. “That is a lovely way of putting it! Well I’m relieved I didn’t scare you.”

Atiri and Solaire continued to share a comfortable moment of solidarity, which was the very kind of break the girl needed after having killed her first demon. However, it was the anticipation of the many demons to come that kept her on her toes and from fully relaxing in the moment. At the very least she won’t be facing them alone.

“How will I find you, Solaire?” Atiri asked.

“Simple! When using the soapstone, you write on a flat surface. That is how I will use mine to be called upon to aid you. Spot my summon signature by its brilliant aura. If you miss it, you must be blind! Hah hah hah! ” 

Atiri’s lips quirked up into a smile, like his warm laughter was simply contagious. The knight seemed finished, going back to gazing at the very thing he was striving to acquire for himself. 

The girl frowned. “Are you not going my way?” 

Solaire didn’t turn to look at her. “Ah! Yes, I am. However I will stay behind to gaze at the sun, for just a moment. Please, feel free to continue on without me.” 

Atiri nodded, absently wondering how the man hadn’t gone blind from continuously gazing directly at the sun. Although, if this land’s King of Gods was also the God of the Sun, it didn’t seem too far-fetched that his followers would be infatuated with it, almost as if it was his very presence looming over them all. 

Atiri, trying her best to understand, made her way back up the grand stone steps. She was already dreading the Hollows she was gonna have to force her way through to make it to the next bonfire. Then she will finally be able to heal these nasty wounds. 

The bridge was large, the largest she’s seen thus far, but she could make out the bonfire which was enough to send a wave of relief through her. 

Steadily, Atiri unsheathed her trusty dagger, its gold glinting beneath the sun. She held it firmly within her clenched fist, creeping her way up to the various soldiers. They were positioned in rows, with archers at the very back, closest to the bonfire. She will probably have to dodge those while taking out the others, for there didn’t seem to be any other way. 

Atiri had gold eyes set on the first Hollow, when the horrifically familiar sound of beating wings reached her ears… from up in the sky. 

The girl barely had a chance to look up, however, as the dragon was already above her. It was the same red dragon she ran into in the Burg. The dragon flew along the bridge, setting everything ablaze with scorching fire. The Hollow soldiers guarding the bridge screamed out in agony, their withered skin burning away like paper. The dragon did not stop there though, as it beat its large wings faster, spewing its breath down towards Atiri. 

She was light on her feet, quickly darting back to the start of the bridge. 

“Solaire!” She called out, before the loss of blood truly began to settle in, causing her to trip against a misplaced stone and slamming flat against the floor. 

The dragon landed, the ground rumbling below like thunder. Atiri felt dizzy, struggling desperately to get up onto two feet, horror filling her mind when she heard the beast take a deep breath into its maw, charging up a deathly flame.

It was then that the fabled knight darted between her and the dragon, holding out his shield and bracing to protect her from the fire. Atiri watched with wide eyes from behind Solaire’s broad shoulders, whilst the fire that bounced off of his shield licked her skin. 

“Atiri! Stay behind me!” Solaire yelled loudly from over the green fur that adorned the armour of his schoulders. All she could do was crouch closely behind the knight’s large frame, feeling the sting of the beast’s thick breath upon her skin. 

Once the dragon’s fire had run vacant, Solaire lowered his shield. 

“ Allez! Run to the bonfire!” He called quickly.

Atiri paused, frowning. She needs to help him, not run! But before the girl could make any complaints, the glisten of the knight’s straight sword made an appearance, swinging up and slicing the dragon’s snout. 

“You are in no condition to fight, Atiri! Get to the bonfire now!” Solaire called again once he realised the girl wasn’t completely leaving him.

She felt bad for leaving the knight to deal with the dragon all by his lonesome, but nevertheless took the chance to dart under one of the dragon’s large flailing wings, allowing her to sprint past it and to the end of the bridge that now stood unguarded, thanks to the beast. 

Atiri struggled to keep herself sharp, hanging onto her aching ribs and running as fast as her injured body would let her. The large opened gate that laid at the end of the bridge gave way to the room the bonfire was nestled in, and with each stride she grew closer. 

She heard loud grunts from behind, prompting her to whip her head around and make sure Solaire was handling the beast alright. However this was a mistake, as the dragon seemed to realise where the girl was heading and, with one fluid stomp that shook the entire bridge, now faced her once again, its snarling red snout staring her down. This time, she was ready when the dragon took a deep breath and let its fire spew out across the bridge, leaping out of the way and behind a stone nook. 

She screamed in anguish, suddenly feeling the sharp pain of her left ankle completely snap at her efforts as blood continued to paint the neatly laid out stone below her. From further down the bridge, the sounds of struggling and clashing metal pursued, prompting Atiri to peek from around the safety of the barrier. The dragon had been preoccupied once again by the knight, who slashed at its scaly flesh from behind his rotund shield. Atiri admired from afar how Solaire’s back muscles, visible through his tight chainmail armour, rippled with each swing, or how his powerful legs supported himself into a squatted ready stance so as to keep himself from being tossed about. She envied his power incredibly, as she fantasised tearing through beast after beast with ease. 

Atiri’s eyes widened when Solaire let out a loud grunt, piercing his sword deep into the dragon’s exposed throat. The beast let out a harrowing cry of pain, thrusting its head about and managing to fling Solaire away, before beating its heavy wings once again so as to make an escape. 

Atiri watched in awe as the dragon lifted off from the bridge and bolted up into the sky, until the deep red of its scales were lost within the cluster of clouds. Before she was able to do anything, Solaire promptly made his way over to where she had hid herself, slipping his weapon back into the scabbard at his belt and strapping his round shield securely against his back so he could help Atiri get to her feet. 

“Quickly! Before the beast decides to return.”

Atiri nodded shakily, hanging onto his shoulder and letting him lift her with powerful muscles. The two of them then quickly made their way across the remaining length of the bridge.

“Very smart! I was worried you had gotten yourself scorched! Hah hah hah! ” He casually joked, using his strength to keep them both upright while supporting the girl’s sagging weight. 

She was far too gone to let out anything more than a breathy wheeze, as she tried to aid him by shuffling forward without putting any pressure on her ankle. Finally, they made it to the end of the bridge, and under the shade of the large open arch. Once within the safety of the space, Atiri was able to deflate her chest of any pent up air, letting herself slump down to the hard, sooty ground. 

The area, like everything else she had witnessed thus far, had a distinct abandoned feel, with clumps of moss inhabiting every small crack of stone. There were crates and barrels cluttering the back wall, but what caught her attention the most was a statue depicting a woman standing in the centre. On closer inspection, however, it was the same statue Atiri had seen in the nave back at Firelink Shrine: her form swathed in holy cloth and gazing upward, a baby bundled up and cradled against her chest. 

It was there, in front of the statue, where the bonfire sat. 

“ O diolch byth... ” Atiri sighed, lowering herself down to the bonfire so that her rump was against the hard floor. She tucked her knees under her chin and rose her shaking hands up to the fire, watching her blood encrusted hands steadily engulfed by the flames. 

Atiri felt a wave of relief slowly pass through her, finally relieved of the searing pain in her ribs and ankle. She scooted closer to the bonfire, as close as she could without messing with the crushed bones that served as its fuel. 

She heard the familiar guffaw of the knight from behind her, as he walked up next to her and set his sword and shield down with metallic thud. Atiri looked over to his weapons, now gleaming with the orange hues of the fire, and noticed the colourful sun that was painted onto his large, round shield. It was the same as the sun he had on his off-white tabard, complete with the smirking face in the centre. 

“May I touch it?” Atiri asked, already reaching out to feel the thick paint of the shield. 

Solaire, who had brought back his hands from also warming them in the fire, was now ambling over to the right side of the room, calling back behind him. “Certainly!”

After tracing the scuff marks against the metal surface, Atiri looked up to see where Solaire was wandering off too. At this point it would be silly to be surprised that the paladin had made his way under one of the open arches that led out to open air to continue gazing up at the sun. Atiri shook her head, and after waiting until her ribs ached no more, she hauled herself up from her seat on the ground to indulge him. 

She walked out to the small area, which had a few steps leading up to a small balcony covered in grass. On the balcony, was another statue. Or at least it used to be, for it was now in complete ruins, with pieces clumped at the base and the only intact part being the statue’s feet, as well as what seemed to be a spear weapon propped up by itself. 

She was about to say something when Solaire brought out a talisman of sorts and bowed his head in prayer. The girl quickly closed her mouth, letting him have his silence as she looked up to the sun. 

“This is where we must part, for now,” he suddenly said, head still bent and bare hands still clasped together. “Opposite from here, there is a gate. The lever should be just next to it.”

Atiri promptly turned from the sky, looking across the bonfire and noticing the large battle gate opposite to where she stood. She looked over to Solaire one last time, and when he said nothing, turned to make her way over to the gate. Just like he said, the lever was just next to it, wooden and covered in dirt. Using her arm strength, she forced the lever down, stepping back when the loud rattling of the gate startled her. She watched as the barrier was slowly lifted, giving way to more stairs. 

Quickly, she secured her things and dusted herself off, making sure the soapstone he had given her was still sitting comfortable within her satchel. 

“Welcome to the Undead Parish, Atiri,” Solaire said, making Atiri beam. 

Chapter Text

Ut Sit Relicta

Vereor Nox…

Darkness clouded Rhea’s vision like an ominous blanket as she repeated the prayer within her mind over and over again. She continued to clutch her ivory talisman so hard that she had to intentionally force her fingers to relax, lest she mar the holy silk with creases. Outside of keeping herself composed and steadily following her companions’ lead, there was little Rhea could do. She peered over the shoulders of Vince to see Petrus, bearing an odd skull lantern, with Nico following closely behind her. She watched as the older cleric held out the lantern in front of them, using the deep orange glow it emitted to illuminate the crumbling bones that laid in their path.

After the group had weaved their way through the Shrine’s cemetery that lay behind the sanctuary and fending off a couple of risen cadavers, they made it to a concealed staircase that led into the side of the Shrine’s cliff, down into a long, dank tunnel. 

The Catacombs were even more horrendous than she could have ever imagined. Bits and parts of decaying skeletons littered the ground, making it nearly impossible to avoid stepping on any. The crunching of heaven knows what echoed through the Catacombs from under the clerics’ soles. 

Rhea carefully stepped over ancient stairs as she followed her companion’s lead, each step seeming to take longer than the last. The eerie presence of death seemed to linger in the air with sickening suffocation, while Petrus continued to lead the group on, further into the maw of the Catacombs. The light of the lantern illuminated the death and decay that had become their path, creating an unsettling atmosphere that made Rhea’s stomach twist and churn unendingly.

The maiden’s heart pounded against her chest as they trudged further down, unable to stop the ominous realisation that they may not ever return. 

Although terrifying in every aspect, their descent into the depths of the Catacombs was a curious marvel, one that contained some aspect of awe. Despite being surrounded by despair, there was something strangely beautiful about it all; something ethereal that could only be found within a forlorn place such as this– as if a whole different part of Lordran had been revealed to them. However, before realisations could come from these thoughts, Petrus suddenly paused, causing Vince to bump into the older cleric, and thus causing Nico to nearly stumble into Rhea. 

“M’sorry, Muhlady…” Nico mumbled down at her, adjusting the helm on his head.

“It is alright, dear Nico, but–” Rhea peeked around Vince, “Why have we stopped?”

Petrus, who raised a large gloved hand to quickly silence Rhea, said nothing as he listened carefully, shining his lantern into the darkness. Suddenly, an ear-piercing screech filled the air. It sounded like a thousand claws scraping against a wall, and scared Rhea so badly that she nearly dropped her talisman that dangled from her wrist. Her heart was pounding in her chest as they tried to find the source of the sound, but it seemed to come from all directions. Vince was ahead of them now, his mace and kite shield drawn and ready for battle. Petrus and Nico were quick to ready their own weapons as well. However, Petrus lacked the free hand to get his shield out, so he instructed Vince to take hold of the lantern in his stead, much to Vince’s visible dismay. Rhea could feel panic clawing at her throat as the sounds continued on, echoing eerily from the darkness. 

Then, out of nowhere, skeletal figures emerged from behind every corner– their swords gleaming in the light of the skull lantern. Adrenaline coursed through Rhea's veins as she fought to stay calm and focus on what needed to be done, readying her talisman in gloved hands. She would keep her companions alive. 

Rhea watched with baited breath as Petrus swung his morning star, dealing strong, lethal blows to each of the skeleton’s skulls, shattering them as if they were glass. The skeletons fell in pieces, one after another, their curved swords clattering to the ground. 

Petrus gritted his teeth as he just barely blocked with his shield a skeleton’s attempt at stabbing him. Nico was quick to the older cleric’s side, slicing through the rest of the skeletons with his axe. Each second passed felt like a lifetime; it seemed like there was no end to these undead warriors coming for them. The rattle of bones clashing against each other echoed throughout the caverns, ringing painfully in her ears until finally everything came to an abrupt halt when Vince, who was still holding out the skull lantern to illuminate their path, grew restless beside Rhea. 

“Petrus! Let me help!” Vince called out, trying to one-hand his mace with the lantern still held up. 

“No!” Was all Petrus yelled, before crushing through yet another skeleton. 

Vince scowled beside Rhea, and the maiden could immediately tell he was about to do something imprudent. 

“Vince! Do as he says. I beg of you!” Rhea cautiously whispered to Vince. 

Vince clutched his mace, jaw clenching in agitation. “He’s our guide, yes! But I am your defender! I don’t see why I should be taking orders from a… a- traditor! ”

Rhea startled, mouth shutting quickly as she stared up at Vince with owlish eyes. “ Vince! It was not his fault-! ”

Both their attentions were snapped back forward when Petrus quickly called over to them. “Quickly! We need to go now, before they rise again!” 

Rise… again?!

Rhea was far too stricken with fear to ask any questions, focusing solely on not tripping on one of the many obstacles obscured by darkness. Petrus promptly took the lantern from Vince’s grasp, who directed an irritated glare towards the older cleric, a glare Petrus was too busy to notice. The crunching of their feet upon bones seemed to trigger a hidden anger within the darkness as the group quickly made their way down the ancient steps. 

Eventually, their path led the group to an abrupt bluff–one that was worryingly narrow and curled around a pit shrouded by pure darkness. Petrus glanced over his broad shoulder to check on Rhea, who took this chance to wordlessy express her concern by shaking her head. 

“Down this path is where the next bonfire is.” Petrus explained quietly, motioning the lantern down the curved path. “I’ll go first, but watch your steps. This fall is lethal.” 

Rhea swallowed so hard her throat began to ach, barely able to stomach a glance over the bluff and down into the abyss. 

Petrus, as he explained, went first, putting his hand against the rocky wall to steady himself as he cautiously– but efficiently– moved forward. Next, Vince went, strapping his shield to his back so he'd have one hand available to keep himself from falling. 

It was Rhea’s turn, yet she couldn’t seem to get her muscles to cooperate, standing as stiff as a statue. Suddenly, she felt a hand be placed on her shoulder. Rhea turned her head to see Nico, staring at her from under the rim of his helm. He wordlessly offered his hand to her, causing the maiden to smile, as she hung her talisman around her wrist and took the offered hand in hers. 

Hand-in-hand, they carefully made their way along the path, Petrus urging them to keep watch for more skeletons that might try to push them off. Rhea’s heart thudded within her chest, as she steadied herself against the decrepit walls like it was a godsend, clenching Nico’s warm gloved hand in hers. Oh how she was ever grateful for her companions. Grateful that she was not, in fact, alone on this perilous journey. 

All her childhood, she couldn’t help but feel lonely– isolated from everybody else. She understood that it was simply her fate in life, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Days spent being cared for by servants who never really bothered to talk to her. Days of wishing her mother and father didn’t seem so far away. Days of missing her real mother– Gods forgive her . 

Rhea couldn’t help but feel incredibly foolish for her weakness. How she wanted nothing more but to run to her parents and be engulfed within their loving embrace. The maiden couldn’t help but continue to dream of the day she and her companions presented the famed Rite of Kindling to the church, and to be warmly accepted back into her house and family. She felt like every second of her days awaiting that moment were spent trying to hold back an ocean of tears. And truthfully, she hated herself for it. How could she ever rid herself of that ocean? 

“ M’lady! Behind you!”

Rhea jolted out of her thoughts, quickly turning to look behind her, only to see Nico had already barricaded her with his shield. Before Rhea could see what Vince had yelled about, however, an explosion was set off, the force of it slamming Nico into her. Rhea was so caught off-guard, that she suddenly began to lose her footing, feeling her heel slip off the bluff’s edge. 

Rhea yelped out, feeling her heart stop dead in her chest as her body began to fall. At the last second, a strong hand reached out to grasp her by the tassels of her cloak, pulling her back against the wall. At first, Rhea had assumed it was Vince, but when she glanced up from under her loose curls, she was met with the tense face of Petrus. 

“Thank you, Petrus. I– I didn’t–” 

“Now is not the time.” The cleric cut her off, putting a hand protectively around her shoulder.

Rhea looked back towards her other companions, who had readied their weapons. She was confused as to what had happened, eyes flicking over to where her two guards were staring. There, floating above the darkness, were horrific creatures beyond her imagination. Decapitated, zombified heads with slack jaws and blackened eyes ominously drifted towards them from the darkness. 

Rhea gasped, horrified. “What– what are those things?”

Petrus didn’t respond, instead shouting at both the boys. “Both of you! Do not engage with them!” 

Both Vince and Nico paused, staring back at the older cleric incredulously. 

“And what? Let them blow M’lady up to bits–?!” Vince began, frowning.

“Their explosions will only knock the both of you off! We need to continue to the bonfire, NOW! ” Petrus seemed to be at his wit’s end, so Rhea quickly chimed in.

“ Please! Vince, Nico, we must continue forward!”

It seemed like she had the final say in the matter, because both of them began to back away from the decapitated heads and back along the bluff towards her. 

Together, they continued their way down the winding stairs, all the way until the bluff stopped. Rhea heaved a relieved sigh, not realising she had been shaking until it suddenly stopped. She had expected the Catacombs to be a cramped, dirty experience, but she had not anticipated having to do any kind of stunts high up with the risk of falling. She quietly prayed to the gods that this would be the one and only time. Rhea couldn’t help but hang on to Petrus for dear life as if she had still been falling.

“Are you alright, M’lady?” 

Rhea turned to look over her shoulder at her two companions, who now resided behind her. 

“Yes, I’m alright Vince. Just a little… spooked.” Rhea said quietly, as if said any louder would cause another band of cadavers to attack them.  

Rhea then looked over to Nico, who had visible burn marks etched across his left cheek, black ash coating that side of his helm. 

“Oh dear, Nico. Are you alright?” Rhea asked with the worry of a mother hen. “Do I need to heal you?” 

Nico, surprised, bashfully looked down towards the floor as they quickly continued on. “Mfine, Muhlady.” Was his mumbled response. 

“I don’t think we have any time at this moment, anyways. You can heal him when we get to the bonfire,” Petrus said, promptly taking care of a stray skeleton with one swift swing of his spiked weapon. 

Rhea nodded, as she was in no position to do anything but go along with her guardian. Though that didn’t stop her from worrying about her companions, as she kept frantically glancing behind her to check up on the two boys as they descended lower and lower into the suffocating labyrinth of the Catacombs. 

The stairs continued on, the moist and mucky walls growing more and more narrow to the point their group had to continue in a single file line. Rhea occupied both hands: one by clinging on to her ivory talisman and the other on Petrus’ arm. Just when she thought the stairs would never end, Petrus led them through and under an old arch opening, one that led them into a much more spacious area. 

Petrus halted in front of a sudden fall, the sound of his heavy footsteps stopping and leaving nothing but an eerie echo. Rhea hung on tighter to the older cleric in order to keep her from slipping on the loose bones that now completely formed the ground on which they walked. Rhea peeked downwards and regretted it, making eye contact with a withered skull, its black holes staring back up at her. 

“What now?” Vince asked, almost exasperated before Nico punched him in his shoulder.

Petrus turned around to look at them, eyebrows raised. “This fall is not steep, we can just slide down to the bottom. However, once we reach the floor, expect there to be more skeletons ready to attack the moment they are risen. I advise that as soon as we get through them, we make our way to a side opening on our left. The opening will lead us down a short hall, and out to another open area. There will be a hole in the stone walls of that area that will lead to our bonfire. I advise that we all keep an eye out for the Necromancer of these skeletons. They carry lanterns and should be easy to spot. Kill them as soon as possible so that the skeletons will no longer be able to rise from the dead.” Petrus paused, eyeing Vince, then down at Rhea. “Do I make myself clear?” 

Rhea didn’t need to look behind her this time to know that Vince was rolling his eyes. Though it was a lot of instructions all at once, Rhea slowly nodded up at Petrus. She knew very well that her eyes would always tell a different story to the older cleric, as his own face softened. 

“ Nolite ergo solliciti esse , M’lady. Just stay beside me, and you will be safe.” Petrus said, reassuringly squeezing her smaller hand. 

Though Rhea smiled, immensely grateful for him, she couldn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of shame. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed in her own weakness. But she was quick to remind herself; It was simply her role in life, to be the gentle flower her kingdom valued her for. Just as her father had taught her.

Rhea took a deep breath in, but only ended up inhaling ash and damp air. She sucked in any choked gasps she wanted to make, instead, carefully following Petrus’ lead as he began to slide down the towering hill of bones. 

Glancing back at her companions, who both gave her nods that they will follow her lead, the maiden lifted her ivory dress and steadily slid down the cluster of bones. 

Once she made it to the bottom, Petrus quickly motioned his skull lantern over to the arch opening of the hallway, flanked by two withered statues. The noises of bones clattering together and rising from their piles evoked more anxiety within Rhea. The thudding footsteps of Vince and Nico joined them, as the two made it to the bottom. Rhea quickly followed Petrus’ lead through the hall, statues eyeing them from every corner. 

Just as Petrus had described, the dark hall eventually led out to another spacious part of the Catacombs, ancient pillars standing tall along their path and aiding to hold up the lands above them. The maiden looked down the path, which continued to what looked like a dead end, blocked off by rocks. Suddenly, two skeletons brandishing swords and shields lurched out from amongst the shadows. Rhea gasped and stumbled backwards in shock, clutching her ivory talisman tightly, before falling back to the distasteful stone floor. 

Her two companions had yet to make it to the room, so it was Petrus who fought off the undead abominations from her, weapon in one hand while raising his skull lantern in another, using it to light up their adversaries’ faces. Shadows casted from the lanterns' orange glow played upon them like an ominous chorus, intensifying the drama of what was taking place before Rhea’s very eyes. The older cleric’s morning star weighed heavy within his gloved grasp, the glint of steel reflecting off his deep blue eyes. He moved in front of the fallen maiden to keep any attacks from reaching her, like the opposing force of a rock.

Rhea watched in both awe and horror as Petrus blocked one of the skeleton’s swinging swords, using his hefty weapon to parry the aggressor’s attacks, then bring it crashing down to them. The morning star collided with the skeleton's exposed rib cage, shattering the bones there with one fell swoop. The second went down just the same, but not before slicing its blade across the cleric’s stomach. 

As both skeletons fell loosely to the hard ground once again, Rhea called out to her guardian. 

“Petrus! Oh dear! Are you alright?” 

“Yes, M’lady.” Petrus grunted, using one hand to hold the chest plating at his stomach as he bent in pain. “Quickly, now, to the bonfire!”

Rhea nodded, hoisting herself up from the ground and onto unsteady legs, before scanning for– just as Petrus had described– a hole within the stone wall. Both her and Petrus squeezed through the opening, with her having an easier time getting through, as she was much smaller than the older cleric. Like a little white mouse. 

Rhea went forth and down the winding slope they were led to, encouraged by the relieving sight of flickering, orange glows that illuminated from within. The light cast shadows of pointed rocks against the walls, as Rhea turned the corner. There, in all its glorious luminescence, rested the bonfire, its flames energetic in their flickers as they formed perfectly around the coiled sword stuck within the ground of the Catacombs. 

Rhea’s relief was short lived, however, as a hooded figure unveiled itself from the shadows of the space. Its robes were tattered and dirty, draping sleeves revealing boney fingers that barely had any skin covering them. Within its frail grip, hung a skull lantern of its own, a replica of Petrus’. The lantern moved slowly, letting the dim glow illuminate the face under the hood. Its face was corroded, strings of grey flesh tightly forming a poor fabrication of a human’s face. Its eyes, from under the hood, glowed a deep, haunting red. 

The maiden screamed in horror, quickly capturing the attention of her companions. 

“That’s the Necromancer! Kill him before he can do anything else!” Petrus called out from behind Rhea, the sounds of both Vince and Nico’s quickening footsteps bounced off the decrepit stone walls. 

With a flick of the bony wrists, the Necromancer began to extract flames from the open mouth of its skull lantern, the unstable content forming into a ball of burning light. All Rhea had time to do was take cover behind Vince, who had lept in front of her, before the Necromancer hurled the ball of flame at them. Petrus dropped his own lantern to the dirty floor, allowing him to use his knight’s shield and protect himself from the flame’s impact. 

The ball of flame exploded before them, it's hot hair licking at Rhea’s exposed skin and making her body grow impossibly hot from under her robes. Once the fire of the impact dissipated, all shields were brought down and the cleric’s surged forward. 

“Vince, Nico, guard the opening and keep the risen skeletons at bay,” Petrus ordered, making his way towards the Necromancer. 

Both boys did as told, turning back around and going to the only way of entry. The sounds of struggling and bones clattering made their way to Rhea’s ears, however she couldn’t seem to look away from what was about to happen in front of her. Gods forgive her, for morbid curiosity took over. 

Fortunately, the Necromancer had nowhere to run, nothing but stone walls, a bonfire, and an armed cleric. The hooded figure attempted to form another fireball, frantic in its actions, but before the fire could even make it to Petrus, the cleric dropped his shield and used that hand to rip the lantern away from the Necromancer. 

Petrus grabbed the Necromancer by its skinny throat, throwing it against the wall. The figure tried to punch Petrus, but the cleric grabbed its wrist, snapping it in twain. The cleric then forced the Necromancer to the dirty ground, using his shoe and placing it against the figures protruding back. He pushed down hard, so much so the Necromancer's eerie screech was cut off, as it gasped for air. 

Rhea, despite herself, felt her eyes welling with tears, stunned perfectly still. She must’ve let out a gasp, because Petrus turned his head from what he was doing, seemingly not realising the little maiden was staring. 

“Avert your gaze, M’lady.” The cleric said.

Rhea snapped out of her frozen trance, quickly turning her back to them and welling her eyes shut. She heard the morning star be raised in the air, only to come down upon the Necromancer. Though, unlike the skeletons, this kill was of flesh and blood. The squelching made the maiden cringe, forcing the bile in her throat to retreat with one trembling gulp. 

Never in her life had Rhea seen her guardian be this… violent . She didn’t think it was possible for him. Or at least she wanted to believe that it wasn’t possible for him. The Petrus she had known was a benevolent soul, who cared for her, cared for her family, and… cared for his own. He had once said to her that he couldn’t fight to save himself, that he was poor with a sword and baulked at the sight of blood. It was a joke at the time, said to make Rhea feel better about herself, but she wholeheartedly believed it as she had truly never seen Petrus fight. Had he been residing in these forlorn lands long enough to change him so? 

Finally, the sounds of the Necromancer’s struggling ceased, and all at once, the sounds of skeletons clattered to the floor, returning to their lifeless forms. Vince’s cheering echoed down to the bonfire’s room, with the rustling of armour to accompany it, and Rhea knew the two boys were hugging each other. Rhea smiled, though it was weary and exhausted, as she stared down at the bonfire.

The little maiden couldn’t ignore the dark pit forming in her stomach, like an ocean of tears waiting to consume her.

“Haha! You should have seen it, M’lady! Five of them at once!”

Rhea sat with her legs folded under her, idly observing Vince chat on and on from over the bonfire, occasionally responding with a “ Really? ” or “ Goodness! ” just so no one would notice her mind was elsewhere. 

The group of clerics had taken this opportunity to rest and heal their wounds at the bonfire, the safety and the secrecy of the small room serving as the perfect spot. However, Rhea admitted to herself that she would rather be anywhere else than here. A few large urns resided in the corners of the room, with bones strewn about the ground. Dirt and Gods-knows-what clung to her dress, soiling its ivory and gold colours, and not to mention the beetles that were everywhere. They were on the walls, ground, and even above them. It made Rhea’s skin crawl and itch just by watching their shiny black shells scutter about. 

Once Rhea had finished healing Nico’s burn marks– to which he mumbled “Thank you, M’lady”– Rhea’s attention shifted over to Petrus, who had opted to stand instead of sit, back resting against the rocky interior of the alcove. The bonfire was aiding in healing the older cleric’s wound, the leather of his chest piece having been torn and stained with blood, but Petrus still seemed to be clutching his stomach, lest more of his insides fell out. 

Whilst Vince and Nico were engrossed in another of their conversations, Rhea quietly asked Petrus. “How is your wound?” 

Petrus raised his brows, as he was pulled out of his own thoughts by Rhea's sudden question. The cleric removed his gloved hand and glanced down at the gash. 

“Healing.” Petrus said, smiling down towards her. 

Rhea returned the smile, nodding. She wasn’t quite sure what else to say, especially after what had just transpired. 

Petrus’ warm voice began again, over the crackle of the bonfire. “My sincerest apologies, M’lady. You shouldn’t have had to see that. I just had to make sure he would not rise again.” 

The maiden glanced up to him, surprised he even brought it up. “It… it is alright. I’m just not used to seeing you this way.” 

“‘Seeing’ what? Petrus, you dare tarnish M’lady eyes with your… bestial ways? This kingdom must have done a number on you!”

Rhea startled, whipping her head around to look at Vince. The boy was furiously scorching Petrus with his eyes, blonde brows furrowing and green eyes reflecting the fire’s light off of them. 

Petrus frowned, sighing through his nostrils as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a bloody glove. The older cleric looked far too tired to be bothered, but that only seemed to add fuel to Vince’s growing fire. Rhea very quickly recognised this, simply by the look on Vince’s face, as she braced herself for more yelling. 

“And why in Gods’ names do you see yourself fit to order us about? Huh? It is my and Nico’s duty to defend and stay beside M’lady at all costs. We were assigned this duty by the church!” Vince’s voice grew louder, as the boy stood up from his seat at the bonfire. 

Rhea quickly glanced back towards the entrance hole out of fear of the possibility more assailants will hear him, gloved hands reaching up to try and quiet Vince down. Petrus, back still resting against the wall, eyed Vince in a way a disappointed teacher would. 

“Vince, your brazenness has very nearly gotten all of us killed. I have been through this very catacomb a multitude of times, thus why the church has entrusted all of you with me. You and Nico may be her guards, but I am the navigator. And if any of you desire to see the light of day again, you will do as instructed,” Petrus plainly stated, large arms crossed over his chest. 

Vince was almost seething at the way Petrus waved him off like nothing but an imbecilic child. “Oh, as if the church would entrust anything to you! Certainly not after what your damned sister has done! For all we know, it's her fault all of Thorolund is tainted by this curse!” 

“Vince!” Rhea yelped out in horror at Vince’s spiteful words as she immediately bolted up from her seated position, feeling an odd sense of fear creep up as she looked towards the older cleric.

Petrus’ eyes darkened, the blue of his irises turning to a deep purple from the bonfire’s orange reflection. His hands fell to his sides, jaw clenching painfully tight. Rhea’s heart dropped, unable to stop the images of Petrus bashing Vince’s skull in from flooding her mind. Nico seemed to have stood up as well, preparing to stop any violence from occurring. 

“Don’t you dare speak of her.” Petrus' voice was filled with wrath, deep and cutting through the air like a knife, as he stalked closer to Vince. “Your life resides within my hands for as long as we are down here. I highly recommend that you do not test me.” 

The last sentence was said with venom, making even Vince falter. Rhea held her gloved hands tightly over her mouth, watching as Petrus moved to push in a lever that had been built into the wall. The lever sank into its strange stone contraption, which had intricate designs carved into it. Rhea realised she hadn’t noticed the apparatus before, most likely from being too preoccupied with her thoughts. 

“We will continue forward through the Catacombs. The lever I pushed opened the path we are to take.” Petrus stated, voice filled with agitation as he attempted to calm himself down. 

“But, Petrus, what of your wound–?” Rhea timidly asked, hands wringing together absently, all three watching as Petrus grabbed his weapons. 

“I am perfectly fine,” was all she got in return, as he promptly made his way up the slope and out of the hole within the Catacombs’ walls. 

Rhea was stunned, the three clerics all looking at each other rather speechless. 

“Vince… you shouldn’t have said that,” Rhea calmly told Vince, putting a small hand atop his arm. 

Vince looked down at his shoes, as if he was a sad puppy being scolded. “My sincerest apologies, M’lady. It’s just… you know it’s true. What she did…” 

Rhea sighed, squeezing Vince’s gloved hand. “It’s not his fault. She was… a heretic, but Petrus had nothing to do with it. Even so, he doesn’t like it being brought up. Perhaps he is ashamed of her as well, and would prefer not to be associated with her?” 

Both Vince and Nico quietly looked to Rhea, owlish eyes giving away that they were all still stunned by the older cleric’s words. The two boys turned to each other as if telepathically communicating to one another, their faces etched with worry and uncertainty. 

Nico sighed, mumbling softly. “ Imh donm think he everm liked meh an Vince anywaysmm… ”

The maiden breathed in shakily, trying to muster any courage for her companions. “We will follow Petrus, find the rite, and leave this kingdom. Thorolund will accept us back and… we can leave this all behind.” 

Vince beamed at the idea, while Nico merely nodded his head. Both boys seemed to be determined now, because they began hauling up their own weapons and shields.  

“Perhaps when we get back, your father will let me spend more time with you?” Vince asked, smiling at Rhea. He received a punch to the back of his shoulder as Nico walked past them, causing Rhea to laugh. 

“It is a nice thought…” Rhea quietly said, meeting Vince’s eyes with her own. 

The alcove was quiet, with only the crackle of the bonfire and the scuttling of beetles to accompany them. Rhea felt her chest begin to grow heavy and her face heat, but it was hard to tell if that was simply because of the humidity accumulated within the small space. Suddenly, like her body and mind had become separate entities, Rhea got up on her tiptoes and pecked Vince on the cheek. 

Vince’s eyes went wide, as he quickly put a gloved hand upon his cheek. The boy went beet red, beaming at her like this is the happiest he had ever been. They both began giggling, before Vince pulled the maiden into a tight hug. It was like the eye of a storm, being able to have this moment and completely forget they were underground within the most dangerous place. Though no sunlight could reach them down here, it felt as if they were creating their own.

“Ok… We– uhm– we should catch up with the others.” Rhea eventually said, making sure her talisman still hung securely around her wrist. “And please… try and refrain from making Petrus angry again, yes?”

Vince nodded enthusiastically, before the two of them made their way up the slope, squeezing their way out of the small opening and back out to the cavernous Catacombs. “I will try my best, M’lady. As long as he does not hurt you.” Vince said, giddy as ever, before making his way over to Nico. 

Rhea sighed, a smile still on her face, as she placed a gloved hand atop her heart, right where her Dark Sign had embedded itself deep within her flesh. 

“Petrus would never hurt me.”

Chapter Text

Neither Of Us Want To See You Go Hollow

The Hollow soldier stood there, vacantly staring down slack-jawed toward the cobblestone floor. The metal helm upon the Hollow’s head barely fit, occasionally obscuring its vision every time it began to nod off. The Hollow’s boney fingers were wrapped loosely around both its shield and sword, which were limp to its sides as it couldn’t bother to keep them raised forever. 

Suddenly, the Hollow soldier realised that there were footsteps, nimble and fast approaching up the flight of winding stairs it guarded. The Hollow looked up, though its reactions were rather delayed, only to be met with the sharp piercing of a small blade straight through its gaunt throat. The soldier’s vision went to black before it could even realise what had happened. 

The Hollow’s body began to fall to the hard ground, before two arms quickly wrapped around its midsection, softly lowering it down. 

Atiri straightened herself, brushing hair away from her face and flicking rotted blood from off her dagger. Thankfully, she made sure to be more cautious when it came to making noises, fully aware that bodies falling and weapons clattering to the ground would perk any nearby ears. 

She bounced on her tiptoes, invigorated with a reckless amount of energy, as she peered around from the top of the staircase. Before her was a rather larger arch opening enveloped by moss, its stones algae-green. 

Smoke caught a ride on the next gust of wind that wafted towards Atiri, causing her to gag and scrunch her nose as she batted it away from her with a dirty hand. Smoke? Atiri tilted her head to peer from around the arch, only to immediately pull back. 

Did she see that right? Atiri crouched, bending so she could more discreetly peer around. 

Her eyes widened at the situation before her. The way to the Undead Parish’s open portcullis resided so tantalisingly close, but it was guarded heavily by various Hollow soldiers: two archers at the top of an arch bridge, two swordsmen at the bottom, and one stray Hollow right next to the entrance. Hills of dead bodies were afire, the flames towering and creating thick, dark smoke. There were two levels of stairs until one was able to make it to the entrance. 

However the most unforeseen item amidst everything before her was a large, metal boar. Atiri’s mouth hung agape, which caused her to begin choking again on more smoke. The beast was facing the very arch she hid behind, tusks sharp and sizeable, with the fire hauntingly illuminating the pointed edges of its metal body. Its eyes were fixed ahead and unyielding as it awaited the intruder’s arrival. 

Atiri had to step back from the corner, kicking up rubble with her sandal as she fervently talked to herself. If she were to perish again– though unpleasant– the bonfire was only just a staircase away. In theory, she could try to get past these fiends for as long as it would take. That is, if she didn’t Hollow. 

Atiri could hear it now, the laughter of Petrus and the warrior as she formulated her ill-conceived plan, echoing through her mind like the irritating buzz of an insect.

She blew hot hair through her nose, re-tying her hair in a ponytail as she began to move closer. The portcullis was right there , opened so wide it was almost as if it was beckoning her in. Once she got in, she could finally get some good armour and meet Andre the Blacksmith. Maybe even Solaire would be waiting for her on the other side. 

And with that, Atiri sucked in the smoky air that surrounded her before pushing off the stone ground with her legs and sprinting like she had never done before. Her heart raced as she cut through the smoke like a blade, so fast the Hollowed soldiers barely even realised someone was there. But the boar knew. 

Atiri made it up the first flight of stairs, opened portcullis just within reach. She heard the haunting sounds of metal scraping the floor as the boar reared around to chase after her, each quickened step of a hoof making her ears ring. She felt her vision sting from the fog and begin to grow hazy as she focused solely on the entrance. Once she got to the other end of the gate, she could close it on the boar. Yes! That was a sound idea!

However, once she began to scale the second flight of stairs, the portcullis… began to close?

Atiri faltered trying to figure out what was happening, panic quickly taking hold of her heart. The gate was lowering quickly, and every step she took seemed to make the process quicker. 

No… NO!

She felt her stomach sink as the opening became far too small for her to squeak past, eventually slamming herself into the hard wood of the latticed grille. 

“ Ffyc! ” Atiri yelled, gripping the gate. 

She heard groaning coming from her left and turned her gaze to a Hollow standing on the other side, who was staring right back at her… next to the lever. 

Atiri narrowed her eyes through wafts of smoke. “ Cnuchiwr… ” She spat at the Hollow through gritted teeth, before whipping around when she heard the rapid thumping of the boar. 

Her back was flat against the gate, with nowhere to run. She stared down the boar’s angry face with wide eyes as it charged directly towards her. Atiri’s fear was short-lived, however, as the sharp pain of two, large tusks impaling her stomach only lasted for one brief moment, before all life from her body was washed away. 

Atiri stood, hidden quietly, around the corner of the same arch she had before. Her body was still tingling oddly from her death, the ghost of penetrating pain going straight through her. 

She rubbed her eyes bitterly with dirty fingers, which was probably a poor idea considering how they began to sting. But she couldn’t care less, as she was too deep in thought. What was she supposed to do now? The gate had been closed from the inside, keeping her out of the Undead Parish. It feels like everything in this damned kingdom was testing her. Testing her patience and sanity. 

Fine. Let it test her. She had just slayed her first demon, no? Granted, it technically wasn’t she who killed it. It didn’t matter though, since the fact that she had made it thus far was a miracle in itself. She’d be damned if she would let some boar and a closed gate stop her from getting to the First Bell. 

Atiri let her hands fall, peeking back around the edge. Same as the first time, minus the portcullis. She squinted hard through clouds of black fumes, making her head throb. Suddenly, her eyes caught on a more hidden stairwell off to the right, just along the second flight of stairs. These ones, however, led downward, into what Atiri could only assume was another entrance. Or at least she hoped so. 

The passage was far too narrow for the large, metallic boar to fit in, which sealed the deal for Atiri. 

Same as before, Atiri darted out into the field of smoke, making sure not to run into the large, blazing fires that dotted the path. The Hollowed soldiers, too clouded by the smoke, didn’t see Atiri, and the ones that did, she shoved into the piles of dead bodies, setting them ablaze. 

Of course, the strident screeching of the Hollows prompted the boar to position itself so its tusks pointed towards the noises, charging at full speed. Atiri quickly made her way into the stairwell, just barely being missed by the beast, as she made her way down. She nearly tripped on the uneven steps, keeping herself upright with a hand on the eroding walls. 

Atiri turned to see the boar now charging at the stairwell entrance. She jumped, stumbling down the rest of the stairs, when the boar’s tusks made impact with the entrance, causing the walls to shake and crumble slightly. 

Atiri fell flat against a stone floor, knocking the air out of her chest. From up the stairs, she could hear the frenzied metal beast still hammering its tusks, which continued to get caught on the entrance. She sat there at the bottom of the stairs, as still as the dark that filled the passageway, hoping that the boar would soon lose interest in her. 

Soon after, the bashing and rumbling ceased, with the hooves of the boar becoming more and more distant. It wasn’t until then that Atiri, deflated, closed her eyes and blew hair out from her face. She tasted blood against her lips, which had trickled down from her nose, but she was alive. 

After a few minutes of waiting for her chest to stop pounding, she wiped the blood from her nose and hauled herself up. Atiri turned, looking down the hall she had been led to. The brick and stone surrounding her was stained and dark, but she could make out the exit, which seemed to lead out to a room lit by a few torches. 

Atiri began to make her way down the hall, stopping suddenly when her footsteps began to sound more wet than they should. It was like her run-in with the imprisoned Firekeeper all over again, because she lifted the soles of her sandals to find inky, rotting blood. She looked ahead, only able to make out the long trail using the flickering torchlight. If she had learned anything from her moments in Lordran, it was that a blood trail always led to more enemies. 

Unsheathing her dagger, Atiri stalked down the dim hall. She listened closely, hearing familiar groaning and the faint shuffling of bare feet. More Hollows. Though there didn’t seem to be any metal along with the sounds, so they weren’t soldiers. 

Just then, she spotted a Hollow peeking out from around the hall’s end. It just stared at her, almost timidly, through black sockets. 

Atiri frowned, but wondered if this was another non-hostile Hollow. She lifted her hands as she grew closer, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. 

“Hello! Uhm, can you speak…?” Atiri asked through the darkness, but the Hollow only stared. It began to back away from the corner, shuffling away from Atiri. 

She soon made it out of the hall and into the open area, which looked to be some kind of forlorn common place for soldiers, and she spoke in a hushed tone. “No, no… It's ok. I’m not going to…” 

Atiri trailed off slowly, catching glimpses of movement within her peripheral vision. She scanned around her, realising that there were many more Hollows surrounding her, all quietly staring down from their perched places on staircases and corners. They were like many Hollows, wrinkly, gaunt, open-mouthed and zombie-like, wearing nothing but tattered loin cloths. 

The room was dead silent. Atiri felt as if she was being pinned down by at least six haunting eyes. There could very well be more hidden within the shadows the torches were unable to illuminate. 

Then, the tension in the atmosphere snapped, and they all began to shriek, forcing Atiri to cup her ears in anguish. All the Hollow’s leapt out at her, bearing nothing but their fists and broken swords. 

One of them grabbed Atiri from behind, attempting to strangle her, another one tried bashing her head with the hard pommel of its broken sword. Atiri gasped, backing out to slam the Hollow behind her against the stone wall. Once the scrawny hands at her throat went limp, she swung the hilt of her own dagger to cave in the skull of the Hollow before her. 

The Hollow crumbled to the ground in pain, allowing yet another Hollow to thrust its sword at her. It missed by just a hair, instead getting stuck between the cracks of the stone wall. Atiri quickly lifted the blade of her weapon, slicing through her aggressor’s brittle arm. 

Atiri sucked in air through her teeth, darting over to the right end of the wall and unmounting one of the torches, using the torch’s flame to threaten and ward off the group of Hollows. She steadily swung it in her outstretched hand, getting the Hollows to cower away. 

“Stay back! All of you!” Atiri yelled, but soon remembered that Hollows long gone aren’t conscious enough to be reasoned with. 

She gazed out at them, slowly putting down the torch. She knew it was a poor idea, that the Hollows would not take her mercy and flee, but she had to give them one more chance. If not for them, then for her own heart. 

As expected, the group of Hollows only resumed their violence towards her, one even attempting to throw their sword at her. Atiri ducked her head, letting the sword weakly clatter to the ground. 

Atiri sighed to herself, and with a heavy heart, lifted the torch back up and set them all aflame. Anguished screams and gurgled cries filled the room, as the dry skin of the Hollows caught fire as easily as a piece of dead grass. Their boney bodies lit up with orange and yellows, creating dancing shadows that stretched across the old walls. Atiri closed her eyes, surrounded by all the burning, embers grazing her face and catching on her flimsy clothes, as she waited for them all to die. She looked down at herself, down towards her cracked pendant. Its aurelian colour was turned to pure gold in that moment, embers making it almost glitter magically. It did look rather beautiful amidst the flames of fire. 

The screaming died out and so too did the fire, as body after body fell lifeless to the ground. A multitude of small, flickering souls arose from each corpse, drifting to her pouch as white wisps of light. 

Atiri mounted the torch back up on the wall, then looked around. Wooden tables, barrels, and crates littered the room, as well as a couple of skinny pillars to hold the ground up above them. She looked over at the staircase that laid near her, which led up to another level. She followed the staircase up with her eyes, then even higher, up to a series of wooden beams and ladders. Gwych .

Atiri carefully scaled each uneven step as they seemingly became both steeper and darker with age as she got higher. The second floor was the same as the first, and the only difference was a withered up dead body laying against one of the forlorn corners. It wasn’t alive, or at least didn’t seem to be. Just to make sure, though, Atiri crouched low to pat its shrivelled body down for any items she could put to use. 

Surprisingly, Atiri pulled out a rusty key. Its handle was circular, and its shaft was slim, but there wasn’t anything peculiar about it. She brought the large collection of various keys she had gotten from the Hollow Merchant, slotting this newfound oddity onto the loop. 

Atiri rose up, stuffing the collection into her cramped pouch. Their rattling echoed loudly within the quiet space. She looked around for anything else, quickly noticing the stranded wisps of white light sitting up high on wooden beams that reached all the way to the top of the room. She perked up at the sight, so shiny and bright, a striking contrast from the dimness that surrounded her. 

Sure, there was a ladder propped up against the wall, but… 

Before she knew it, Atiri was climbing the pillars up to the wooden beams, using her legs as leverage. Once she was high enough to reach, she grasped the wooden beams, swinging up and onto the structures as if she was some kind of little animal. 

Ha-ah! What is she doing all the way up there?

I haven’t the slightest clue. She claims she sees something shiny. She refuses to come down, even after I told her she’ll get hurt! 

Oh? Something shiny you say? Haha! Sweet girl, I think that's just the sun! Come down from that tree, so I can show you a safer place to look at it!

Ok, Baba!

Hehe… Aderyn bach.

“Aderyn bach”… How did she remember that? Or more importantly… Where did she remember that?

Atiri had nearly slipped off the beams after receiving this random memory, but was able to secure herself. She had gotten so far just by climbing, she had made it all the way up to the fourth floor. Finally, the white wisps were just within reach. Using her legs to wrap around the beam she sat on, she cupped the large wisp in her hands and put it safely within her pouch. She hadn’t a clue as to how soul currency worked, or even how one could tell the value of  a soul, but she hoped that this one would be worth something for when she reached the Blacksmith. 

Atiri leapt down from the beams, landing on her feet with a loud thud that rattled the wood beneath her. That’s when she saw it– another fog barrier. It barricaded the opening of a small arch exit, which was a lot less grand then the first one she had encountered. Atiri was unsure if she was meant to be relieved or off-put at the sight. She was going the right way, that was for sure, but was this going to lead her to another beast of some sort? 

Either way, Atiri was desperate to get out of the stuffy room, skin hot and itchy from the trapped fumes of the outside fires. So she walked up to the wall, its ghost white tendrils reaching out to her. She held up an outstretched arm, using her hand to push it through the foggy mass first. When her arm hadn’t been immediately torn from her body, she moved forward, submerging her person within the fog wall’s essence. 

As Atiri emerged on the other side, she was once again basked in sunshine, gusts of wind blowing strands of her mauve hair from out of their place. She was back outside, but still seemed to be outside the Undead Parish’s gate. Now though, she was higher up, atop a stone overpass that led across the boar demon and the Hollow soldiers. The smoke of the large flames still wafted over to her, though now she could see over the dark clouds. 

Atiri’s ears perked at the sound of whispers, and she turned to discover that the fog barrier completely dissipated after she had used it. Huh… How odd . She had much to learn about these mysterious lands.

Atiri crouched down on her hind legs, perched atop this overpass. She peered down to the boar, who seemed oblivious to her presence, stalking about the stairs. Atiri put a finger to her chin, absently smearing it with black charcoal as she pondered her next action. 

Atiri examined the boar quietly from above. It began to canter off, running slow circles. Suddenly, the flames of the dead body piles touched the boar’s metal frame, causing it to jerk away and buck around. The beast seemed rather vulnerable to fire. 

This observation aroused an idea within Atiri, as she quickly searched through her satchel. Pushing away the keys, a talisman, clumps of moss, and those odd stones, she finally pulled out what she had been looking for. The black firebombs. Five– to be exact.

Atiri grinned, holding one inky black bomb within her fist as she eyed the metal beast. Once she deemed the boar was in the right position, she pulled back a strong arm and threw the bomb down as hard as she could. 

BOOM!

She quickly shielded herself from the impact as the bomb went up in flames, erupting so violently Atiri thought she might burn the entire parish down with her. After her vision recovered from the blinding light, Atiri eagerly looked for the boar. Just as she had hoped, the beast was roaring, the metal of its body set ablaze as it aggressively kicked and bucked around. The blast had also managed to hit a few Hollow soldiers as well, their bodies now laying fried against the stone floors. 

Two Hollow archers suddenly looked up at Atiri, directing their weapons at her and pulling the string of their bows taut. Atiri promptly grasped another black bomb, this time aiming for the archers below her. 

Another blast was set off, the force of it nearly sending Atiri flying off of the overpass. She struggled to maintain her balance, feeling her skin begin to sting hot and painfully. She glanced over to overpass, confirming that the archers, too, had been turned to burnt husks, like some kind of raisin. 

The boar seemed to recover slightly from the first bomb, its beastly form much more resilient than that of the enervated Hollows. Though Atiri could tell that it was being cooked alive from under its metal. 

Atiri tossed them downwards, bomb after bomb, wreaking havoc upon the parish’s last line of defence. The boar was weak, painfully burning away, before Atiri launched the final black bomb directly at its head. With one last explosion, the metal beast went up in flames, roaring out to the sky, before falling to the ground with a thundering whump.

Its body went limp for a time, then began to deteriorate into white ash that drifted off into the air, until there was nothing left but the charcoal stains upon the stone floor. 

Atiri let out a sigh of relief knowing she wouldn’t have to deal with that beast again, before standing up on wobbly legs. She tried to brush the black ash off from her flimsy blouse, but the action only served to smear everything further. 

She opted to just let it go, deciding that the lasting quality of her clothing was the least of her concerns. So, closing the lip of her leather satchel– which was noticeably lighter now that she’s rid herself of those bombs– Atiri made her way across the rest of the overpass. 

Making it to the other side, Atiri looked around in awe. The way the evening sun was shining down upon the old stone architecture was almost magical. Vines that had woven their way up walls and around pillars basked beneath beams of light, letting it all bounce off every leaf’s surface. 

The path before her split. To the right was a staircase that led upwards, to her left was a walkway that wrapped around. Curious, she peeked around the corner. There, at the end of the short walkway and standing upon a small outlook, was a Hollow. Though this Hollow was different from the ones she was used to. No, this one was taller and had different armour, topped with a tattered, off-red cape that draped its shoulders. Judging by its armour alone, Atiri concluded that it was of higher status amongst the soldiers– or at least used to be. 

Atiri noticed that the Hollow knight’s back was turned to her, facing the edge of the balcony it was poised at, oblivious to her presence. Atiri bit the inside of her cheek as she crept from around the corner and down the path lined with pillars. 

Between the fires, the sun, and various explosions, Atiri felt incredibly sweaty, body unbearably hot as she actively fought the urge to simply pass out. Her skin itched irritably as sweat trickled down her forehead, making her loose hair stick to her skin. But she forced herself not to be distracted by any of it, as she slowly pulled her dagger back out, its blade glinting in the sunlight. 

Once she got close enough to the occupied knight, she held her breath before piercing the small blade clean through the place in its back that happened to be exposed by the small torn holes of its chest piece. The Hollow screeched out suddenly, attempting to turn around, before Atiri twisted the blade deep within its flesh. 

The commander was silenced in an instant, screeching cut off as its struggling ceased. Atiri gritted her teeth, muscles pulled taut as she managed to pull off a successful backstab. Its blood stained her bare arms before Atiri pulled the blade out, letting the Hollow’s body fall face first to the ground. 

After a couple of grounding breaths, Atiri beamed down at the fallen knight, bouncing on her legs excitedly. Despite her body being battered and miserable, she couldn’t help but rejoice. Finally , she was gifted the opportunity to no longer be on the receiving end of being surprised via a weapon through the back. 

Atiri promptly sheathed her dagger back in its place against her hip, before performing her usual routine in searching the bodies for useful items– or simply things she found interesting and shiny. 

She noticed, beneath the Hollow’s body, was a shield she hadn’t noticed before. Curiosity quipped, she kicked its own flimsy sword and shield away, before reaching down to struggle with hauling the dead body up and off the item of in. She ended up having to roll the body sideways with her legs to finally be able to pick up the shield. 

It was a beautiful shield. Atiri held it close, allowing her to examine the ornate details within the gold rim, adoring the way the designs glittered under the sun. The shield was in the shape of a kite, with a flat top, and was divided into four parts of royal blue and scarlet. In the centre was a depiction of a dragon spreading its wings and taking off with its tail curled around a sword. Immediately did Atiri recognise this shield, for it was a replica of the shield Petrus carried. Though this one was admittedly more scuffed and grimy. 

Atiri hooked her arm through the enarmas, feeling the way the shield weighed against her muscle. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of using a shield,since she had gotten rather used to slinking around with her petite dagger. It would only get in her way. However, if she planned to keep this, she would need to carry it over to the Blacksmith. It wouldn’t hurt to try, she supposed. 

Pulling her dagger back out, Atiri stood there, debating whether or not she felt fashionable. She felt like an idiot, but she hoped to look impressive to this Blacksmith. Maybe he’d be more kind than the men back in Firelink. 

Thankfully, passage through the detour hadn’t been too perilous. Atiri had encountered a few aimless Hollow soldiers here and there– some wielding spears, others wielding poor-quality daggers. 

There were a few more Hollowed knights along the path or standing stoically off just out of sight. Surprisingly, these Hollow knights were much more coordinated than that of their fellow battle mates. The way they would fight with their thin rapiers was quick and almost graceful, deep red capes bellowing in the wind. 

Atiri had been able to rid herself of them using both her dagger and the newly acquired shield. It was nice to have something to hide behind, to have their rapiers stab at something that wasn’t her flesh, but it restricted her movement. She even smacked herself with the shield once, trying to dodge an attack. 

Now, Atiri carefully shuffled her way across an unstable overpass, clearly built quickly and haphazardly from rotten wood planks. Her doubts had been steadily washed away as she noticed the path she travelled was, in fact, a second way of getting to the other side of the Undead Parish gate. 

Atiri held her dagger and shield now, feeling the pounding in her chest begin to slow as she hobbled across the wooden planks. It almost seemed like this place was under construction, what with the stark contrast between inlaid stone and mismatched wood. 

The distant coos of little birds resounded from amongst the dark fir trees, surrounding the parish with a tranquil atmosphere. Even the air was different from the Burg, free of smoke and ash. Atiri, though sweating through her clothes, breathed in the fresh air around her pleasantly. 

The sun had begun to set, letting crimson beams of light trickle down from between distant mountains and various battlements. She even noticed the way it changed the colour of her dirty hair.

Atiri finally stepped down the last level of stairs, officially putting her upon the famed church grounds, as well as within range of the First Bell of Awakening. There were two buildings, it seemed. One was much larger and more pressurved than the later, which was almost completely degraded to nothing but rubble. But one look upwards, to the slanted roof of the edifice up within the clouds, confirmed to Atiri that the larger of the two churches was where the bell had been built. 

Atiri felt almost giddy with anticipation, not even waiting to search for a bonfire or a place to rest before bolting to the side entrance of the church. She ascended the stairs that led into the transept, too consumed by her thoughts of heroism to even hold her weapons correctly. 

Atiri didn’t even get a chance to get a glimpse of the parish’s interior before…

WHAM!

An opposing force slammed into her, causing an immense amount of pain to spike through her body as she was sent flying. She cascaded back down the steps, nearly breaking her back from the force in which she collided with the stone ground. 

Atiri gasped for air, eyes wide and staring up at her assailant. There, towering above her, was a heavyset knight completely clad in dark metal, wielding a four-pointed mace and a monstrous pavise shield. The evening sun set the knight’s armour ablaze in a deep purple, outlining the dents and age of the metal surface. Its helmet overshadowed the eyes completely, but its mouth and jaw was that of a Hollow. Corroded and drained of life.

The giant knight raised its hefty mace high in the air, causing the sharp ends of the weapon to glint, before slamming it to the ground. Atiri cried out, just barely managing to shift against the ground before the mace crushed her completely, killing her in a single blow. Though in deep pain, Atiri’s fear drove her to her feet as she desperately stumbled away from the knight’s imposing frame. If she were to be killed here, she would end up all the way back at the first gate. The thought filled her with dread. 

Atiri felt like a small mouse in that moment, with the haunting shadow of her predator being cast down on her.

There was absolutely no way she could kill this Hollow. Its armour revealed no skin but the face, and its shield was thick and big enough to protect the entire body. So, grabbing both her dagger and shield, Atiri began to run the opposite way of the entrance. Which, oddly enough, led her down to the more forlorn church. 

The heavy thuds of the knight’s sabatons followed her, as she bolted down the narrow path bordered by stout pillars and large trees. One advantage she seemed to have over this enemy was that she was much faster, sandals padding down steps of stairs quicker than she was able to process. The stone path itself felt much longer than it should have been, taking Atiri deeper into the greenery that loomed over her.

Eventually, just as the footsteps began to grow further behind her, Atiri made her way under an arch entrance and to a small, roofless nave. The nave lacked anything at the altar, and bits and pieces of the church covered the ground in piles, forcing Atiri to carefully make her way over the masses of stone. Other than the main space, there was nothing else to the church. No stairs, no aisles, and no kind of place to sit. Just a simple old lectern at the chancel, as well as a… sketchy set of stairs leading under the church. 

Atiri made her way over to the left side of the nave, sheathing her dagger and putting a hand atop the wood railing. The thudding of the knight still shook the ground beneath her, so she promptly began to descend the decrepit steps. 

Though it embedded splinters within her palms, Atiri didn’t let go of the railing, afraid she might pass out from pain midway. The stairwell was unlit, making the uneven stone walls that surrounded her almost too dark to make out. As she made it to the first floor, the wood supporting her creaked awkwardly. Though it had nothing special about it. However, through the cracks and crevices of the wooden panels, light flickered up, almost crawling to her. Relief washed over her like an ocean’s wave. A bonfire!

 Atiri quickly thumped her way down the winding stairs until she made it to the third floor. The darkness of the stairwell only amplified the dim light of the bonfire, sitting in its small pile of bones and ash, waiting to be used. Placing the overbearing shield down, Atiri crouched on unsteady legs, putting her hands up to the fire’s radiance and letting it consume her. Though the heat from it was a bit unpleasant, only because scorching heat is all she has been experiencing thus far, she slumped forward when she felt her breathing begin to return to its usual state. 

She absently wiped her nose, noticing that the bleeding had ceased, but not before staining her face and neck. Her constant sweating had matted her clothes, damp against her itchy and hot skin. Her hair had completely come loose of its up-do, leaving it in tangles and across her back. She felt– and probably looked– awful. 

Clank… clank… clank…

Atiri would’ve sat there longer, but paused when she heard noises on the floor below her. Steadily and almost rhythmically, the sound of metal upon metal echoed up the stairs. It wasn’t one that sparked danger in her, rather it made her feel calm. 

Standing back up, Atiri held her breath, trying to be silent as she inched closer to the staircase leading further downward. She winced when the wood beneath her made a considerably loud and ear-grating creak. The metal clanking suddenly stopped. Atiri clenched her teeth, hoping that if she stayed perfectly still…

“Who’s up ‘ere?” 

Atiri jerked back at the booming voice, unsure of what to do.

“I can ‘ear you, y’know!” 

Managing to pull herself out of a panicked frenzy, Atiri began steadily making her way down the last flight of stairs. This last floor seemed to be the only one with mounted torches, as warm light once again met her vision. Once she got close enough to the floor, she peeked down and around. 

“Show yurself before I–”

The man paused abruptly as Atiri came into view under the torchlight. 

A large, bulky man sat before her, an anvil in front of him. He had an unkempt grey beard and long hair that was tied back, as well as black leather gloves adorning each sizable hand. One hand held a hammer, the other held down the hilt of the sword he had been working on. That sword, though, seemed to be one of many, as various weapons and tools of all shapes and sizes were piled around the workshop.

Before Atiri could say anything, the man smiled, thick, grey brows rising to reveal kind eyes crinkled up into crescents. 

“Well! You must be a new arrival!” The man’s powerful voice echoed through the room. “I’m Andre, of Astora. The Blacksmith.”

Chapter Text

Teulu A Gysylltir Gan Farwolaeth

The sun rose steadily over the horizon, over the dunes of sand, setting the ground ablaze in its gold light. Colours of orange and red hit the flowing water of the river bank, causing the clear water to glimmer as it caressed the spiked rocks lining its path. 

The river flowed at the bottom of a steep fall, at the top of which sat the tranquil village of Semta Morhn. Its people, whom never slept, were already up and about, peeking out from their various huts and small homes to begin their routines. Everyone but a certain six year old. 

“No, no. Repeat after me: Thank-you-Lady-Valda .”

The little girl furrowed her brows, swinging her stubby legs impatiently as she thought over the woman’s pronunciation. 

“ Sank– Thank you– Lad– Lady– Va– Velda .” The little girl struggled, narrowing her eyes impossibly tight, as if that would magically give her the ability to say it correctly. 

Tatiana shook her head, sighing. “ Ah , Atiri. Keep trying.” 

Atiri slumped back in the wooden chair, causing the legs to screech against the stone floor as she grumbled to herself. She had absently gone back to using her small fingers to trace the cracks on the table, stubbornly sitting there in silence, despite pardoner Tatiana’s words.

“ Ond pam? ” Atiri whined when Tatiana eyed the girl from over her quill, stopping the persistent scratching noise upon the parchment that was laid out on her end of the table. 

The pardoner scrutinised Atiri through silver lashes. “Because your father is out doing… whatever it is he does, and I need to keep you occupied until he returns.” 

Tatiana seemed quite final with her words, going back to writing fancy words with quick and fluid movements. 

“Why could I not have stayed with Mam-gu Norma instead?” 

Tatiana chuckled. “Why? Am I not fun enough?” She reached to dip the tip of her quill in more ink, tapping it lightly against the edge of the vial before continuing to write. “Because you’re safer here than you are anywhere else. Or at least that is what your father says.” 

Atiri let her head fall back against her chair, feeling incredibly restless as energy practically bubbled out from within her. 

“Why not practise your reading some. It's healthy for a small, growing being such as yourself.” Tatiana said, not even looking up from her work now.

Atiri groaned. “I can’t read!”

“Then practise. I will not allow you to be as illiterate as you’d like to be.”

“But the words make my head hurt… And the ones you have are not even interesting! All they talk about are politics and gods!” The girl responded, getting a little too loud for Tatiana’s taste. She shushed Atiri with the wave of a pale hand, plunging the stone room into silence once again. 

Atiri never enjoyed staying with pardoner Tatiana. Her workplace within the watchtower was cold and dark, minus the confiningly small openings that let in a limited amount of sunlight, as if any more would cause the woman’s pale skin to scorch. Even the candle stands seemed pale and cold, flickering quick and sharply, reminiscent of the one who lit them. 

“Fine.”

Atiri glanced up abruptly, staring curiously over to the pardoner. Tatiana pushed back her wood chair, getting to her feet and walking off to a chest on one end of the room. Her heels clacked loudly against the cobblestone, the sharp sound so familiar to the girl. Atiri stood on her chair, trying to get a glimpse at whatever Tatiana was gonna present to her, gold eyes alight and curiosity quipped. 

 Tatiana returns with a hand woven basket, setting it with a thud against the table. Atiri stared at the basket, glancing up to the pardoner curiously. 

“This basket holds items that I want you to give out to a few of Semta Morhn’s villagers. Deliver them, if you will.” Tatiana crossed her arms, pointing down at the girl with a sharp finger. “You will not lose any of these, nor will you get distracted and do something else. These are valuable and important for these people. I want you to meet me back here by sunset. Understood?” 

Atiri brightened, now beaming up at the woman. She enthusiastically nodded her head, before reaching for the basket and hauling it with her off of the table. Atiri nearly fell flat on her face with how heavy it weighed. 

The girl frowned at the basket, though was unable to see anything in it because of its lid. “What is in it?” 

Tatiana looked hesitant for a moment, silent as she drummed her fingers against the table. “It is like medicine. It aids those who are less fortunate with their curses.”

Atiri simply stood there, staring transfixed upon the basket, before the pardoner clapped her hands in finality. 

“Yes yes, very hard to come by and very important to the villagers.” Tatiana spoke quickly, before opening the wooden door to the watchtower and absently motioning the little girl out. “I want you to visit Azure and Norma. Norma should be visiting the inn, while Azure is most likely in his own home.” 

The door shut behind Atiri, causing a gust of wind to blow past her, kicking up sand. 

Little Atiri looked down at the closed basket, small hands gripping the handles like this was the most important job she had ever been given. She began to make her way along the winding path, which steadily led her down the hilltop and into the village. 

The morning sun beamed down at her, illuminating the sandstone buildings so that everything appeared gold. The houses were squared, with various kinds of colourful silk and woven blankets draped across entrances and over the main road, casting fractured shadows against Atiri.

Villagers wandered about, either on morning strolls or to run errands. Atiri noticed that many of them got up in the mornings to travel down to the riverbank that flowed right along the village, using their jugs and pots to grab its fresh water. 

As Atiri ambled down the main road, villagers all around her brightened at the sight of her, skinny hands all waving in greeting. Atiri smiled, but had no hands free to wave back, so she simply called out to all of them. She remembered all of their names– and the ones that didn’t– she simply thought of names to call them. 

Atiri never once questioned why everyone there looked a certain way, nor how she seemed to be the only one her age. It simply never crossed her mind. She had grown used to reminding many of them what their names were, or what day it is, or where everything in the village was located. Atiri was more than happy to do all of this, for seeing how grateful they all were of her is a reward in itself. 

“Do you need help?” One villager asked Atiri, gaunt hands offering to take the basket from her. 

Atiri simply shook her head, bangs falling in front of her face. “Tatiana asked me to visit Norma and give her these. Very important medicine, she says.” 

The villager made an “Oh” of surprise, before looking around and pointing a bony finger ahead of her. Atiri looked down the road, along the various buildings to find where they were pointing. 

“Norma should be right over there, in the inn.” The villager explained. “It’s the one with the scorched drapes over its doors.”

Once she pinpointed the location of the inn, Atiri nodded up at the villager. 

“ Diolch! ” She said, before her little feet pattered off down the road. 

Atiri, squeezing the basket close to her chest, weaved her way through throngs of villagers, their various kinds of garments fluttering in the desert breeze. The inn was probably the largest building within the village. Its use before is unknown, but it now served as a meeting place for people, especially travellers. Her father never really allowed her to go inside, something about it being too crowded and how she could get lost, but that didn’t stop her from sneaking in every now and then. 

Atiri ducked under the tattered drape, making her way into the meeting space. Immediately she was greeted with incense and hookah smoke, as deep orange lights filtered all throughout the inside. Atiri– unfamiliarity suddenly hitting her– grew timid, as she scanned the area for Norma. The elder always stood out from the rest of the villagers, and it always helped that with how important of a figure she was, there would always be someone who knew her location. In a clustered space like this, the villagers would practically pave a way wherever Norma needed to be.

Different colours of people and their wears meshed with each other, all deepend by the torches mounted against the tan walls. Some were speaking with one another, while others simply sat quietly on their own, seated at tables or on the ground atop plush pillows. They all seemed to be drinking strange, gold liquid, which illuminated all of their faces from inside the various cups and mugs they drank from. Atiri was particularly transfixed on the way some of the people’s armour were set ablaze with orange light, almost glittering. 

“Ati?” 

Atiri recognised both the nickname and the voice, turning around to see Norma amidst the crowd. The child beamed, eyes lighting up as Norma motioned her over to where she was seated. 

Once Atiri made it to the elder, she nearly dropped the basket entirely before hugging the older woman tightly. Norma let out a wheezy chuckle, wrapping an arm around the clinging girl and patting her head. 

“Your father is going to be upset once he finds out you’re here,” Norma commented playfully. Atiri looked up at her, noticing the way the woman’s earrings and large circular glasses reflected the warm light. The old woman picked Atiri up from under her arms, sitting the child on her lap like a grandmother would.

Norma looked back across the table, and Atiri followed her gaze over to a strange person staring at them. “ Ah yes. Atiri, this is Cyrus.” Norma explained, motioning a hand over to Cyrus. 

Atiri immediately noticed that Cyrus was not from here, her clothes a far cry than what she was used to. She had the same sick face most she knew had, with black eyes and dirty skin that looked to be stretched too thin. Though, she had large, curly hair that was messily weaved into a series of buns down her back, with some colourful feathers placed within the strands. Beads of dulled red and green were hung around her slim neck and even along her wrists, which clattered together whenever she moved. The lady had nothing for a top but bandage wrappings tightly across her chest and a tattered shawl. She wore dark brown harem pants, yet no shoes, and had scars etched across her face like the skin was being divided. 

Cryus cracked a crooked smile, before leaning down towards Atiri. “G’day little lass!” 

Atiri, though rather timidly, took Cryus’ outstretched hand in greeting, before Norma leaned down to whisper to her. 

“She’s a pyromancer– from the Great Swamps. Like the ones from the books you read,” Norma said, causing Cyrus to cackle. 

Atiri’s eyes lit up like candles, mouth agape as she looked over at Cyrus. “Really?!”

Cyrus nodded, before outstretching a hand from under her shawl, palm up. Atiri watched, entranced, as a small flame suddenly burst into existence, floating just above her hand. It flickered restlessly as Atiri leaned across the table to get a better look. 

“Heh, careful,” Cyrus said, closing her hand over the flame, making it vanish in an instant. “Wouldn’t wanna burn yourself!” 

Atiri frowned, grasping the woman’s palm to try and search for the flame. 

“She really is just like her father…” Cyrus commented. Behind Atiri, Norma crouched down to pick up the basket. 

The girl turned. “It's from Tatiana. Medicine, uh, for you.” 

Norma tilted her head, before lifting the lid of the container. 

“Ohh, I see now.” Norma exclaimed, reaching in to take out one of the items. 

Atiri narrowed her eyes at the strange object. It was a rectangular piece of dark black stone, with a depiction of a skull inlaid within its smooth surface. In fact, the entire basket was filled with these stones, which would explain why it was abnormally heavy for the girl.

“Woah! Where did this ‘Tatiana’ get these? You plan on sharing them, eh Norma?” Cyrus asked, chair creaking as she leaned in to ogle at the stone. 

“What? Why? What are they?” Atiri asked, a bit frustrated as she looked from Cyrus and back to Norma for answers. “Norma… are you sick?”

Cyrus silently looked to Norma for a moment, who simply put the stone back into the basket, letting it clatter against the rest eerily, a sound that seemed to be heard even over all of the background noises. 

“It is in fact medicine. Very rare medicine– but medicine we need.” Norma brushed Atiri’s hair out from her face as she spoke. “And as a matter of fact, this is all going to be passed out to the villagers who need it. It’s not for me, Kēṭā, don’t worry.” 

Atiri looked to the pyromancer, who sat there in silence, slim arms tucked under her dirty shawl. Wafts of smoke made its way over to their table, which Norma batted away from Atiri. 

Suddenly, the girl was snapped out of her thoughts, remembering Tatiana’s request. “Oh! Some of that is for Azure. I have to go and give them to him if he too is sick.” 

Atiri wasted no time hopping off of the elder’s lap. Norma nodded, taking the majority of the skull stones for the village and leaving some for Azure. Then, she put the woven lid back on and gave the basket back to Atiri, who grasped it on both sides with ease now that its weight had been lightened. 

Atiri looked at Cyrus, lifting her head up to her. “ Hyfryd i gwrdd a chi .”

Then she turned to Norma, smiling. “Bye bye, Mam-gu! ” Before she took off and back into the crowded place. 

The table was silent for a moment, the people around them continuing to chat and clink mugs together.

“Does she know?” Cyrus asked, lowering her tone to a whisper. 

Norma shook her head. “No. She has no idea.”

The walk to Azure’s house wasn’t exactly long, but it was certainly a trek for Atiri’s small legs. The man lived on the outskirts of the village, atop his very own hill where the river flowed right against. He was not like the others, as he preferred to live within a bedouin tent alone. He said it was so he’d have a perfect view to gaze at the stars when night came. 

Atiri loved spending time with Azure. And she saw a lot of him, too, as he and her father were good friends. They often helped each other in getting the supplies they needed. Domhnall had given him a shiny, gold telescope. A gift that would have made Azure burst into tears if he had any to spare. In return, Azure gave him a map that led down into some ancient Shihua ruins, ruins in which Domhnall had found some strange, yet beautiful crystalized weapons. 

Azure was a sorcerer, hailing from the kingdom of Melfia. He talked a lot about his home, telling her tales of towers with telescopes stretching to the sky, just so the scholars could get a perfect view of the stars. How the architecture was made of white marble, its columns and arches shaped unlike she had seen before. It didn’t matter if the stories were real or not; Atiri loved them. 

Sweat gathered atop the girl’s head as she began to make her way up the sandy slope, Azure’s house now within sight. As per usual, the sorcerer was seated right outside his tent, just under the lifted flap so as to create shade for him. He seemed to be preoccupied, scrawling onto a scroll, his large hat pointed downward.

“Azure!” Atiri called, as she made it to the top. 

Azure looked up from what he was doing, lighting up when he noticed Atiri. He rolled up his parchment, bony fingers tying a rope around it to keep it secured, then put it beside him along with many other scrolls. The sorcerer dusted his hands, wiping off any excess charcoal, before struggling to haul himself up to his feet. 

“Ahh, Ati. Good to see you again.” Azure said, voice small and a bit wheezy from under his loose litham. He lifted the large brim of his sorcerer’s hat, fixing it atop his head so his eyes could be seen. “Sorry. if I had known you were looking for me, I would’ve met you at the bottom of the hill.”

Atiri laughed, shaking off the beads of sweat that tickled her skin. Azure unwrapped his litham from around his neck, baring his face to the girl– something he rarely ever did– and handing the long cloth to her so she could use it to wipe away some of the sweat more efficiently. 

“How many days has it been since you last came here?” Azure asked, lifting his hat to scratch his head. 

Most people would think this to be some kind of jest, as it had only been two days since she had been here, but Atiri knew that this was a normal occurrence for Azure. Sometimes it really did feel like the sorcerer forgot everything but his homeland and her name. 

“It has only been two days, gwirion! ” Atiri exclaimed, now using Azure’s cloth to dry her unruly hair. 

Azure let out a wheeze that was meant to be a chuckle before noticing the basket, perking up. “What’s that you’ve got there? Have you brought a gift for me? Is it another ‘trinket’ from your father?”

Atiri giggled, setting the basket down against the sand in front of her. “It’s for you! From Tatiana.”

Azure tilted his head curiously, noticeably surprised by the notion that it was from Tatiana. Atiri stepped back, playfully bowing down before graciously lifting the lid of the basket and presenting the stones to him.

“Medicine!” Atiri exclaimed.

Azure sagged in relief. “Ohh, thank the gods! Looks like the pardoner has yet to forget about me.” The sorcerer laughed, crouching down on unsteady legs to lift a stone out of the basket. “She is my saviour once again. Bless her.”

“Will these help you, then?” Atiri asked, worriedly scanning him for anything out of the ordinary. 

Azure noticed this, shuffling so his dark cloak concealed his torso. “It isn’t anything you need to worry about.” 

The girl frowned, crossing her tan arms and tapping her foot against the ground. 

“Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself, heehee ,” the sorcerer reassured her. “It's quite nasty anyways. Not exactly fun to look at.” 

That didn’t reassure Atiri in the slightest, but nonetheless she did not want to pry. Azure motioned her to join him on the little patterned rugs he had laid out against the sand. Atiri made her way over to the sorcerer, plopping herself down cross legged ( Just like how her father did, every time they’d sit for dinner ). The rugs were rough, and she still felt the texture through her cotton pants. Azure joined her, sitting with his legs tucked under him and his cloak sprawled out around him. Atiri noticed how he winced when he sat, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I want to see you take the medicine. Now,” Atiri demanded, though it came out more comical with her little voice. 

The sorcerer sighed, taking out the stone he had plucked from the basket. He flipped it around between his slim fingers. 

“I’ll need you to grab me my mortar and pestle. They're in my tent, right on the table.” Azure explained, pointing from under all his various garments. 

Atiri promptly jumped out of her seat, running past the sorcerer and lifting the flaps of his tent. Not two seconds later did she come back out, stone mortar held out in her palms, with the pestle clattering around inside. 

She handed them to Azure, who dusted any remaining spices from off of the pestle, before placing the skull stone within. Atiri took her place beside him, instinctively crossing her legs back up as she watched closely. The sorcerer held the pestle firmly within a dark hand, using the other to hold the vessel down, as he began crushing the stone up. The sounds of stone grating against stone, though usually unpleasant, was comforting to Atiri. She always loved watching Domhnall crush garlic or nuts up into paste when he found the time to cook. The sounds always meant good food to her. 

The girl watched closely as the stone, through laborious movements, began to turn into black, inky dust. 

“Do you need help?” Atiri asked suddenly, noticing the way Azure began to struggle. 

He waved her off before setting the pestle down next to him. The sorcerer then lifted the mortar up, tilting his head back ( his hat nearly slipping off ) as he began to consume the dust. 

Atiri tilted her head, eyes now wide, as he was flawlessly able to consume stone. Azure swallowed hard, patting his chest as he coughed. 

“There. It should work within the next minute. Happy now?” 

Atiri beamed, brighter than the sun that shines down upon them. “Yes.”

Time passed like a cloud’s path over the sun. The sky was now dark and littered with stars that glittered wondrously. These were the moments Azure would wait for all day.  

The two sat against the rugs, each taking turns gazing through the fancy telescope Domhnall had given him. Every time Azure noticed a constellation, he would turn away to jot it down on a piece of parchment, his drawings so gorgeous they deserved to be looked at by everyone. 

As he turned away to draw more stars, Atiri would pull the telescope down towards her so she could peek through its eye piece. Though she hadn’t the faintest clue as to what she was looking at, she still appreciated the spectacle. 

Suddenly, Atiri froze. “Oh no! I’m late!”

Azure looked from his parchment, tilting the brim of his hat up to look at her. “Late? For what?” 

Atiri had already begun collecting the basket, pushing herself up from her seat and nearly tripping over the ripples within the rug. “Tatiana said to be back by sundown!” 

Azure glanced up to the black sky plastered with stars. “Ah. Well yes, then. You’re definitely late.” 

“She is going to be so angry!” Atiri exclaimed, dropping the sorcerer’s litham into his lap, allowing him to wrap it back around his face. 

“Eh, she tends to do that. I doubt she’ll maul you alive though.” Azure chuckled, moving the telescope so he, too, could get up onto his feet. He brushes the sand off from his clothes, wrapping himself in his cloak when a particularly cold gust of wind brushes past them. 

“Do you think my baba is back yet?” Atiri asked.

“Hm, no, not yet. He prefers to travel at night. Says that’s when he’s the most alert.” Azure hummed to himself. “Strange man, your father.” 

Atiri was too busy worrying about finding the lid to the basket to say anything further, which Azure ended up finding strewn near the tent opening. The girl thanked the sorcerer before making her way back down the hill. 

Travelling back into the village at night was much easier, the desert chill washing away any sweat she accumulated during the day. Cicadas whirred from within the dark, while the lights of the village she approached flickered. Atiri looked towards the calm river, watching the silhouettes of cranes sleeping on one leg along its waters. 

Eventually, she made it up the rocky slope leading to the watchtower, opening the wooden door only to find the pardoner missing from her usual seat. Atiri grew confused, dropping the basket as she scanned the room. 

“Tatiana?” The girl called into the empty room. But to no avail. 

Atiri knew she should have stayed in the watchtower and waited for either the pardoner or her father to return, but… something seemed off. The quill and scroll were simply left out, and her usual chair was left untucked, as if she had been in a rush.

Atiri closed the wooden door with a thud, putting her back under the night sky and making her way back down the slope. That was when she noticed it. A small sandstone home draped in colourful rugs and silk, lit up by a multitude of candles. 

In truth, Atiri had noticed this house before. It was hard not to, at least for her, as it was not a part of the village, along the main road. Instead, similarly to the house her and Domhnall stayed in, it was out of the way. However, whenever Atiri asked about the house, both Tatiana and Domhnall would brush her off. Especially Tatiana. 

Atiri made her way over to the hut, up until she stood at its entrance. Clusters of candles, all practically melting into each other, were placed at the entrance, which was covered with a veil. Potted plants and what looked to be various gifts were all laid out around the house. Atiri even recognised a few of the pots as Norma’s. Who did this house belong to?

The girl crept closer to the entrance drapes, now able to hear the whispering that emitted from within. Atiri barely discerned the voice of Tatiana, which was strange, considering the pardoner’s voice always managed to put her on edge. This time, her voice was quiet, almost worried. Tatiana was never worried. The second voice, however, she couldn’t even hear fully. 

Curiosity taking hold, Atiri lifted the drapes to the entrance, peeking inside. Her breath was taken away when she caught a glimpse of her. Tatiana was kneeling, worry etched on her face whilst holding the hand of a woman sitting on a chair. 

The mysterious woman must have been the most beautiful, ethereal woman the little girl had ever seen. She was seated, poised and calm. Her skin was a dark, syrup brown, her long hair made up of black curls that nearly reached the ground and draped along the chair. Her hair was partially concealed by a silk head drape, one that was a deep red, with gold designs woven into it. The woman’s face was kind, a direct opposite of Tatiana. One thing that stood out, however, was the way the woman did not look at the pardoner directly, simply gazing at her lap. Infact, the pupils of her eyes were vacant and white, umbrellaed by long lashes. 

It was almost as if the woman in the chair sensed Atiri’s presence, because she bent down to whisper to the pardoner, who immediately stiffened, icy eyes darting over to the little girl. Atiri came out from behind the veil, already bracing herself for the lecture when Tatiana stood up.

“Atiri!” Tatiana hissed through clenched teeth. “You cannot simply listen in on things! What are you doing–”

Suddenly, though, the seated woman placed a soothing hand against Tatiana’s bare arm, which seemed to almost put the pardoner under a spell, for she stopped whatever she was about to do. 

“Fear not, Valda. She has not offended me.” The woman suddenly spoke, her voice soft and whimsical, yet was carried out across the entire room.

“I–... Yes, my lady.” The edges of Tatiana’s face softened as she spoke. 

“So this is her, then?” The woman turned back to Atiri, eyes blank but smile warm. “Come hither, child. Do not be afraid.” 

Atiri, timid and shy within the presence of this woman, shuffled towards where she was seated comfortably. The woman’s long dress reached the floor, spreading out against the ground like the petals of a flower. 

Tatiana moved to the side silently, motioning Atiri closer, allowing the woman to reach a hand up. Her fingers gently brushed the girl’s hair out from her face, dusting off whatever sand had plastered against her skin. The space was silent as the woman felt out Atiri’s face with her hands. 

“And what is your name, dear?” The woman asked quietly. 

“Atiri…” the girl replied even quieter, glancing over to Tatiana, who simply nodded. “What.. what is yours?”

The woman smiled brightly. “My name is Maewyn.” 

“She is the village’s Firekeeper.” An unexpected, but very familiar chirpy voice came from the entrance. 

Atiri wiped her head around from Maewyn so she could see who had appeared behind her. 

“Baba!” Atiri exclaimed, bolting over to Domhnall, who set his various equipment down so he could catch the little girl when she leapt up to him. 

The two embraced each other, Atiri so happy to see him she didn’t even care that he stunk of sweat. The man pulled down his litham, the eyes behind his round glasses crinkling up. 

“The Firekeepers, from the book I read to you. Remember?” Domhnall asked her, and she nodded eagerly. 

“Ah, so he returns. Your daughter here aided me in delivering purging stones to the villagers.” Tatiana spoke from her place by Maewyn’s side, a hand placed upon the woman’s shoulder. 

“Did she? How wonderful!” 

“And returned late , might I add.” Tatiana sighed, raising a sharp brow. 

“She’s young, Valda. Let her find her own footing,” Maewyn lectured quietly, yet still in an endearing manner. 

Domhnall looked at Atiri, who was now resting a sleepy head against his shoulder. He chuckled, looking at the two women. “Well then, I should put her to bed.” He paused, demeanour faltering for a moment. “Is everything alright?” 

Tatiana’s eyes grew anxious, looking at Maewyn, who simply nodded her head. “Yes dear. I am alright. Just some pain– as well as needing my shackles loosened a bit.” 

Both Tatiana and Domhnall frowned, glancing at each other. The pardoner squeezed the Firekeeper’s shoulder, a silent gesture to let her know she was there for her. 

Maewyn placed a hand atop the pardoner’s pale one. “I… feel my sisters dying, at times. It hurts.” She tilted her head up. “But this is normal. So please, leave me in solitude for a moment.” 

That was both the pardoner and the merchant’s cue to begin leaving the hut. Domhnall held the slumbering Atiri in his arms as he pushed the veil open, glancing back for a moment when he didn’t hear the clicking of boots following him. 

Tatiana was crouched again, placing a gentle kiss against Maewyn’s cheek, and Domhnall turned away, sighing and shaking his head sadly. 

Chapter Text

La Fraternité Des Hommes

“Oscar. Oscaaar. Hé! Écoutes-tu?”

Oscar jolted out of his thoughts, blinking repeatedly at his brother. 

“Hm? Désolé , Ricard. What were you saying again?” 

Ricard dead panned, gold brows raising irritably. “You’re staring at her. Again.”

It took a few moments for Oscar to understand what he meant before laughing. He turned to look across the long dining table, over to the other side of the spacious room. The gold candle holders lined the dark, stone walls, illuminating the banners of blue silk. Standing composed, platter and jug in each hand, was a servant girl. Marie Claude.

She was Oscar’s age, and was only a young girl when her family had begun serving his. Her family hailed from the far off lands of Carthus, yet he was surprised with how quickly she picked up French. Though, Oscar could tell she was still self-conscious of her pronunciation, as she stayed silent most of the time.

Marie sensed Oscar’s gaze, glancing over to him from over the jug she held. Her skin was caramel brown and her curly hair was tucked back into a linen coif. She smiled back at Oscar, freckled cheeks turning darker. 

“Oscar!” Ricard hissed again, the wooden chair he sat in creaking next to him. “Father is still speaking!”

Oscar felt his face hurt from smiling, turning back to face his brother. “ Pardon, pardon .” Oscar looked down the dining table, around the flickering candles and plattered food, over to his father, who sat at the head of the table. “What is he talking about?” Oscar whispered over to Ricard, realising he had tuned out his father’s ramblings for too long.

Ricard shrugged. “The war. As per usual. He says the Carim knights are using Thorolund as a vantage point against us.”

Oscar frowned at his brother. “That’s not good.”

“Are you boys listening?” 

Both brothers startled, turning their heads to look down the table and at their father. 

“I am,” Ricard quickly chimed in, side-eyeing Oscar. 

“About Carim and Thorolund, right?” Oscar asked. “Why does Thorolund even do anything for them anymore?”

Their father sighed, thick brows knitting together as he scratched his lush gold beard. “Because they’re both Way of the White bastards. Everything goes out the window when it comes to religion.” The large man twirled his fork within his fingers. “The various Astoran houses believe we are lacking in knights to lead troops into battle. Hence why we are not taking action.”

Oscar practically shot out of his chair. “Then you have thought about my request? To knight me?” 

Oscar heard Ricard sink back into his chair, and his grandmother, who sat adjacent to their father, raised a sharp white brow. Their father chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t be so eager to rush into battle, boy. However, I will ponder on the request.”

Oscar sighed, leaning back in his chair. He looked over to Ricard, who had his eyes downcast, suddenly very interested in the rug below the table. 

“There is nothing pleasurable about killing, no matter the sin committed. You boys better understand that before running head first into battle,” his grandmother lectured, eyeing their father. “You have a lineage to keep up. Can’t have your heir running off and getting himself killed.” 

This always seemed to happen at the dinner table. They would sit and listen to their family members fight, and somehow it would always lead back to Oscar’s ever approaching role.

Marie had come around with the jug to refill Oscar’s chalice, to which he smiled warmly and thanked her. She said nothing, only nodding her head, before offering to pour some for Ricard. His brother only held his hand over his own cup, silently telling her he was finished. 

Suddenly, Ricard got out of his seat, excusing himself from the table. Their father waved him off, leaving Oscar to contemplate his brother’s strange behaviour.

Oscar locked eyes with Marie again, and his brother was quickly forgotten. 

The sun had fallen, down below the horizon, giving way to a bright and crescent moon. The villages within the burg were silent– partially because there was little to no life within them, however Oscar did not want to think about that. Instead, he made his way through the vacant road that wove its way through the small stone huts in comfortable silence, staring up at the black sky. 

From Firelink Shrine, Oscar made his way towards the Undead Parish by way of the lower Burg. Shades of brown and green clouded his vision through his visor, as he made his way past various small stone homes barded off by wooden planks. Piles of Hollow bodies were set aflame. They burned fiercely and created large clouds of smoke that reeked of human flesh. 

Oscar had run into a few rabid dogs along the path through the village, most probably dobermans formerly used by soldiers and knights as forms of torture. They had ugly, sharp snarls, and were skinned completely, leaving only beat red flesh upon their scrawny bones. Whenever they bolted towards Oscar, their claws created loud scraping grounds against the stone path.

The dogs attacked savagely, leaping out at Oscar to try and rip apart his armour and meat with their teeth. There were quite a lot of them throughout the burning village, which was odd. Perhaps they had been used to round up and force civilians into their homes– a vision Oscar did not want in his head.

Now this was only a minor inconvenience, as he had decided to go this way to avoid the Taurus Demon guarding the upper half, as well as the red Drake. Or at least that was what the knight thought, before running into the Taurus Deast’s soul remains. Larger than the average soul, and a strange colour. It was simply floating there, thick white light flickering about an inch off the ground. 

Oscar glanced up, towards the stone wall that towered over the village. The other Undead must have gotten to the Undead Parish already, then. But why was the demon’s soul all the way down here? The knight leaned in closer to inspect the grass the soul hovered over. It was coated in crimson blood, with the blades of grass pressed to the ground. The Undead must have pushed the demon from the top of the wall, killing the beast as soon as it hit the bottom. 

How unusual , Oscar thought to himself. This Undead must certainly be the strong type indeed. Perhaps they were a noble knight such as himself? Or a large beast of a man? Oscar could wonder all night about this other Undead if it was not for–

“Help!”

Oscar’s shoulders squared, fists tightening around his sword and shield as he instinctively went into fighting position. He quickly glanced around the remains of the village through the slit of his helmet, trying to make out the owner of the voice. 

“Someone– Anyone! Please, let me out of here!”

There was the voice again! It sounded like it belonged to a young man, but it was muffled somewhat. Oscar crept down the path, scanning all the houses and doors, as he weaved his way through shattered crates and barrels. This could very well be a trap, but it could just as much be someone in dire need of saving. 

“Help me! Unlock the door!” 

The voice calling for help led the knight to a square, wooden door. It was embedded into a small stone house, with old vines blanketing it, perfectly framing the door. Someone was stuck in the house, it seemed.

The man had begun muttering to himself in defeat. “Damn… I’m finished. How did this happen–?” 

“Hello? Are you alright?” Oscar called back out, sheathing his sword and strapping his shield back so he could press his gloved hands against the door, trying to peer in through the thin cracks. 

The man seemed to light up immediately, voice sounding utterly rejoiced. “Yes! Yes, i– in here! I’m locked from within!” 

Oscar looked around, crouching down to examine the lock within the door's rustic handle. He didn’t have whatever key fit this hole, yet still looked through the leather pack at his hip. When he couldn’t find anything, Oscar attempted to toggle the handle. The door didn’t open an inch, only creaking loudly at his efforts.

Oscar sighed to himself. “Ok. Step back from the door! I am going to break it down.” 

The man did as asked, the sounds of his boots shuffling back from the door quickly. The knight stepped away before charging into the wooden surface, metal shoulder pad first. The door gave way in an instant under his brute force, collapsing to the floor and kicking up dirt as it fell. 

Oscar groaned, his strong hand coming up to hold his aching shoulder, before looking up into the opened entrance. 

The knight peered through his visor to see a man standing completely stiff at the end of the small room, right up against a cluster of barrels. He was pale white, his eyes green and wide, staring at Oscar as if the door collapsing had startled him. His hair– a stark contrast to his skin– was a deep burnt sienna, parted down the middle so the hair perfectly framed his face. He adorned a peculiar set of clothes: Black gloves, an ornate, black sorcerer’s cloak, and a black and gold cap which sat upon his head. In one gloved hand, he held a wooden catalyst– in the other, he held a circular, leather shield. He was no knight, nor a warrior or cleric– that was for sure. 

“Brilliant! You’ve got it opened!” The man exclaimed, relieved as he dusted the dirt that had flown over to him and on his cloak. 

Oscar watched as the pale man meticulously adjusted his small hat. The knight smiled, but remembered his helmet, so he instead nodded to him. 

The man began to walk out of the confines of the small room, taking a deep breath of fresh, night air. “Thank you; I am saved.” he said, chuckling bashfully. “I thought I might never escape!” 

Oscar stepped back from the opening to allow the other to get out. “Of course. I am happy to be of assistance.” The knight slightly bowed down, metal clad hand against his chest. 

The man still seemed to be a little unsettled by the whole ordeal– which is understandable when you’ve been stuck within a burning, war ridden village for who knows how long. Yet he still managed to put on a polite smile, extending a hand out for Oscar to shake. 

“I am Griggs of Vinheim. A sorcerer of the kingdom’s school.” 

The knight shook Grigg’s hand. Of course! He should have guessed Vinheim. From the sorcerer’s fancy attire to the pale complexion, his appearance practically yelled the kingdom’s name. A kingdom full of great scholars and researchers, grand architecture and towers that reached the clouds, and an illustrious school full of elitist magicians. 

Oscar tilted the pointed nose of his visor. “I am Sir Oscar of Astora.” 

Griggs laughed, scanning the knight from head to toe. “Well, yes. I could have certainly guessed that. The colours of your tabard gave it away. And– of course– the sword. You must be of nobility with equipment like that.” 

Oscar raised a brow at the sorcerer’s taunting, whether it was intentional or not. But he kept going. 

“I knew I’d be meeting a large variety of travellers in Lordran, but an Astoran noble is quite unexpected. Tell me, which house do you come from? Were you banished?” 

“My background is not of importance.” Oscar suddenly said, trying to conceal the sudden snap of his tone. 

Griggs stopped, quickly realising he had been prattling on. His demeanour fell, plunging the two into an awkward silence. The sorcerer absently traced his catalyst with slim fingers.

Griggs cleared his throat. “Either way, I am much obliged for your assistance. Now, I may resume my travels. You see, I was separated from my master. We came to Lodran together and–” The sorcerer’s green eyes shot behind him like daggers. “SIR OSCAR! BEHIND YOU!”

Oscar’s heart stuttered as he attempted to both unsheathe his sword, take out his shield, and turn around all in one, swift action. But it wasn’t fast enough, because someone had grabbed him from behind, holding a small knife to the exposed skin at his neck. 

Griggs’ reflexes were unexpectedly smooth, as he freed one hand to pull out his own knife, throwing it just past the knight’s helmet. The blade just barely missed him, instead slicing right into his assailant. The weapon made a deadly “ Thunk ” sound, blood spitting out onto the side of Oscar’s helm. 

Oscar turned around once the dead body had fallen limp to the grassy floor, a knife sticking out from right between its beady-red eyes. It had a black face covering and tight clothes. A Hollow and most probably a thief. 

The knight was rather bewildered, as he stared back towards the sorcerer. “Does this school of yours normally teach everyone that as well?” 

Griggs looked off to the side, walking up to hover over the thief’s dead body and pluck the knife from out of its skull. “No, not usually.” Oscar watched as the sorcerer in black wiped the blood off from the weapon with his gloves. “My background, however, is not of importance.”

The knight bit his tongue, sighing as he looked around the abandoned village. “It isn’t safe here. I know somewhere you can stop by and wait for your master. Are you familiar with Firelink Shrine?” 

Griggs looked up, huffing. “Well, yes, obviously. Me and my master didn’t just arrive here without any planning.” He paused. “But… tell me the directions to it anyways.” 

Oscar rolled his eyes, but nonetheless pointed back down the road he came from with a gauntleted hand. “Down that way, and up a flight of stairs that will take you into a sewage system. It’ll be your last opening to the left. I killed everything that way, so you shouldn’t have much trouble.”

Griggs seemed grateful, even if it meant he’d have to traverse the nauseating sewers. The sorcerer tipped his hat down towards the knight, smiling politely, before taking his leave back to Firelink Shrine. Oscar watched as the sorcerer carefully stepped over the skinned corpses of the dead dobermans, weaving his way past burning fires and puddles of blood. 

Oscar, now a little more on edge from having his throat almost slit, kept his weapons at the ready, as he made his way across empty roads and up winding flights of stairs. 

Time felt eternal as Oscar slowly worked his way up the different levels of the forlorn Burg. He made his way up stair after stair, and down hallway after hallway, but at the very least the suffocating smell of smoke and ash began to subside. He had to lift his visor up for a moment just to vent out the smoke and cough into his arm. 

Oscar now stood at an incredibly long ladder, its metal so overused its contents have turned an ugly green. He glanced upwards, trying to make out where the ladder stopped. It looked as if it went on forever, which was a good thing if Oscar wanted to get all the way up to the parish. 

A bit unsure of its stability, Oscar put his weapons back in their usual place, before reaching a hand out to shake it. It wobbled like thin pieces of wood and made a creaking sound that echoed all the way up. That wasn’t… reassuring.

Oscar wasn’t exactly the heaviest of men, but his weight, plus the mass of all his armour might very well bring this ladder down. But… it really was the only way up. He didn’t have much of a choice. 

So, praying to every God out there, Oscar held into the bars, cautiously climbing his way up the ladder. The structure creaked and groaned under his weight, but it had yet to give out. Oscar was unsure whether he should go as quickly as possible or as slowly. 

Surprisingly, the ladder had stayed in its place as Oscar began to near the very top. He could spot beams of ghostly white moonlight filter in from the top, which encouraged him to climb faster. 

Oscar was so, tantalisingly close, when suddenly the ladder began to… move?

It was falling over! Oscar tried to reach out for the ledge, but as he tilted with the ladder, he was too far. As quickly as he could, he made it up the last level of the ladder, before leaping across to just barely grasp the edge. 

“ Oh dieux! ” Oscar yelled out, hanging on for dear life.

The flimsy ladder plummeted down to the ground below him, the eerie sound of its metal clattering to the stone floor echoing up the hall. Oscar didn’t look down, attempting to haul himself up with his arm. The leather of his glove grew wet with condensed water, causing him to lose his grip. 

“ Aide-moi! ” Oscar yelped out, convinced no one would be able to hear him, as his grip faltered. 

Oscar clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the impact of the hard ground, but it never came.  As the deafening sound of his heart began to cease its rattling within his helm, Oscar realised that something had grabbed his hand.

Oscar slowly looked up to see two, strong bare hands gripping his arm. He looked further up to see what he could only describe as the most beautiful man he had ever seen. A strong face, bright blue eyes, and long, golden hair tied back into a ponytail. 

Before Oscar could react in any way, the man had already begun to haul the other up to safety. He was rather surprised how easily this man was able to lift him. 

Once both feet were planted on the ground, and he could finally breathe again, Oscar turned to thank his saviour. 

“Thank you. I– hadn’t expected it to fall over.” Oscar chuckled bashfully. 

The man smiled at him, like a radiant sun. The mounted torches gave a vibrant look to his hair that looked almost holy. Oscar was quick to notice the man’s rather colourful attire. But most noticeably was the orange and yellow sun that was painted onto his white tabard. A paladin, perhaps? A follower of the sun?

The man let out a laugh. “It does happen to the best of us.” Oscar watched as he bent down to pick up his great helm, which curiously enough had a bright feather sticking out of its stop. “I heard you yelling and came as quickly as possible.”

He paused for a moment, scanning Oscar with blue eyes as he tucked his helm under his arm. Oscar deflated, already bracing himself to yet again be recognised as blue blood. But instead…

“ Tu parles français? ” 

Oscar startled, jerking his head to the man, unable to help the smile that appeared from under his own helmet. 

“ Vous êtes Astoran? ” Oscar asked back, rather in disbelief. 

The man smiled again, bowing down to Oscar. “Solaire of Astora.” 

Oscar pushed away the after shock of nearly falling to his death, bowing down as well. “Oscar of Astora.” 

Solaire heartily patted Oscar’s shoulder, before slipping his helm back over his head, concealing all but his spirited eyes. “It really is a fascinating coincidence that we run into each other! And just as I had begun to feel homesick!” 

Oscar understood that, to a very deep level. It calmed something within him to meet someone from his home. He looked up to Solaire. “Are you, by any chance, taking on the Undead journey as well?”

Solaire tilted his head, feather flapping slightly in his movements. Suddenly he seemed to understand what Oscar meant. “Oh! No, no, I am not. I am embarking on my very own journey.” 

“Ah.” Oscar nodded. So this wasn't the other Undead, then.

“But.” He perked up when Solaire continued. “There was someone else who was on that very journey. They already made their way into the Undead Parish, and I promised I would aid them in their battles.” 

So this Undead has already made it to the parish, then. Perhaps he can continue with Solaire, and see this task completed. 

“Then, may I travel with you to the Undead Parish? I only want to see these bells be rung, so that we may all be freed.” 

Solaire nodded excitedly, helm glinting under firelight. “Yes. Certainly, friend.”

The two knights had started to make their way out of the stone hall, side by side, until they made it out to open air. The night sky was still as beautiful as always. The stars bounced off both men’s armour pieces, making them sparkle. 

“Personally,” Solaire began next to him, as they made their way down to an open gate. “I prefer the mornings. Night makes me… rather anxious.” 

Oscar looked at him, the air around them deafeningly quiet. “I understand that. Darkness… is the root of evil.” He looked to the sky again, as they made their way past the gate and up a winding flight of stairs. 

He spotted something up above, standing at the top of a watchtower to their right. The figure was completely black in the knight, but Oscar recognised what it was by its height and the two pointed tips of its helmet. A Black Knight. It didn’t see them, instead looking off towards the road ahead of them.

The path leading to the Undead Parish opening laid just before them, but the spiral staircase to the watchtower was right off to their side. 

Oscar silently nudged Solaire, motioning the point of his helmet upward. Solaire seemed confused at first, but quickly spotted the black figure as well. The two knights looked at each other, eyes meeting through the slits of their helmets. 

It was as if a silent message had been passed between them, for both men knew exactly how to go about this. They made their way to the entrance of the narrow stairs, before Oscar brought out his weapons, tapping the edge of his shield against the surrounding stone walls of the staircase, allowing the noise to echo up. 

Just as expected, the Black Knight was alerted, the harrowing sounds of its metallic footsteps stomping down the spiralling steps. Solaire quickly brought out his weapons as well, the depiction of yet another painted sun upon his round shield presenting itself, before hiding off to the side. 

They stood there on both sides of the entrance, waiting silently for the knight to make its way down. Then, like a figure of nightmares emerging from the shadows, it appeared from out of the watchtower. Its armour was pointed, and its large sword was so heavy it rested against its broad shoulder. It was a faceless being, with no voice and no task outside of serving Lord Gwyn. So set on that task, it didn’t even realise their Lord was long gone. 

Before the Black Knight could spot them, Oscar skillfully swerved behind it, thrusting his sword up into its armoured back. It had little to no impact, only causing the knight to turn, grabbing Oscar by his tabard and throwing him to the stone floor. The hulking figure raised its heavy, ebony sword, ready to slice through Oscar’s armour in one blow.

Unfortunately, a Black Knight’s armour is one of a kind, made up of material so strong it was nearly impossible to break it with a regular sword. However, Oscar was well aware of this. He just needed to distract the knight for Solaire. 

Right on time, a flash of bright light burst from behind the Black Knight, creating a loud thundering sound, before piercing its back. The Black Knight was paralyzed for a moment, allowing Oscar to roll out of its way. He watched as Solaire used his talisman to slowly conjure yet another spear of pure lightning, before using a strong and steady arm to throw it against the knight. 

Whilst Solaire did that, Oscar readied his weapons. The knight rose its sword above its head once again, thrusting the harsh edge right at Oscar’s chest. He held his breath, holding his shield with a steady arm, when the sword just barely made contact with its ornate surface. 

It was then that Oscar swiftly, yet forcefully, swung his shield outwards. The large black sword went with it, being pushed by the shield’s force, leaving the Black Knight’s torso open and unprotected. A perfect parry. 

At the same time Oscar thrusted his sword forward, piercing it through its armour, Solaire let loose another lighting spear, striking the knight through its armour. 

The Black Knight let out an inhuman howl that rattled the ground beneath them, before collapsing to its knees. Both men watched in awe as the knight began dissolving into a kind of glowing ash that blew away with the wind. And it was like nothing had been there at all. It was as if the knight had been a ghost.

Oscar looked to Solaire, who was tucking his talisman back into his leather belt. Oscar held his gloved hand out to the flaying ash, but it just wafted up and away. 

“How strange…” He muttered, rubbing two fingers together. 

Solaire laughed, metal sabatons thudding as he walked up to Oscar, putting an arm around him. “Quite a few strange things have been happening lately, hahaha! ” 

Oscar smiled from under his helm, but he knew Solaire could tell by the crinkle of his eyes. The sun had begun to rise, steadily creeping over the horizon and turning the night sky from black to glorious shades of red and orange. Beams of light bore through clouds setting the two knight’s various metal equipment ablaze.

Solaire motioned forward down to the Undead Parish. “Shall we?”

Oscar stood at the manor’s balcony, elbows resting gently against the railing, the deep sky looming above him. He stood alone, with only the gust of wind and the chirping of birds to accompany his thoughts. 

His blond hair bellowed at the same time the branches of the far off trees did. He gazed over the large city of Astora, as well as the far off hills and valleys that stretched on forever. It was hard to think about him inheriting his father’s place. 

“Oscar.”

The wise voice of his grandmother arose from behind him. Oscar turned around to meet her watchful gaze. 

“Your father has agreed to let you be knighted.”

Oscar lit up in an instant. “Truly?”

“Only,” His grandmother began sternly. “If you pass the trials.” 

He felt pride swell from within his chest. “Certainly. I will make this family proud.” 

His smile faltered, however, when he noticed his grandmother didn’t seem too happy. In fact, she seemed worried, frown lines deep and eyes sullen. 

“Oscar…” She began, and Oscar knew she was going to tell him more words of wisdom. “You shan’t be too hasty to participate in violence. L'obscurité est le catalyseur de la malédiction qui nous consumera tous .” 

Oscar frowned, now matching his grandmother’s attitude as she approached him, her long dress trailing behind her. 

“The flame fades…”

“And only dark will remain.” Oscar finished for her. 

She nodded, wrinkly hands bedecked in gold rings folding onto each other. “Fear the dark, Oscar. Don’t be tempted by it.”

Chapter Text

The Halberd

The sounds of metal clanking against metal echoed rhythmically, bouncing against thick, stone walls. The gentle sounds of fire crackling was soothing to the ear, making the area warm and cosy. Everything else was quiet, with wind occasionally blowing down the stairs from above. Birds distantly cooed and chirped from outside, signalling that yet another day had arrived. 

The hard floor she rested upon was dirty and old, but Atiri couldn’t have cared less. Her vision was fuzzy as her eyes slowly fluttered open. The first thing that met her sight was the ever familiar, reassuring sight of the bonfire, still as bright and as radiant as ever. 

Atiri groaned in response to the light assaulting her eyes, pulling up the small, tattered cover Andre had let her use. 

“Atiri! Ye awake yet?” 

Speaking of Andre. Atiri forced herself out of the comforting embrace of sleep, glancing down at herself. The bonfire had healed her various bruises and eased the bubbling burn marks across her skin. Like she had never been maimed in the first place. 

Atiri tucked the loose pendant she had grown accustomed to wearing into her blouse before hauling herself up onto her feet, the cover still snug around her shoulders. She wiped away the saliva on her chin, spitting out strands of hair that had gotten into her mouth. 

Atiri had left her leather sandals strewn about the ground, so she went down the wooden stairs barefooted. The creak of her weight against the old planks signalled to the blacksmith that she was making her way down to him. Atiri eventually made it to the last step, into Andre’s small workshop.

“Ah, there she is. Hope ye managed ta sleep well with all my ruckus, hehe ,” Andre let out a gruff chuckle, placing his heavy hammer down against his anvil. 

Atiri smiled at him, “No, actually. The sounds are nice to fall asleep to.” She pulled the cover off from around her and set it against his work table, right next to his other various equipment. “Thank you for the blanket.” 

Andre scratched his grey beard, large brows raising. “No worries. By how ye stumbled in lookin’, I thought ye might need a few moments ta pass out.”

Atiri watched as the blacksmith bent down from his seat to rummage through his pile of creations. A large variety of swords, shields of all shapes and sizes, helmets and chainmail shirts, and a plethora of colourful looking rocks, all piled up in wooden crates. Finally, Andre pulled out a simple, metal chest plate. It bounced the torchlight off of its rounded surface, revealing some ornate designs inlaid within the rims. 

“Finished this one for ye, after ye mentioned havin’ trouble with being pierced there.” Andre used a large, gloved fist to knock against its sleek surface, testing its contents. “This’ll keep that from happenin’ as often.” 

Atiri beamed, taking the chest piece from Andre. It unlatched from the side, allowing it to open up. She smoothed down her crumpled blouse, tucking her pendant safely under the fabric, before sticking her arms through the holes and closing it so that it was snug against her chest. She awkwardly imitated Andre by knocking against it.

“And it's just yer size, too. Though it might hurt the chest a bit. So I suggest puttin’ some kind of paddin’ in there.” Andre studied his work. “Sorry, Atiri. I don’t make armour too often for lasses.” 

“Oh no, mae'n iawn! I will make it work.” Atiri smiled down at herself before patting her harem pants for souls, pulling out a pathetically small clump of white wisps. “Here. I don’t have too much, but I promise the next couple I get will go to you.”

Andre was a large, hulking man, with some of the most prominent muscles Atiri had ever seen. He was always hunched over his work, skin made a deep tan from the amount of dirt and ash plastered onto him. His silver white hair and beard were ruffled and unkempt, thick beard sticking out in nearly all directions. He was shirtless, allowing Atiri to see his Dark Sign, which was veiny and spiralled out his left pectoral like a leathery spider.

Andre waved a hand. “Ahh, don’t worry about it too much.” 

Atiri’s eyes wandered around the workshop, quickly noticing the opening to– what was this time– a stone stairway. It led even further down, which Atiri didn’t know was possible. However, there was no form of torch light emitting from within the stairwell, shrouding it in darkness and making it impossible to see beyond.

“What is down there?” Atiri asked suddenly, causing Andre to glance up. 

The blacksmith looked over to the ominous opening, as if he had forgotten it was even there. “Ah. It’s nothin’. It leads lower to what many call the Darkroot Garden.” He paused for a moment, scratching his nose. “Now, you’re trying ta get ta the First Bell, aye?” 

Atiri brightened. “Yes! It’s at the top of the church across from here, right?”

The blacksmith gave an affirmative nod. “Aye. This is the old church. It was abandoned in favour of the church ye passed by. But this place still serves a purpose or two. There are paths leadin’ from here ta two forbidden planes. Darkroot Garden– which I had mentioned earlier– and Sen’s Fortress, which has its path on the same floor as the bonfire.” Andre sniffed, brows furrowing as he tried to recall as much as possible. “If yer going ta the First Bell, you’d make yer way back up and out of this church, then right across ta the new one. There should be a series of stairs leadin’ up ta the new church’s roof. You’ll climb the roof, then it's a straight shot from there to the bell.” 

Atiri seemed very relieved that it really wasn’t much further, but suddenly remembered the large beast of a knight that guarded the new church’s nave. 

She opened her mouth to mention it when the sudden sounds of armoured shoes thudded their way down the flimsy wooden steps. Atiri jolted, muscles tensing, and she crouched into some sort of fight-or-flight position, ready to greet the intruder with anything she had to. 

Instead, however, Andre barked out a laugh, one that bounced off the walls and up the winding stairs above them, practically making the planks of wood rattle. Atiri grew confused, eyes rapidly bouncing from the blacksmith to the stairs. The footsteps ceased their descent down the stairs. 

“Andre?” A jovial, yet deep voice called out. “Is that you, old friend?” 

Atiri watched with wide eyes as a plump knight appeared, making his way into Andre’s workshop and halting at the base of the stairs. His armour was rotund and shinned a platinum silver, with a large helmet that resembled an onion. His pauldrons were large, as well as his breastplate, which was pot-bellied and strapped with a leather belt. 

The strange knight scanned the room, before pulling off his onion-shaped helmet, revealing his beaming face. His face, much like his armour, was round, plump cheeks rosy and strong. He had black hair that was slicked back, as well as a distinguished black moustache. 

“Andre! You old fool!” The knight let out a boisterous laugh that rumbled the floor beneath them. 

“Well if it isn’t Sir Onion himself!” Andre called out, before pushing his chair back with a screech and getting up. 

Atiri, frozen in bewilderment, stepped back from the centre of the room and allowed the two men to give each other a strong hug. “I can’t believe you’re still here!” the knight exclaimed, giving a hard pat against the blacksmith’s shoulder.

Andre chuckled. “It’s what I’ve always done. How goes ye travels?” 

“Still on-going! Thought a trip through Sen’s Fortress would be quite the adventure.”

Andre raised a brow. “Now wait just a moment. Ye can’t just wander into dangerous territory for the hell of it! Ye need ta be more careful.” 

Both men paused for a moment, before bursting into laughter again, causing Atiri to smile confusedly, glancing back and forth between the two awkwardly. 

“How’s the kid?” 

The knight sighed. “Last I checked, she was healthy and well.”

Andre frowned. “Ya still haven’t gone back?”

“Better to not risk infecting them.” 

The blacksmith nodded, then looked over at Atiri, who was still standing awkwardly off to the side under the workshop’s torchlight. 

Andre grinned widely under his beard. “Ahh. Atiri, this be Siegmeyer.” 

“Of Catarina!” Siegmeyer pipped in, making his way towards her with an extended hand. 

Atiri took it, noticing how firm and strong the knight’s grip was. She grinned. “And can I call you Sir Onion?”

Andre snorted from behind them, causing Siegmeyer to furrow his dark brows. “I’d prefer you not. We knights of Catarina will not be,” the knight eyed comically behind him, “ disrespected in such a distasteful way.”

Atiri’s smile wavered, unsure whether or not he was still joking with her. Though, she supposed it was rather offensive to have your faction be compared to a vegetable. 

“This one is making her way ta the First Bell. She wants ta fulfill the prophecy.” 

Siegmeyer brightened, eyes lighting up in surprise. “Oh! Do you? How very noble!” His large gauntleted hand patted her shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of her. “You’re in the right place, I’ll tell you that! It’s just above us!” 

“Aye.” Andre laughed. “Already told her that.”

Siegmeyer rolled his eyes, turning back to Andre. “Anyways, my shield got a bit chipped on the way over.” Atiri watched as the knight pulled out the small shield. It was circular with a small spike at its centre. Andre took the shield from him, examining it closely through squinted eyes. “I’ll pay you four hundred souls to fix it.” 

“Aye, I can fix this easily. Just a few minutes is all I’ll need.” 

Siegmeyer seemed content with that, stretching his back and putting a hand on his armoured hips, while the other held onto his helmet. 

“Uhm, Syr Siegmeyer?” Atiri asked suddenly. 

The knight turned to her, thick eyebrows high on his forehead. “Hmm? Yes dear?” 

Atiri wasn’t sure how to go about this, gusturing vaguely back above them. “There is a… large knight guarding the new church. The one I need to get into. He nearly killed me and I… was wondering if you could aid me.”

Andre looked up. “Ah, so that was all the ruckus I heard.” 

Atiri glanced at her feet, absently remembering she had left her sandals on the upper floor, suddenly feeling rather foolish of herself. “I’m not strong enough.” 

Siegmeyer frowned. “Nonsense! No such thing! You just need a little bit of help to get you on your feet.” The knight patted his pot belly. “Never fear! Siegmeyer of Catarina will aid you!” He glanced behind him, back towards Andre and his anvil. “While his uh, shield gets repaired.”

Atiri couldn’t help but smile, watching as Siegmeyer slipped his wide helmet back on, hearing the metallic click as he strapped it to his face. Now, his eyes could only be seen through the dark, narrow slit within the wide surface. 

“Ok!” Siegmeyer grabbed his large zweihander sword, heaving it up so that it rested comfortably against his shoulder. “Andre, I will return.” He began to make his way back up the wooden stairs, the planks bending under his weight. 

Andre waved them off, returning to meticulously work away at the knight’s shield, keen eyes that could only belong to that of someone who has been at this task for years, scanning the broken surface. Atiri quickly made her way close behind the ascending knight, steps much quieter against the steps. 

Suddenly, she remembered something. “Oh! Andre?” She called down the stairs, letting her voice funnel into the smith’s workshop.

“Aye?” Andre called in return.

“The lift in the new church– I was told it's the short way from here, back to Firelink Shrine. It is… broken, I believe.” She paused, making sure her question wasn’t an idiotic one. “Could you fix it? It doesn’t matter how long it takes, and I’ll give you all the souls I have.” Atiri stopped. Why did she even want to return to the Shrine? Sure, if she wanted to ring the Second Bell as well, Firelink might just be the fastest way of passage. But, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to… them.

“Aye. I can get ta that in just a moment. Just clear out that big fellow for me, so I can get my tools up there.”

“Ok,” Atiri responded, before promptly making her way up the first set of stairs, back up to the bonfire. 

She grabbed her sandals, strapping them back on her feet with only some struggling, as she fumbled with the straps. Her mind was somewhat distracted for a moment, noticing for the first time the passageway Andre had mentioned. The one that led to this mysterious “Sen’s Fortress.” She stared down the long, stone path, head tilted as she examined how the dark trees parted to make way. At the end, was another large portcullis, its latticed grille a deep metal and sealed tightly, letting little to no sunlight beyond its perimeters. Petrus was right, this place really was layer after layer of defences. Was this really all to keep Undead distanced from Lord Gwyn’s offspring?  

“Atiri? Are you alright?” The gruff voice of Siegmeyer called down from the exit, snapping Atiri’s attention back to what she was doing. 

“Yes! Sori syr! ”

She eventually made it back under the sun, out of the dark stairwell. The crumbled down old church lay in ruins, broken pillars and fallen walls surrounding them. It was nice, though, to know this forlorn place was made into somebody's home. 

The knight awaited her arrival at the half-arch way leading out, sword comfortably stuck into the rubble as he rested his hands atop its pommel. 

“Ready?” Siegmeyer asked, before pausing. He slowly scanned her with the subtle tilt of his helmet. “Where is your weapon?” 

Atiri clenched her jaw, tan face flushing as she timidly unsheathed her tiny dagger. The gold and jewels encrusted into its handle and scabbard still glittered wondrously, the fancy words inlaid into its blade still a reminder that she knows nothing. Unfortunately, its beauty was much more than its usefulness. Granted, it was the only reason she had made it thus far.

Siegmeyer stared at her through his helmet, making it impossible for her to read his emotions. But his silence was deafening.

“You jest?” he asked in disbelief, but Atiri could hear the smile spreading across his face from under his moustache.

“No. I uh… this was the only weapon left with me when I awoke.” Atiri also couldn’t help her lips from twitching as she began to realise how doltish she must appear to him. 

“No wonder you nearly died! You cannot fight a heavy set with just a dagger!” Siegmeyer let out a loud laugh, before quickly stopping to make sure said “heavy set” wouldn’t hear them. “We must get you a new one. This won’t do. There should be some stranded weapons of all sorts within the church, I’m sure of it.” 

Atiri realised he was right, gazing down at her dagger. Together, the two made their way out of the forsaken church, down the same stone pathway lined with broken pillars of marble Atiri had nearly died on before. At this point, it’s almost as if she had begun to grow numb to the deaths. That isn’t to say she didn’t fear it, but recalling the large knight, holding the massive mace above her as she laid on the ground– she didn’t feel any kind of urge to run from here. In fact, she felt like approaching the knight again… and again… and again . Just to prove– whether that be to herself or to someone else– that there was no mistake made in saving her. If that bull demon she had killed was any proof, she didn’t know what was.

“So,” Atiri began, as they walked down the path, greenery and the chirping of birds surrounding them. “You hail from Catarina? What is it like?” 

Siegmeyer, whose footsteps clanked and his armour rattled as he walked, seemed rejoiced when she asked about his home. “Ahh, Catarina… It is a fine place. Full of merry-making and festivals. The villages are filled with colours and food and drink– not to mention we have the best brew in all the lands!” Siegmeyer chuckled. “It is a pretty fantastic kingdom, but then again– I may be a tad biassed. Hahaha! ”

The sounds of fallen leaves crunched under their soles, as the sun peaked through clusters of trees to illuminate the surprisingly peaceful area. 

“That sounds really nice,” Atiri commented. 

Siegmeyer turned to her. “And what of you? You look Eastern but… have this rather heavy accent I cannot quite identify. And your clothing, too. Not like any Easterner I’ve ever met.” 

Atiri shook her head, blowing hot air out of her nostrils. “I wish I knew. I hardly remember anything outside of my name.” She used the tip of her sandal to kick a stray rock. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t belong here. Hopefully, this journey will give me purpose, so that I don’t hollow long enough for me to find out who I am.” 

The Catarina knight nodded understandably, demeanour suddenly shifting. “That is a sound plan, Atiri.” He heaved a rumbling sigh, one that bounced off the inside of his helmet. “This curse can, and will, take everything from us. It makes men and women lose their sense of self. Makes them lose so much that many either hollow, or go absolutely mad. Many of us are cast-outs from our homes. Atiri, you are as lost and ‘unbelonging’ as everyone else is. Including myself.” 

Atiri looked at Siegmeyer, gold eyes deep, yet still managed to give him a silent nod in understanding. The air that surrounded them felt hopeless, as gusts of wind tousled the branches of trees looming above their heads. It was then that she snapped out of her depressive thoughts, realising that they now stood at the new church’s means of entry, the same place she had been nearly pummelled by the massive knight.

“Right, so,” Siegmeyer held out his zweihander sword, using its pointed edge to motion towards the arch opening, then guided Atiri’s attention to the few Hollow soldiers that now stood guard. “I will take care of the big bugger, whilst you take out the Hollows.” 

Atiri narrowed her eyes at the Hollows, crouching down instinctively. There were three of them: Two wielding a sword and shield, and the third held a bow, with a quiver strapped to its bony hip. That shouldn’t be too complicated. 

Atiri quickly searched through her pouch for anything that she may need to have on hand. She was fresh out of bombs, so no explosions or fires would be used here. Before she could continue to look through her supplies, Siegmeyer let out a battle cry, one that startled Atiri so hard she nearly dropped her dagger. 

With owlish eyes, she watched as the plump knight charged towards the entrance, getting the attention of everything around them. Atiri didn’t waste any time sprinting off to the side, dagger held firmly by its grip as she leapt towards the archer, who was distracted by Siegmeyer’s… diversion? 

She was quick to slash the archer’s leathery neck, its cut-off screech now attracting the attention of the two other soldiers. They hobbled to her on gaunt legs, rotten shields held out in front of them. 

Atiri began making her way towards them when Siegmeyer let out another yell from within the church’s nave. Suddenly, the monster of a knight crashed out of the arch entrance, falling flat in between Atiri and the Hollow soldiers. The fall shook the ground, the loose pieces of the architecture around them falling. 

Not long after, Siegmeyer leapt out, striking the massive knight while it was still down. Atiri’s mind rushed, ultimately deciding to bolt around the two tussling knights before the Hollow soldiers could attack Siegmeyer. 

She made it to the opposite side, slinking behind the two, before slamming the Hollows’ heads together. Their skulls made an eerie crack sound before the both of them slumped over, completely limp against the floor. Atiri kicked their bodies off to the side, freezing when the large knight began to haul itself back up to its feet. 

Atiri helped Siegmeyer get back up to his feet, or at least tried to with the sheer weight of his armour. She watched as the knight glared at her with pitch black eyes from under its dirty visor, mouth hanging ajar, as it stood tall. Atiri yelped out when it attempted to slam its monstrous pavise shield into them, as they both rolled out of the way. 

Siegmeyer grunted from under his helmet, swinging his hefty sword so that it slashed across the knight’s arm. The knight howled, a sound that caused the birds hiding within the trees to fly away, the sudden beating of many tiny wings drowned out by the loud thumping of Atiri’s heart from under her breastplate. 

With one violent swing, the large knight used its dark mace to send Siegmeyer into the ground, metal against metal nearly causing the stone floor to crack. The Catarinian let out a pained heave of air as his sword clattered to the stone floor. 

Atiri began to break out in a cold sweat, feeling as if her veins were coursing with hot blood. She gripped her dagger tightly, so hard her knuckles went white, feeling the clumpy blood from the Hollow archer trickle down to her fist. 

“ Hei! ” Atiri called out. “ Edrychwch yma can tun sydd wedi gordyfu! ”

The large knight jerked its head up from Siegmeyer, glowering at her from under its visor before–

Thunk!

The hilt of her dagger now stuck out of the knight’s left eye socket, dark blood spurting out of its face like a fountain. Atiri stood there, frozen in her throwing position. Her legs were bent, torso tilted forward so her shoulders aligned with her right leg, left arm outstretched rigidly. She watched as the knight toppled over, the sound of its heavy armour making contact with the ground rang through her ears like an echo. Dust and rubble were kicked up with its fall, creating a cloud that wafted over to her. 

Atiri jumped back when its corpse began to disintegrate into ash, its skin and armour deteriorating until its remains drifted off into the sky. Golden, glistening grains of dust caressed her face, which she batted away promptly, making her way to Siegmeyer.

“Are you alright, Syr Siegmeyer?” Atiri crouched down, hauling the man to his feet– or at least tried to, as the knight simply fell flat on his rump.

Siegmeyer coughed, thumping his chest as air began to flow back into his lungs. “Yes, yes! Just fine dear. I’m a tad rusty, I will admit that. Having my shield with me would have surely helped, hahaha! ” He finally managed to get himself to his feet, letting Atiri hold onto his arm so as to help him balance. “I must say, You have a fantastic aim! A true sharp-eye. And–” Siegmeyer waltzed over to unstuck Atiri’s dagger from the knight’s hollowed eye socket, holding it up by the bloody blade for Atiri to take. “You are left-handed! The only soldiers traditionally trained left-handed are from Carim!” 

Atiri took the handle of her blade, furrowing her purple brows. “ Sori , Carim? I have never heard of that place.” 

Siegmeyer nodded, picking his sword back up off of the ground and swiping a hand against the flat of its blade. “Ahh, well. It’s uh, quite the opposite of Catarina, I’ll say that as much. Full of very strict codes and rather cold people. I’ve never been, but I heard they treat their women as poorly as they treat their livestock. And Thorolund– Ohh don’t get me started on Thorolund –” 

Atiri had tuned him out, captivated by the entryway and what lay beyond it. “Syr Siegmeyer? Why is this place so heavily guarded?” 

Siegmeyer looked up, slowly following her lead as the two of them made their way under the arch. 

“I… am not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever been here. Andre might know, but…” he trailed off slowly, as they were led into the church’s nave, warm, condensed air brushing past them as they made entry. 

The church was breathtaking, but in an “old ruins” sort of way. The nave wasn’t incredibly long, leading over to what could only be the very lift that was broken. The one that would take her back down to Firelink Shrine. It looked as if it had not been used in centuries, its metal turned red with rot and vines cluttered in messy bunches around it. Atiri’s eyes continued around the church.

To their right was the altar of the church. The recessed wall of the apse depicted a calm scene of wildlife and greenery, and it glittered and danced under candlelight. A motherly figure loomed in the centre of the apse, gazing blindly at the child she held beneath the domed roof. The statue was made of white marble, her dress flowing around her gracefully. Placed on each of her sides were two candle holders, with silver arms curved outwards to connect little birds taking flight, their silver wings glittering in the dim light. 

Before the statue, was a sacrificial bed, where a shrivelled up body laid there, lifeless. Its body was corroding, limps curled into itself as if in fear. Unsurprisingly, the Dark Sign rested visibly against the corpse’s chest. But that was the only identifiable thing about it, for its face was nothing but a skeletal outline of flesh.

Atiri felt a slight nudge from Siegmeyer. “A Firekeeper, most likely.” The knight whispered to her, sadness heavy in his voice. 

Atiri gazed back at the offering, as Siegmeyer slipped off his helmet and bowed his sweaty head down. Atiri did the same as Siegmeyer, feeling an uncomfortable pit form within her chest. Was this church also a place full of devastation? Was nowhere safe from the cruel tendencies of human kind?

After a quiet moment, the two looked down the hall where rows of wooden benches were meticulously placed, and down to the main entrance, which sat wide open. The silhouettes of three Hollow knights guarded the entrance, the sunlight beaming in through open doors. 

“Does this loop around back to the parish’s big gate?” Atiri leaned over to the knight, whispering.

Siegmeyer paused. “I… believe so. Yes.”

Atiri glanced back ahead. “Good.” She was quiet for a moment, before her eyes narrowed. “Syr Siegmeyer, may I try something?” 

The knight looked to her, thick eyebrows raised curiously. “Uhm, well– by all means. Go ahead.”

Slowly, as to make no sound, Atiri opened her satchel, pulling out three of the daggers she had purchased from the Hollow merchant. She raised one, left arm pulled bag. Thunk! One fell to the ground suddenly, the knife now sticking out of its exposed head. Thunk! Another one fell before it could react. Thunk! Atiri realised the last one had been wearing a flimsy helm, which the knife knocked off instead. 

Atiri quickly fumbled through her satchel again to take out another knife. Thunk! And the final knight fell to the ground with a thud, its flimsy metal clattering against the stone and echoing back down the nave’s hall. 

Siegmeyer’s eyes widened, glancing over to Atiri. “And you say you aren’t strong. Now where did you learn to do such a thing?” 

Atiri seemed as surprised as him, staring down at her hands. “I don’t remember.” She paused. “The last knife nearly slipped out of my grip, though.”

Siegmeyer chuckled. “Ah, well hand coverings or wrapping should fix that!” The knight stretched his back, or at least attempted to with his thick armour. “Now, I am going to head back to Andre and see how my shield is doing. My journey leads me elsewhere, towards Sen’s Fortress. So if you ever need me, you know where to search for me.”

Atiri stared at Siegmeyer. “But the gate is sealed, no? You know how to open it?”

Siegmeyer laughed, the sound vibrating from within his gut. “No, you are correct. I haven’t a clue how to open it. I plan to simply… wait.”

“You plan to just… wait? ” Atiri tilted her head, frowning. “What if that takes you forever? What if it never opens?” 

Siegmeyer smiled, moustache quirking up and cheeks growing full. “Perhaps! But us Undead have forever to spare. Where’s the harm in sitting and waiting, hm?” 

Atiri tilted her head, feeling as if the response answered nothing. First Solaire, now this Siegmyer? Is it really that hard for Undead to find a purpose, something to keep their spirits up for all eternity. An unattainable goal?

Either way, Atiri watched as Siegmeyer began to wander out of the church. “Oh! And I will let Andre know to fix that lift.” He called back to her, before disappearing around a pillar. 

Atiri gazed back down the row, now vacant of any guards or soldiers. She made her way across, past wooden bench after wooden bench, noticing the opal statues of women bearing candle sticks that were placed against the walls, to illuminate her way. Their faces had long corroded, unrecognisable, but their toga dresses wrapped their bodies, enhancing their hour-glass forms. 

She had to step around a few rubble pieces and over a few broken bench legs, but eventually began making her way down a short flight of stairs. The steps lead her to the main entrance, which was large and served as the main source of light within the church. Its wooden doors were wide open, allowing for easy access. 

The sun rested high within the air, beating down on her as she exited the church, walking out to a spacious area. Before her, stood the very same portcullis that had been closed on her, its gate still sealed to the stone ground, overlooking the flaming mess that resided beyond it. 

It was then she spotted the damned Hollow who had closed it, standing off to the side next to the lever that controlled it, peering through the latticed grille of the gate. 

Atiri glowered at it, face darkened by the overcast of her bangs as she lowered her head, eyes practically boring holes into its bony back as she stomped over. She was quick to unsheath her small dagger once again, the action creating a small shink sound due to the sheer force. 

She closed the distance between her and the Hollow, grabbing its gaunt shoulder and violently turning it so that it knew who killed it. She raised her dagger, gripped painfully tight in her fist, her nostrils flaring and teeth gritting as a surprising amount of anger coursed through her. The dagger was still, raised high in the air and causing the sharp blade to glow beneath the sun. 

But the dagger never came down. Instead, she stood there, frozen like the statues within the church. The Hollow before her didn’t attempt an attack, all it did was curl into itself, frail hands raised above its head, shaking as if every fibre in its body had gone cold. Its toothless mouth hung loose, strands of fearful whimpers falling out. 

As she stared down at the Hollow, Atiri’s eyes slowly softened. She felt the muscles in her body relax, as she began to question why she was this angry in the first place. She just… couldn’t do it. 

With an exhausted sigh, Atiri allowed her dagger to lower, loosening her grip around the Hollow’s shoulder. She stepped back, gazing down at the Hollow as it didn’t even get up, simply shrivelling into itself on the ground shaking, blackened eyes peeking at her from under its arms almost hopefully. Atiri felt sadness grip her heart, as she quietly stepped around the Hollow so that she could pull the lever. 

It was a bit tough to push back up, but with a loud creak and some crumbling rust, it began to move. Atiri watched as the portcullis slowly lifted itself, the sound of its old iron and wood like that of old bones, as the smoke before it filtered in through its opening. It seemed to take an eternity for it to open all the way, which was frustrating when it didn’t seem to have nearly the trouble when closing. 

Atiri stepped back, yelping out when she tripped on something metallic. She jerked her head to glance at the floor, taken slightly aback by what had been placed there. She looked around for the Hollow that had just been there, but it was nowhere to be seen, gone as soon as it had left the weapon there. It was old, rustic and scuffed, its pole so used the red paint was barely visible. It was long, like many pole-arms, and had a sharply curved blade.

Atiri bent down to pick it up, wiping some of the grime off from the blade, meeting her own reflection. 

A halberd. 

Chapter Text

Lapis Caeruleus

The wooden comb was carefully threaded through her golden hair, over and over again, within a rhythmic dance. Rhea silently stared out the side window, as radiant morning light seeped through the glass as if it came straight from the heavens, casting down onto her bedroom floor. A small, white dove tapped lightly against the glass, grooming its feathery wings as its dark, beady eyes looked around curiously. The cooing that the bird produced was like music to her ears. 

Various lady servants flitted around young Rhea as she sat poised on a wooden chair, facing a small desk. One servant had come in with a jug of clean water and a soft cloth, two more waltzed in to help Rhea get into a graceful white dress, and another had recently come in to tend to Rhea’s hair. The woman was mostly silent behind her, outside of chastising her for having tangled hair, something Rhea ( though she really had no control over ) felt badly about. 

“Where am I going today?” Rhea suddenly asked, her voice small as large blue eyes gazed at the woman through her mirror’s reflection. 

The servant didn’t look up from her task. “You are to make your way down to have breakfast, then you will be sent off to the nunnery for the day.” 

Rhea made a quiet, almost disappointed “Oh” in response. She winced slightly when the comb snagged on a piece of hair, the servant tugging on it tightly and holding her head in place as she did so. 

“ Will… will Annora be there?” 

The woman paused brushing for a moment, silent. “I am not sure. Apparently, she’s been rather ill most days. According to Father Petrus, she can hardly get out of bed, much less work at the nunnery.” 

Rhea’s eyes deepend with uncertainty, as she looked down at the gold belt tied around her waist, worrying the ends of it. 

“That reminds me,” The woman began again, finishing up with her hair and placing the comb down against the table. “Your father has specifically requested that you do not play with those common boys again.” 

Rhea turned around to look her in the eyes. “What? But I–” She trailed off, quickly remembering herself. Her father had the last say in everything, and his commands were nonnegotiable. 

Rhea was silent as the lady servant left her to go and make her bed. The room was hollow, and when the maiden turned to look back at the window, the dove had flown away. Rhea slid out of her chair, standing up on her feet and neatly brushing down her ivory white dress. The door leading out of her bedroom was wide open, but she stopped for a moment.

Rhea turned back to her desk table, pulling out a small drawer. In it, was a plethora of different jewellery ranging from rings and necklaces to brooches. However the only thing she ever really wore was a simple locket. The same one her mother had gifted her. 

Rhea pulled it out, its gold glittering beneath morning rays of sun that filtered through the windows. Her mother had bestowed it to her when she was an infant. It was tradition, that when she would bear her very own children, married off to a noble house, that she would continue the cycle. In fact, the day she had been born, her father had already chosen a noble boy to be her husband. Her fate, so neatly laid out in front of her. 

Without a second more of keeping her father waiting, Rhea donned on the locket, letting it rest perfectly against her pale collar bone. She made her way out of her bedroom, still gazing down at herself, marvelling at the way her beautiful dress flowed around her like a flower. 

Her dress was filthy. That was all she could seem to think about. The once white silk of her robe was now soiled in ash, grime, and other mire she didn’t want to ponder on. The continuous feeling of bile rising up her throat wouldn’t cease, just barely managing to keep it down lest she embarrass herself. 

Their group had made it so far down into the Catacombs, Rhea had lost track of time. They hadn’t seen the sun in so long, just endless dampness and darkness, with the occasional torches of dim fire. However, that was only if they were lucky. 

The trek itself had led them through a series of confusing trails and bottomless holes, where the top priority was to locate the necromancer who controlled that area’s cadavers. Every necromancer had been shifty, blending into the shadows and vanishing within throngs of skeletons as if they were a figment of their collective imagination. And everytime their group had managed to corner one, Rhea would cover her eyes or just leave the room entirely as Petrus tore it apart. 

To put it lightly; this place was an utter nightmare. A nightmare that felt as if it was curated by the gods, to test just how stable each cleric’s faith was. Rhea knew her faith was above all, and that as daughter of Thorolund, her position was particularly special to the gods. She knew that if all else failed, she would still have her faith and her family name to keep her sane. That being said, she couldn’t help but look forward to the moment they found the holy rite and begin their journey out of the forsaken Catacombs. 

“I heard Gravelord Nito had a wife, once.” 

Rhea looked up ahead of her, where Vince and Nico thoughtlessly chatted as they walked, most likely in an attempt to keep their spirits up.

“Hmh.” Came Nico’s otiose response.

Vince continued, nudging Nico’s arm. “ And I heard he has his own covenant. A group of faithless heretics, no doubt.” 

Rhea sighed to herself, too exhausted to give her two cents on the subject. She continued to hoist the skirt of her robe up, allowing her to step around bits and pieces of decaying flesh and bone. Her other gloved hand daintily pinched her nose closed, the mysterious scents attempting to assault her sinuses, as the group of clerics slowly but surely made their way down a long, pointed cave.

Vince continued on. “What were they called? The… Nito…No, no–”

“Gravelord servants.” 

The three looked up to Petrus, who continued on ahead of them, his skull lantern outstretched and illuminating their winding path. 

Vince silently glanced over to Nico, who merely shrugged. “Hey, Petrus, how do you know so much about the Catacombs, anyways?” 

For a moment, Rhea wasn’t sure Petrus would bother to answer at all. But she had to admit she was just as curious as Vince. She just had a little more restraint, as well as ( admittedly ) a bit more fear. 

“I’ve spent my entire Undead life making trips through the Catacombs. It is my duty to know.” Petrus answered, his voice was back to his usual, stern tone that Rhea was so accustomed to hearing. At least he was not enraged with them anymore, she thought to herself. 

However, it was Vince’s next comment that seemed to return the air around them to its tense state. “If that’s true, then why have all the other clerics before us failed? Must be a pretty poor guide if–” 

Rhea jumped when Nico harshly jabbed the other boy in the midsection of his leather chest piece, just before he could dig himself a deeper hole. 

Finally, the cave they had been walking through led out into an open area, shrouded in darkness. Cold air suddenly gusted past them, as if they had entered a place haunted by a thousand trapped spirits, leaving the icy chill of death to accompany them. Rhea looked up, realising that this place was a large ravine, one that stretched up so high one was unable to see the sky. The grand walls of ancient rock towered over them, leaving them no choice but to push on forward. The most haunting aspect of this ravine, though, was that its floor was completely made up of bones. Like a desert, dunes of pure bones surrounded the clerics. 

Petrus didn’t say anything for a long moment, still focused on trudging down the path before them. All at once, the three clerics had become unsure, and Rhea couldn’t help but feel sick to her stomach with anxiety. It was a completely valid question, however. Why wasn’t he answering? Is there a beast waiting for them down here that he had yet to apprise them of? Is there an upcoming trial that will be the most gruesome one yet? Was he trying to protect them by not saying something? Rhea, noticing Vince and Nico’s own distress, brought up both hands to place on each of their shoulders. She needed them to stay strong. That's what she told the two using only her eyes. She was nothing alone. 

Just as the silence became deafening, it was interrupted by… wooden wheels?

“Bonewheels…” Petrus hissed suddenly, causing all three of them to become on edge, hastily glancing around to spot whatever he was talking about. “Stay behind me. All of you.”

Rhea watched as the men held their weapons firmly, spiked edges gleaming orange under the hanging skull lantern. The maiden desperately tried to peer past the darkness, struggling to make out any movement around them. The sound simply kept going, like a wooden cart being rolled down a small hill. A cart that was… coming closer… to her?

From the shadows, a spiked wheel flew directly at her face. She had never screamed so loud in her entire life, the sounds vibrating up the ravine as she crouched to the ground, only soiling her dress further. She instinctively pressed her gloved hands together in prayer, as if immediately handing her life over to the gods. 

The “Bonewheel” barreled past her, just barely grazing her hooded head. The men around her called out her name, as she was abruptly pulled out of harm’s way by Vince and Nico, both boys gripping her arms so as to safely haul her, as she stumbled into a puddle of water. She watched owlishly as the two Bonewheels reared around, spikes grating against piles of bones and making a noise that caused her to cringe. The ones controlling the wheels were non other than some skeletons, who were sitting inside the wheels like some kind of horrid torture device. 

“Move! Out of their path!” Petrus called out, before the Bonewheels began to barrel towards them once again.

The clerics all leapt out of the way, with Rhea gripping onto Vince for dear life. Their shoes sloshed around in murky water, as she struggled to move fast enough. 

The spiked wheels swept past them, cutting through the air around them like a blade. Vince promptly held out his mace, ready to bolt after the wheels, before being halted by Petrus. 

“ Don’t ,” the older cleric ordered. “Wait until they cease rolling.”

Through the dull glow of the skull lantern, Rhea could make out his frown, as their eyes attempted to follow the wheels’ path through the darkness. It was incredibly eerie, the way the sounds of creaking wheels echoed up. The way the noises bounced made it sound like there were many surrounding them.

Both wheels eventually crashed into heaping piles of their brethren, forcing them to come to a full stop and redirect their assault. It was then that both Nico and Vince swung their respective weapons, shattering the skeletons and their wheels apart. Their bones flew apart, only adding to the corroding parts that ladened the ground. 

Rhea startled when she heard yet another wheel from behind her, promptly leaping out of the way as swiftly as she could. One of the jagged points covering the wheel snagged on her ivory garb, causing it to tear and making her lose her footing against the unstable hills of bones. She toppled face-first into another damned puddle of stagnant water, the icy chill of it causing her skin to grow numb from under her robe. 

Rhea lifted her face from the water, eyes welded shut as she spat profusely. The sounds of more skeletons and wheels alike shattering filled the otherwise vacant ravine, as the cleric’s didn’t seem to have much trouble with crushing each one using the brutish force of their weapons. 

Rhea attempted to open her eyes and lift herself out of the puddle, but her vision stung dreadfully, as parts of decay infected her. At this point, she had grown accustomed to being grabbed and hauled around by the large hands of her companions. She knew immediately that this was Petrus, the warmth of his hand aiding in quenching the horrible chill that coated her person. 

“ Esne bonus? ” The older cleric asked, setting the skull lantern down to gently lift her up.

Rhea jolted slightly in surprise when Petrus began to wipe her eyes with his talisman, allowing her to see more clearly. The maiden blinked a few times, shivering slightly as her drenched robe clung uncomfortably to her skin. 

She looked up to Petrus, whose eyes were sullen and his eyebrows furrowed, etching deep lines in his face. “I am now. Thank you, Petrus.” 

He nodded curtly, before turning back to Vince and Nico. “The Tomb of Giants is just down this ravine. Keep your guard up in case more Bonewheels show themselves.” 

All three clerics nodded eagerly, following Petrus’ lead as he picked up the lantern once again. Without looking back, desperately trying to ignore the weird sounds emitting from within the blindspots that surrounded them. Rhea trailed closely, hiking her soaked dress up so as to keep herself from tripping and making a fool of herself again. In front of Petrus.

Rhea watched as they passed a series of jagged stones, which almost seemed to be closing in on them as they continued on. The ravine began to grow more narrow, walls decrepit and dark as fog made their path hazy. Vince and Nico both aided Rhea in stepping over scattered puddles, which were most likely the remains of what used to be a deep river of sorts. Or at least that was Rhea’s explanation of this madness. 

The ravine eventually got so narrow, it became more like a cave. Rhea took in a deep breath of whatever frigid air the ravine offered, before they delved further down underground. They eventually came to a breach in the path, however it was clear to Rhea which they would be taking, as the left only led to a dead end. So when Petrus began to take a left, she hesitantly tapped the metal plating of his arm. 

Petrus raised a brow, looking down at her, before he motioned up to… Oh . The left path did offer a further way in, it was simply a little higher up. Almost as if travellers were not meant to see it. 

Without any words, Petrus set the lantern down again, motioning for Rhea to go first. The maiden’s eyes flicked around doubtfully, watching as Petrus asked for either Vince or Nico to aid her in reaching the top. Vince was quick to graciously accept the role, crouching down on one knee and grasping Rhea’s dainty hand in his own. She smiled warmly at him, despite everything that was going on, and he beamed back as she was carefully hauled up. Rhea grasped onto the edge of the cave, allowing her to enter the secret path. 

Rhea stood still, watching as Petrus helped Vince, then Nico up and onto the same path. Nico turned back around, silently offering a hand down to the older cleric, but he merely waved him away, throwing up the lantern and using his own strength to haul himself to the top. 

Not a word was said between them, as if everyone began to sense a looming sort of dread. The feeling was almost like a very large wave, with the crest of its waters casting a shadow upon their group, ready to come crashing down onto them. Rhea felt her skin chill as for some odd reason her eyes kept darting over to Petrus. Even the cleric’s demeanour shifted visibly, which was rare considering he did such a good job at hiding it before. Something just wasn’t right. 

Rhea, sucking in air through her nose, walked a little faster so that she was right beside Petrus. Naturally, he sensed her, deep blue eyes meeting her own once more. 

“Yes?” he asked, though there was an odd rasp embedded within his tone. 

“I-” Rhea tried to start, clenching her talisman anxiously. “I wanted to ask you; Why didn’t we take that other route?” 

Petrus showed no emotion through his eyes, his face stoic as ever. “It leads to the resting place of Pinwheel, a servant of Gravelord Nito. The tomb is a dead end.” He looked ahead of their rocky path again. “This is the correct way.” 

Rhea wasn’t sure what it was, but she felt her chest grow painful, as the cold of her soiled clothes bit at her, pricking her flesh painfully like icy teeth. A part of her was praying he would offer some sort of comfort, but he did no such thing. The maiden was almost tempted to grasp him once again, hoping that his familiar warmth would help quench her anxiety. Just like he had done when she first became Undead. Just as he did when she was a child.

So, as softly as she could, Rhea reached out, placing an ivory gloved hand atop his own. Her heart plummeted when he abruptly moved his away from hers, not even looking her in the eyes as he did so. It was then that Rhea realised something was about to happen. Something terrible. And Petrus had no plans to tell her. 

Rhea had nearly allowed that ocean of tears to take her, as she dejectedly backed away from him. Neither Vince nor Nico seemed to notice anything, as they both continued being uncharacteristically quiet. 

Eventually, the cave stopped, opening up to what could have only been the fabled Tomb of Giants. These tombs, as the name suggests, were the resting places for some of the earliest humans. The giant folk. They were some of the first to experience Gravelord Nito’s infection of death, and were then buried alongside the god. Rhea had only heard stories– mere whispers from her servants, who had heard horrible things from paladins who had gone on pilgrimages. It is said that none who had gone down ever returned. Except for Petrus, that is. 

Immediately Rhea was hit with darkness. Complete, utter darkness. She desperately attempted to strain her eyes, trying to make out anything. But to no avail. The only form of light they had was the dimness of the skull lantern that hung from Petrus’ fist. That and a series of colourful, glowing stones scattered sparsely across the ground. They were very odd, and seemingly out of place, as if someone had arrived here before them, placing them in a sort of path. Except, the “path” these stones created was… scattered? Cut off? The stones ended abruptly in certain places and began in others. 

“This is the hard part.” Petrus stated sternly. “These tombs are shrouded in complete darkness for a reason. The risk of falling to one’s death is high. Follow my every step, lest you meet the fate of the many before you.” 

Rhea swallowed hard, noticing how Petrus’ lantern only helped illuminating a small space on the ground. She felt herself grow colder, though this time it wasn’t from the dampness of her dress. Rhea looked back at her two companions, only to regret it. Vince looked like a scared puppy, and Nico attempted to hide his own fearful expression under the metal brim of his helm. 

Petrus began to move forward, and the three closely followed. Darkness clouded her vision, as Rhea felt herself begin to grow tingly as she watched her steps. As if at any moment the ground under her would suddenly give way, and she plummeted to her demise. 

They were continuing on further into the darkness when Petrus stopped them abruptly. He eyed one of the colourful stones placed upon the ground. It didn’t help to illuminate anything around it, so what was its purpose?

“Right here.” Petrus whispered suddenly, motioning the lantern. “There’s a large drop here.” 

Rhea looked to Vince, who then looked to Nico, as they kept silent, fearing that even the slightest of noises would cause everything to erupt in chaos. They watched as Petrus used the point of his shoe to push the glittering stone, nudging it slightly. It didn’t take much before the stone fell off of a cliff Rhea didn’t even know was there. Horrified, they listened for the stone hitting the bottom, but it just kept falling. 

Rhea jolted when the stone finally made contact with the ground, its impact emitting an eerie noise that sounded as if it shattered. The sound was distant, yet funnelled upward, echoing like a thousand voices. 

Rhea hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath, as she instinctively gripped Vince ( Or was it Nico’s? ) arm through pitch black. After Petrus was done leaning horrifyingly close to the drop, holding the lantern out to try and decipher how large the fall extended, he stepped back. 

“These prism stones signify a drop.” He stated, not nearly as unsettled as the rest of the clerics. “This way.”  

Rhea followed behind the older cleric, eyes burning from how unblinking they had become. Her heart stuttered against her ribcage when her foot nudged something metallic, as it clattered to the ground. Rhea looked down, using what little light the lantern emitted to identify what it was. A broken lantern lay stranded against the floor, its cage so rusty it was barely identifiable. She scanned the ground further as they walked to find yet another one, which rested alongside a bowl and spoon. Rhea nearly tripped over a pile of used firewood, its ash kicking up and getting into her eyes. These must have been the former camping spots of many clerics before them, Rhea concluded apprehensively. 

“I don’t like this…” Vince suddenly whispered, sounding as if he was about to puke. 

Rhea nodded, fingers wound tightly around her talisman. “I do not either, Vince.” 

They continued on through the dark, each holding their breaths, anticipating something horrible to happen. Rhea spent that time trying to calm herself. Prayer didn’t help too much, so she resorted to staring at the little prism stones placed around. The one ahead was a bright yellow, which reminded her of the sun. Another one a bit far off was red, which she desperately tried to associate with anything other than blood. Roses , she concluded. Another one was a pure white, which she liked the most. It reminded her of Thorolund, of the pure ivory doves that sat at her window in the mornings. 

Rhea was pulled out of her thoughts when she heard Vince and Nico suck their breaths in. It was then that she realised Petrus had raised a hand to keep all of them behind him, as he stayed deathly quiet. And as Rhea squinted ahead, she soon understood why. 

Within the shadows, two, beady white dots stared right back at them. Eyes. They were eyes. Not only that, but the eyes were… high, about six feet taller than Petrus himself. Rhea felt as if her soul left her body, as the eyes bore into her flesh. Petrus made no move, standing perfectly still as if he was having some sort of stare-off. 

Suddenly, the eyes began to move, accompanied with thundering footsteps that sent vibrations through Rhea’s bones. The maiden didn’t even get a chance to see exactly what the thing was ( which was probably for the best, if she wanted to retain her sanity) before Petrus quickly motioned then to follow. 

The clerics hastily made their way as far away from the thing as possible, before they ran into yet another prism stone. 

“Go! There is a tomb here we can take downwards!” Petrus explained, panic rising in his voice as the thing grew closer, making the ground beneath their soles shake. 

Rhea’s eyes darted to Petrus’, and she shook her head when he pointed for her to go first. The older cleric frowned, gritting his teeth before nodding his head. “Fine. Then follow me!” 

The three watched as Petrus stepped on the giant’s decrepit tomb, which was apparently slanted, allowing for him to slide on down, just as he did when they first went into the Catacombs. He slid down with as much grace as he could while under pressure, before stopping at the bottom. He held out his lantern, the dim light illuminating where they should land. 

It was Rhea’s turn, then. She stepped onto the tomb, holding her dress up as her muscles tensed almost painfully. She had been about to slide down to join the older cleric when Vince yelped out. The thing had caught up to them, and before Rhea was able to process anything, her body began to move on its own, every fibre in her being screaming to run and make it to Petrus. Without thinking, she began sliding down the tomb, realising all too late that she was drifting a bit too far to the left. The thing that was now with Vince and Nico slammed something down onto the ground, causing bits and pieces of the tomb to crumble, just when Rhea lost her footing–

Suddenly, she was standing on nothing, her heart plummeting the same time her body did. Everything became unbearably dark, and not even her screams were heard over the ringing in her ears. 

“RHEA! NO! ”

The voices above her became nothing but echoes in her mind, as those last words bounced down with her. Her last thought wasn’t exactly a thought, per say, but more of a random realisation. 

That last prism stone, placed just before the tomb, was blue. 

Chapter Text

The First Bell Of Awakening

The flight of stairs were narrow and cold, with each step growing more and more awry. The church was pleasantly quiet, with only the sounds of wind filtering in through little windows, and down the long stone halls to accompany her. The greenery surrounding the outside of church bristled with each new gust, a few stray leaves managing to flutter into the sanctuary. 

Atiri’s footsteps bounced off the walls, slow and methodically, as she made her way up the various levels of the “new” church. Her hand absently brushed against the old walls, tracing the cracks and crevices inlaid within its weathered surface. Small, melting candles on dainty holders were sparsely mounted along the walls, flickering recklessly within the wind that funnelled through the interior. 

In her other hand, Atiri held her newfound halberd. It weighed within her grasp, the worn-out grip leaving grime on her hand. Nevertheless, she marvelled at its craftsmanship as if she had been the one to smith it. She was grateful that this weapon had been one of the only ones that she had found in one piece, with only light scuffs and a worn out shaft on which the sharp beak and blade sat. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she found that she gravitated toward this specific weapon. Perhaps it was the pleasant thought of not having to get up close and personal with every wretched enemy. 

Now, as she climbed the stairs, she hoped that in addition to getting to the bell, she would be able to find something on which  to test the weapon. Almost as if on cue, as the staircase made a sharp turn, a commander Hollow showed itself. It was poised, standing perfectly still at the top of the stairwell. Its rotting armour dully reflected sunlight off of its surface, as its flimsy, red cape billowed in the passing breeze.

The two locked eyes, forcing Atiri to quickly realise this was an uphill battle ( quite literally ). The Hollow surged forward, pointed rapier first, as it practically glided down the stairs. Atiri, two-handing the halberd, managed to thrust it forward just as she ducked down. The rapier missed her by a hair, whilst the halberd successfully penetrated the Hollow through its exposed, leathery stomach. 

The Hollow commander let out a guttural groan as it gagged up dark blood like a fountain. Atiri, twisting her wrists around the shaft, wrenched the point of the halberd further into its stomach so that it stuck out its back, causing what was left of featuring organs to topple out. 

“ Eugh… ” Atiri scrunched her nose, flicking filth off the halberd and suddenly feeling bad for whoever planned on preying within the sanctuary next. 

She stared at the long weapon, however, smiling to herself. She could certainly get used to this. 

From there, Atiri continued her path up, only occasionally tripping on the halberd’s shaft. She used the base of the weapon to push away any excess insides, making sure that it wouldn't sully her sandals, before reaching the top. 

The halls were vacant, lined with arch openings that gave way to a beautiful view. The wind flowing through caused Atiri’s hair to flutter in the wind, tickling her sweaty cheeks. From here, she could spot some of the burg, the home’s pointed roofs sticking up above throngs of trees and vines alike. The large stone wall she had traversed could also be seen, its parapet giving it a distinct silhouette from beneath the sun. 

The hall continued on, and so did Atiri. She smiled, though she didn’t know exactly why . Either it was the sweet relief of having found where she was supposed to go, miraculously making it through obstacle after obstacle, or if it was the cool breeze of air chilling the thin sheen of sweat that had accumulated on her. 

Atiri nearly fumbled over a loose stone within the floor when she saw three– no, no, six– oh gods, ten Hollows standing at the exit of the hall, just through the arch. They all blankly stared at her with their black sockets for eyes, grimey mouths slack open. Atiri had gotten used to looking at them, but the blistering red, thin flesh that covered their bodies still managed to make her gag. After the group seemed to process her intrusion, they began surging forward, small knives and shattered swords held out. 

Atiri moved her hands down the shaft to get a better grip, before positioning herself forward. The halberd made a loud swish sound, lopping off the heads of three of them. The girl watched as they thudded to the ground, decapitated bodies toppling over and allowing for the rest of the Hollows to get through the opening. 

Atiri was quickly overwhelmed with the amount of Hollows within the small hallway, and she did not have any torches to set them aflame this time. She attempted to swing her halberd again, but was stunned when the blade got caught against the stone wall, sparks flying off the old stone. She stumbled back, grunting as she soon realised this hall was too cramped for all of them. So, after ducking down when a Hollow attempted to slice her own head off, Atiri held the halberd stiffly in front of her as she pushed forward. The long shaft served to knock most of the Hollows out of her way, as she forced herself through the groaning crowd. 

Halberd first, she stumbled out of the hall and into a larger space. She nearly ran directly into a pillar, stopping herself just in time. Atiri swept the hair out of her face, turning back to the stunned crowd of Hollows, as they all struggled to get onto their gaunt legs. 

“ Hmh? ” 

Atiri heard him before she saw him, suddenly feeling a pang of searing, icey pain burst from her back. It felt as if a sharp rock had been driven into her shoulder blades, causing her to trip over the wooden legs of broken chairs and tables that were strewn around the upper level. Atiri knew one thing for certain, that was no attack of a Hollow. 

Just before she fell to the ground, she managed to plant the base of the halberd firmly against the ground, keeping her upright. She felt a chilling breath against her back, before she swung around to plant her fist within her mysterious assailant’s face. 

Atiri went pale, gold eyes widening in horror. Her blistered fist was stiff within the centre of a… face– no, no– helmet. A deep, royal blue helmet, with three sets of eyes and three noses. 

Atiri reeled back, grasping her now sore fist, as she owlishly scanned the figure. She must’ve been hallucinating. The figure was dressed in a luxurious, blue robe, bedecked in gold tassels and designs. Within its fist was a long, three pronged staff. It must be some kind of sorcerer , Atiri concluded, as its six, unblinking eyes continued to bore into her flesh. 

All hell broke loose when the strange sorcerer pointed its golden staff at Atiri, causing all of the Hollows to scream out and charge towards her. Atiri felt her soul jump out of her body momentarily as she made a run for it. She ran down the room, just barely evading more of the strange crystals that seemed to be emitting from the sorcerer’s staff, shattering to the stone floor like glass. 

Mind racing faster than her legs could move, she reared a corner, down what seemed to be another hall of pillars and boarded off windows. Thin strands of sunlight filtered in through openings, illuminating the path before her and aiding her in avoiding bits and pieces of rubble. She felt her lungs run dry from the air she heaved in, and she periodically glanced behind her. 

The rapid Hollows were hot on her tail, with crystallised beams of light raining down from the back of the crowd. Atiri shoved her way through yet another bewildered commander Hollow, ducking under its brittle legs and making her way up a short flight of stairs. 

The hall suddenly began to curve to the left before Atiri could realise it was a dead end. Her muscles tensed, eyes flicking around as the sounds of rumbling steps thudded up the stairs, accompanied by the harrowing groans of Hollows. Atiri pressed her back against a nearby wall, struggling with her halberd, as she attempted to unsheath her dagger as well, without a clue on how to use both of them at the same time. 

Without warning, the wall behind her gave way, causing Atiri to fall backwards. She felt as if her heart leapt up into her throat, as she managed to swallow her yelp and dart away and behind the wall. She quickly bent down to grab the fallen planks of wood, pushing them back up and into place to cover up whatever hidden passageway she had discovered. 

Atiri crouched there, hands placed firmly against the planks as she listened for the Hollows. Bare feet thudded past her, as they all reared the corner, only to find the same dead end. Confused groans emitted from the group, as the jingling footsteps of the large sorcerer joined them. They were all silent for a while, then began to make their way back past her. 

Atiri sucked in air through her teeth, staying perfectly still when the sorcerer’s footsteps slowly grew closer to her. Everything was silent for a moment, before the sorcerer lightly tapped the wooden planks the girl held up, as if testing its stability, causing her to jolt. She stayed silent, still, eyes welded shut as she wished desperately for the thing to leave her. 

After a painfully long silence, the sorcerer lost interest, and the sounds of its footsteps grew further and further down the hall from her. Atiri waited a bit longer, so as to be absolutely certain it wouldn’t hear here, before slumping backwards onto her rump. She sighed, swiping away the sweat on her forehead, and peered around the room. 

It was a small ( almost confiningly so), ill-lit area, with only a single candle mounted against the weathered walls. The flickering light illuminated the staircase that resided just behind her. It was a short flight of stairs, but was in a zig-zag pattern that led up to the top of the room. 

Atiri, getting up on her feet and dusting the dirt and mire off from her palms, grew curious. Perhaps this was the way up to the First Bell? She bent down to grab her halberd, before cautiously making her way up the stairs. She hoped, even while knowing it was unlikely, that there wasn’t another one of those… absurd sorcerers waiting for her at the top. What was that thing? It certainly seemed out of place, unlike any of the other rugged, deteriorating enemies she had encountered. Even its colours were completely new, something only the finest silks could emulate. Not to mention the sorcerer. Atiri couldn’t recall the last time she had witnessed sorcery like that– or ever, for that matter. How was she even able to recognise it was sorcery at all?

Atiri froze once she made it to the top of the stairs. 

There was… a thing sitting there, staring at her from behind bars. 

“Oh? Still human, are you?” The gravelly voice of a man emitted from under the bizarre helmet. 

Atiri’s legs tensed, tempted to run back down the stairs, but she remembered that it was behind bars, and therefore could not hurt her. So, she instead stepped closer to the rustic cell door. She hesitantly nodded at his question, realising that she was only making the interaction uncomfortable by staying completely silent.

“Then I am in luck. Could you help me?” the gold… man said. “As you can see, I am stuck, without remorse.” 

Atiri’s mouth was clamped tightly shut, as she scanned him through narrowed eyes. He was definitely stuck. He sat on the stone floor of his cell, almost casually. The way his armoured legs were positioned gave off the impression that he was bored. He had no face, at least not one that was visible to the world, as it was covered by an almost stranger helmet than the six eyed sorcerer. It was gold, but not a pristine, luxurious gold. It was a dirty, stained gold. The helmet had many holes, as well as a crown-like design at its top. His armour was just as odd as the helmet, as it was made up of many gold pieces, with off-red tassels to protect his loin area. Gold, stiff arms were the cherry on top of his armour, wrapped around his front, as if embracing him tenderly. For a split second, Atiri had to do a double take just to make sure he did not actually have two sets of arms.

Seemingly amused by her bewilderment, the strange golden man stilted his helmet, tapping a metallic finger against his knee. Atiri frowned down at him, taking a step away from the cell door. 

“What makes you think I have the key?” Atiri responded, trying to muster a tough scowl. 

Without saying anything, the man subtly pointed over to Atiri’s hip. She glanced down, embarrassed when she realised her collection of keys had nearly fallen out of her satchel in her fall, hanging limply and exposed at her side. 

She felt her skin become hot as she snatched the keys from out of her satchel. “Ok, well, what makes you think I am going to help you? I don’t even know who you are–”

“I am Knight Lautrec of Carim,” the man simply stated, voice bouncing off the inside of his helmet and out the various little holes. 

Carim. That was the kingdom Syr Siegmeyer had mentioned. “ Full of very strict codes and rather cold people ,” he had told her. He didn’t seem to like Carim all that much. 

“Are you left-handed?” Atiri suddenly asked. 

Lautrec looked up at her through the bars. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You’re from Carim, yeah? Are you left-handed?” Atiri reiterated, attempting to come across as more serious about the question than she actually was. She simply wanted to make sure he was willing to cooperate with her.

The golden knight stared at her, and even through the helmet she could tell he was having none of it. “Yes… I am left-handed…” 

Atiri nodded, satisfied with the answer for some reason. Yet she made no move to unlock and open the cell door. 

The two stared each other down for an uncomfortable amount of time, the cell room growing almost stuffy as the knight’s odd odour wafted over to her through the bars. 

“How long have you been in here?”

“Long enough.”

“Why do you sound like that?”

“Sound like what?”

“Like your lungs have been reduced to pulp.”

“... Why, how kind of you.”

More silence, until Atiri began again. “Why do you look like that? Are you a demon of some kind?”

“No, I am a human. This is my armour.”

“... It looks odd.”

“Says the whelp with purple hair.”

Atiri squinted at him. Fair enough , she thought. “Who put you in there?”

“That isn’t any of your business.”

“I am freeing you. It is nothing if not my business.”

Lautrec clenched his fist, clearly becoming agitated as he shut his mouth for a moment. “A erroneous Pardoner.”

Atiri paused. “A Pardoner?” 

Lautrec groaned, voice getting a bit louder. “Look– can you just release me?”

The girl stared at him still, scowling at him as she gripped the ring on which the variety of keys hung. Lautrec, with rapidly deteriorating patience, continued to stare back at her.

Atiri’s frown softened, suddenly breaking the silence once again. 

“Your armour is dirty.”

Lautrec sighed. “I know.”

“You should clean it.”

“... I know .”

They fell silent again, as Atiri battled and sorted through every thought that occurred within her at that very moment. She scrutinised him, debating on actually releasing him from his confinements before–

Lautrec glanced up when Atiri finally sighed. “Fine, I will let you out.” 

She held the keys up, the sound of them clattering together echoing down the stairs as she searched through the right one. She stepped closer to the cell door, examining the lock until she found the correct shape. The key had been the one she had found against the shrivelled up carcase, within the detour stairwell. 

Atiri held the key by its bow, inserting the withered pin and twisting it around until she heard a loud click sound. The lock fell to the ground, clattering loudly as she swung open the cell door. Soon after it had been opened, she reflexively took a few steps back, flipping the leather flap of her satchel and stuffing the keys back in. 

“I truly appreciate this, and I guarantee a reward… only later,” Lautrec said, though there was something off about his tone, how the gravel in his voice deepened suddenly. The man, however, made no move to get up, still seated on the cold, hard floor. 

Atiri eyed him, absently leaning on her halberd. A reward, huh? The more she thought about it, though, perhaps he could help her with the strange sorcerer. 

“Can my reward come now?” She paused for a moment, trying to read through the knight’s gold helmet. “I need help fighting off a few Hollows and a six eyed sorcerer.”

Lautrec scoffed, tilting his head. “You mean to tell me there is a Channeler here? And you need help taking him, along with some pathetic Hollows, down?” 

Atiri’s face began to burn again, a weird pain arising from beneath her chest plate as if she had just been slapped in front of a crowd. 

“I am going to lock this again if you do not get up,” Atiri stated plainly. 

Lautrec sighed. “I have just been freed. Allow me some time.” 

Atiri raised a brow. “ Iawn. ” She grasped the edge of the gate as she began to close it, the rustic metal making a loud screeching sound. 

The knight groaned, begrudgingly hauling himself up to his feet, his gold armour creaking with his movements. “Alright, alright. You impudent –” 

Atiri widened her eyes, brows disappearing under her bangs as if challenging him to say more. But Luatrec didn’t, as he dusted himself off with sharp movements. 

It wasn’t until now that Atiri noticed the menacing looking shotels. He had two, hanging limply at each side of his sharp hips, their thin, curved blades coated in dry blood. As Lautrec slowly stepped out of the cell, the dim light of the candles illuminated him more clearly. His armour was tainted in dry, rotting blood, which Atiri had originally thought was rust. Out of each hole from his helmet, red stains seemed to almost be seeping out. He hulked forward, a few feet taller than herself.

Atiri attempted to not appear intimidated by the knight, puffing out her chest and setting a firm hand on her hip. 

“Well,” she began. “Since you are so capable, then you won’t have a problem removing the threats from this church.” 

Lautrec stared down at her. “Ohh, certainly.” Atiri watched as he unsheathed both his shotels leisurely, using one of them to gesture back down the stairs and bowing ever so slightly. “After you.” 

Atiri clenched her jaw at his mockery, but didn’t feel like putting up a fight, so instead made her way back down the stone steps. ‘ Don’t bite the hand that feeds you .’ 

Once at the bottom, Atiri used the blunt side of her halberd to break away the wooden planks boarding off the way out, which created a cloud of dust when making contact with the floor. She stepped out, breathing in fresh air as the sun’s filtering rays made contact with her skin once again. The golden knight followed suit, grumbling to himself as he absently bat away the light, which understandably must’ve been too bright if he had been sitting in that cell for as long as he looks. 

“So, this… ‘Channeler’. What is it exactly?” Was Atiri’s flimsy attempt at filling in the uncomfortable silence. 

Lautrec didn’t bother to hide the disinterest in his voice. “They are scholars from the Duke’s Archives. They used to maintain the libraries and such.” 

Atiri turned her head to glance at him, as they made their way down the now empty hall. “Sorry, the ‘Duke’s Archives?’”

Lautrec blew exasperated air out of the holes in his helmet. “Yes. The archives that Seath is holed up in. If he’s still alive, that is.” 

Atiri piped up, the name ringing a bell for her. “Oh! Seath the Scales– I mean Scale less . He was the dragon who betrayed his own in favour of the god’s side.”

Lautrec laughed, though it was a strange sounding laugh, one that crackled like fire from within his helmet. “Looks like someone has read up on Lordran’s history. Not sure why, though. This place is a shithole .” 

Atiri rolled her eyes, keeping her attention ahead of her and down the hall. She will not allow this man to make her feel as shitty as the ones back in Firelink had. 

So, they continued down the hall in silence, with Atiri promptly giving up on trying to fill it. The hall itself was architecturally beautiful, pillars propping up the gothic arches that curved overhead, with intricate designs inlaid within parts of the stone walls, far too weathered to make out what they were. 

Atiri debated on which weapon she should use, eventually settling with her trusty dagger, as she didn’t want her halberd to get caught against the narrow walls again. Especially not where Lautrec could witness it. 

As they made it to the end of the hall, Atiri quietly bent over so as to glance around the corner and gauge where the Channeler stood. Apparently, Lautrec had other ideas, simply walking right past her and out to the larger area. All at once, the gathering of Hollows, as well as the Channeler, turned to look at the golden knight. 

Atiri watched, just as bewildered as when Siegmeyer had thrusted himself into battle yelling. Atiri was even more surprised when she got the chance to witness this dangerous-looking knight’s combat style. It was like the man was performing some kind of dance, as he almost gracefully slinked around the Hollows, slicing his two shotels so swiftly and brutally, it lopped off the heads of multiple Hollows at a time. Even covered in rust and blood, Lautrec’s golden armour still managed to gleam under the sunlight that seeped in through the church’s windows. 

Like frail leaves in the billowing wind, the Hollows fell to the ground, rotten blood spilling out and covering the church’s stone floor. This knight certainly didn’t care for these gods, that was for certain. Atiri leapt out from around the corner and at a few stray Hollows when Lautrec didn’t seem to notice them, slicing through their concave stomachs and scrawny necks. Atiri tried her best not to get doused in blood, while Lautrec didn’t seem to mind one bit, like being coated in blood was a usual occurrence for him.

The Channeler made an odd sound, which was heavily muffled from under its own helmet, before raising its three-pronged staff high in the air, towering over both her and Lautrec. A plethora of crystals and bright blue light cascaded down, clashing to the stone floor. Atiri miraculously managed to roll out of harm’s way, a few sharp crystals only snagging against her pants and cutting through her skin. It certainly beats being impaled by one. 

Lautrec, with shocking precision, sliced his shotels through each crystal that came his way, before bolting up to the Channeler on swift feet. The Channeler attempted what Atiri could only assume was disappearing, before Lautrec leapt up and used both weapons to slice through its neck in an “x” motion. The Channeler went limp, falling on its luxurious rob and to its knees. Atiri could hardly understand how someone head-to-toe in armour could be so quick. 

It didn’t seem to be enough for Lautrec, however, as he grasped the Channeler’s helmet, using that to crack whatever laid beneath it against the hard floor. Lautrec crushed the sole of his shoe against its head, flicking his shotels out and resting them on his shoulders. 

Atiri was silent, slipping her dagger back and using a finger to swipe away the excess blood against her cheek. The Channeler’s helmet stared back at her from under Lautrec’s armoured foot, all six eyes unblinking as blood slowly seeped from out of its holes. 

Atiri felt a chill run down her spine, having to direct her attention elsewhere. “Thank you, Lautrec.” 

“Don’t thank me. It was a mere transaction for your freeing me.” Lautrec hung his shotels back at each side of his hip, not even bothering to look back at Atiri as he stepped off of the Channeler’s corpse. “Now, I can get back to work… heh heh heh …” 

Once again, the sinister laugh returned, making Atiri work her jaw as she switched her weight from one foot to the other. “So… where will you be heading now, exactly?” 

Lautrec tilted his helmet upwards, thinking for a moment. “Firelink Shrine is right by here, yes? I think I might rest there.” 

Atiri nodded. Oh. Right. Firelink . Was everything going to somehow force her back to that place? Whether the man was to wait for Andre to fix it, or simply use his impeccable skill to go the long way, she didn’t exactly care. All she cared about now was ringing that First Bell. 

Without another word, Lautrec began to make his way opposite of where Atiri had planned to go, back down the same stairwell she had come up on. Atiri stood there, stiffly, watching Lautrec’s hulking golden back. 

“Wait.”

Lautrec slowly turned to look at her from over his shoulder, irritably waiting for her to say something.

Atiri felt herself grow hesitant. “There are some… friends there who reside in Firelink. They are a bit rude but…” She sighed. “Please do not hurt any of them.” 

The knight stared at her in complete silence for a long moment, but there was no way for her to see what emotions reside behind the helmet. It was almost as if he was contemplating something. Or was he just annoyed she wouldn’t stop talking to him? Atiri hadn’t realised she had started to sweat harder under Lautrec’s stare, as this time the silence was tense. 

“Ok,” he finally said, causing Atiri to sigh in relief, before he turned back to the stairs and continued on down. 

Atiri waited until the knight disappeared from sight, before wiping the cold sweat from her forehead. She glanced to the floor, realising the mass puddle of blood had tainted her shoes. The Channeler’s helmet still scorched her with its stare, which created an intense feeling of regret for something she wasn’t aware of. She walked over, stepping around limbs and decapitated heads, before bending down to turn the helmet away from her.

It didn’t take long for Atiri to figure out how to get to the church’s third floor, finding a room at the back which contained a couple sets of decrepit ladders, which shook and creaked loudly under her weight. It was a bit of a challenge trying to figure out what to do with her halberd as she climbed, but she eventually decided to tuck and strap it against her back. 

The ladders led her higher and higher, until she reached the very top. She knew this was the right place, signified by the now familiar fog wall that occupied a small arch exit to the roof. 

Atiri beamed down at the radiant words scribed onto the stone ground. The meaning was lost to her, but the colour and glow of it told her everything. Solaire had kept his promise, afterall. 

She crouched down, using the shaft of her halberd to steady herself, as she reached a hand out towards the summon sign. She pressed her fingers into the glow, against the foreign words, and watched as it slowly began to dissipate. It felt similar to sand, with the way it disintegrated into small particles of light against her palm. The sign vanished into the cold ground, as if it had never been there in the first place. So, Atiri got up, stepping back to wait patiently as the warrior of the sun was called to her. 

It only took a few moments of waiting, watching the space in the ground where the sign had been, before golden light once again appeared. This time, though, the light was tall, turning from white, to gold, to a deep orange, as the familiar silhouette of a knight emerged. 

Solaire rose from the light, chest puffed out and strong, burly arms outstretched above his head and to the sky in a “v” shape. His helmet and weapons gleamed brilliantly, topped with the vibrant red feather that materialised from the light. 

Atiri could hardly wait for him to finish appearing fully, before she rushed up to embrace him. His person was a bright yellow, as if he was made directly from the sun, which felt like sand under her touch. 

She pulled back, suddenly confused as to why that was her immediate reaction. Perhaps it was the overwhelming relief that she wasn’t alone in this. A feeling she hoped to the gods would keep returning. 

The vibrant, glowing form of Solaire patted her on the shoulder with a strong hand. Atiri suddenly frowned when she didn’t hear his usual warm laugh. 

“Is everything alright?” she asked. 

Solaire quickly nodded his helmet, attempting to communicate to her through the expressive movements of his hands. After a moment of staring confusedly at Solaire’s attempts at communicating to her, she let out a sudden “ Ohh ” of understanding. 

Could summons not speak? She supposed it had to do something with this not being a physical form and all. It was… strange, but she could work around this. Afterall, she had experience in being practically non-verbal to everyone around her, and still getting her point across. 

Atiri smiled, though it wavered slightly when she focused back towards the fog barrier, its implications still ominous to her. “Are… are you ready, then?” 

Solaire nodded, unsheathing his gallant sword. He placed a calming hand on her shoulder, eyes just barely visible through the slit in his helm. The uncertain smile returned to her face, patting the knight’s hand fondly before making her way towards the fog wall. After mentally planning how she should go about this ( this time, she would attempt at using her halberd, now that she was going to have more space to use it ) and what possibly could be lying ahead, she sucked in a large portion of air, then extended a hand to traverse the fog. 

Atiri only reopened her eyes once she made it to the other side, which she had to quickly shield from the sun that now beat down on them. 

Atiri and Solaire now stood atop the church’s roof, which was made up of stone slabs and came up to a point. The roof itself was long, with large gargoyles that lined the way. The statues were old, frozen in time with moss coating the green stone. Each gargoyle was crouched, looming over the edges on their hind legs, wings outstretched and claws bared. 

There, on the opposite side of the church’s roof, was the long steeple in which the First Bell of Awakening resided. Even from all the way here, she could see it from under its dome, through the open arches that surrounded it. It stood tall, towering over Atiri like a guiding light from the gods themselves, just out of reach. 

Solaire slowly emerged from the fog barrier as well, his larger form coming to stand at her side. Atiri was broken out of her entrance when Solaire quickly tapped her. She gazed over to him before her gaze was redirected under the bell, where two other gargoyles sat on each side of the steeple’s ledge, stationary– or at least that was what she thought. These ones were different from the others, however, as they carried long, jade halberd and round shields, their bodies covered in a dirty green armour. 

Atiri paused on the edge of the church roof, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She could have sworn she had lost her mind when she caught one of the gargoyles working its lower jaw, the loose rubble of the statue crumbling down to the roof like rainfall. 

She tapped her knight friend anxiously, making sure it wasn’t just her seeing it. “S-Solaire, are they...?”

Solaire quickly got his talisman out from his leather belt, and that was all the confirmation Atiri needed to get into position. She watched with wide eyes as the gargoyle outstretched its tattered wings, tearing away the moss and vines that had accumulated on it as it awakened. The beast fully unhinged its jaw, looking to the sky and letting out a harrowing screech, one that caused birds to startle and flee from their trees in masses.  

The gargoyle took flight, batting its wings before joining them on the rooftop. Its landing shook the church, effectively blocking their way to the bell and nearly causing Atiri to slip down the side if she hadn’t stuck her halberd into the roof. She suddenly realised just how high up they were, feeling the harsh, cold wind that whirled past them as she surveyed over to the horizon. It stared down the path with its rapier-like claws and long-reaching wings towards the two intruding Undead, before charging them on all fours. 

Atiri gripped the shaft of her halberd, darting out of the beast’s way on powerful legs. She wasn’t too sure what Solaire’s plan was, so she opted to take care of the gargoyles behind them. Though Atiri hadn’t anticipated a long, metallic tail to come barreling in her direction, reflexes took hold of her last second. She pushed off the roof with as much force as her muscles would allow, leaping over the incoming tail the same way she had with the flaming barrel back within the Burg. 

Miraculously, Atiri landed on her feet, halberd still clenched within her fists as her heart rattled around her chest. Recovering from the shock at her own abilities, Atiri regarded Solaire’s radiant gold form, fending off the gargoyle head-on. He hacked at the beast with his sword, trying to create distance from the beast. 

Atiri ran up to the gargoyle’s tail, stabbing the point of her weapon down into its stone-turned-flesh. The beast’s wings jutted out like large black sails as it roared. She was quick to make a run for it, just barely evading the beast’s own halberd as it swept across the roof. 

In an attempt to get the beast away from Solaire, she continued to run, prompting the gargoyle to claw its way over to her at a horrifying pace, bits and pieces of the old roof flying off at its efforts. Atiri whipped her head around, watching as the beast flew up into the air again, before using both its tail and halberd to spiral towards her. 

The impact of the hit sent Atiri flat into the steeple’s wall, and she felt something within her body crack painfully as she yelped out in pain. Before the beast could crash its halberd down into her much smaller body, it was distracted yet again, whirling back to glare at Solaire. The knight conjured a second spear of pure lighting within his bare palm, thrusting his strong arm forward and sending the bolt flying towards the gargoyle’s face. 

Atiri gripped her chest, watching in awe as she witnessed a truly fascinating show of sorcery– no, no, he was a paladin. Which means the spectacle was a miracle. One after another, Solaire conjured these spears of light, which seemed to penetrate the jade armour and rocks of its body with ease. 

Atiri used her halberd to haul herself up on unsteady feet, slinking up to the gargoyle. With one, fierce slice of her weapon’s gleaming blade, she managed to chop the beast’s tail. The large thing fell to the ground with a large thud, leaving only a meaty, bleeding stub on its owner.

The gargoyle screamed, causing Atiri to drop her weapon to quickly cover her ears, lest blood begin to seep right out of them. The agonising cry seemed to awaken something else, as soon after something large landed from its perch atop the steeple, shaking the ground directly behind her. Though Solaire couldn’t vocalise anything, the wild movements of his hands told her everything. She had awoken the second gargoyle. 

In one movement, Atiri attempted to snatch her weapon up from the ground and turn around, but failed to do so as the second beast hulked over her, casting a deep shadow before sending her flying across the roof with its own tail. 

The halberd slipped from between Atiri’s fingers, as she rolled down the sharp slant of the rooftop. Her heart ceased its beating when she slipped off the side, just barely saving her life as she grasped the edge. 

Atiri’s arm muscles burned painfully as she held onto the ledge for dear life. She no longer could see what was happening on the roof, so she assumed Solaire was too preoccupied fending off the beats to help her up. She held her breath, desperately trying to pull herself up before something were to happen. 

The second gargoyle seemed to notice her still hanging on, for its mouth began to open, spewing a mass of flames from its throat. Atiri screamed, the fire scorching her hands and sending unbearable amounts of pain down her arms. She gritted her teeth painfully as the skin of her knuckles bubbled up, becoming impossibly red and raw as she began to lose her grip. 

Her vision began to grow dim, as a wave of dizziness took over. Suddenly, her hands slipped, causing the wind around her to compress her as unseen force pulled her downward. 

But Atiri never made contact with the ground. She let out a strangled cry as the feeling of an icy cold gauntlet, paired with a leather glove, grasped both of her damaged hands tightly. This… was not Solaire. Atiri couldn’t tell if it was because she had grown almost delirious from pain, but she was perplexed by this newcomer. 

Atiri was pulled up with a surprising amount of strength, safely away from the ledge. She was breathing heavily, scampering to her feet as she tried to get her bearings. She wasn’t given much time to do so, as the newcomer suddenly yelled out to her.

“Watch yourself!”

Without hesitating, Atiri ducked down, the second gargoyle’s clawed hand swiping just above her head. When she glanced back up, a knight with a distinct blue tabard was quickly making his way over, her halberd held tightly in his grasp. 

“Here!” The knight said urgently, his voice slightly muffled from under his helm. 

Atiri graciously accepted her weapon, thanking the man under her breath, before watching as he unsheathed his own gleaming sword and luxurious kite shield. She had no time to dwell on anything, as her focus was now directed back towards their battle. Solaire was making quick work of the first gargoyle, so she and this knight  worked on the second. The second gargoyle had smaller, more torn wings than the first, and no tail. 

The second gargoyle opened its stone maw again, inhaling deeply before letting out another gush of searing fire. This time, Atiri leapt out of the fire’s path and onto the back of the beast. It roared loudly, attempting to shake her off its back. She cringed in pain, using a blistering hand to grip the base of its tattered wing to keep her steady. Gripping her halberd in her other ( admittedly unsteady ) fist, she drove it into the gargoyle, piercing the beast’s body. 

The newcomer knight used his shield to block the rest of the fire, skillfully rolling out of the way when the beast attempted to slash him with its weapon. Atiri watched from atop the gargoyle's unsteady back, continuing to penetrate through its hard form, as the knight managed to parry the beast’s attack, catching its jade weapon between his sword and shield and effectively disarming it. 

The mysterious man grunted, taking the small opening he had to sprint up to the gargoyle, before thrusting his sword into the beast’s now exposed stomach. It wailed out in pain, throwing its gnarly head back and allowing Atiri to grasp its head. In another desperate attempt at getting her off, it stumbled backward into the steeple’s stone wall, bashing her against it. 

Atiri’s breath fled her lungs as the dizziness once again returned. She groaned, frustrated and wanting this battle to end already so she could cease using her scorched hands. With her halberd firmly stuck into the gargoyle, she unsheathed her dagger with trembling fingers, slicing the beast’s damned throat as many times as it took before it began to grow limp. 

Atiri watched from the gargoyle’s dying carcass as the knight aided Solaire in finishing off the other gargoyle. She ogled at the way the knight stuck his sword into the underbelly of the beast, delivering the final blow. The gargoyle fell, and she continued to watch curiously as the man embraced the glowing form of Solaire, thumping each other's backs in a strong, manly way.

Realising that the battle had come to its end, Atiri leapt off of the gargoyle as it sank to the ground with a rumbling thud, attempting to once again land on her feet, only for her legs to give out from beneath her. She rolled over so that she laid on her back, staring up into the bright sky, littered with clouds, as she heaved in steady breaths. Her chest rose and fell slowly whilst she lifted her shaking hands above her face, cringing at the damage done. Atiri was so exhausted she barely had the energy to be excited. 

Atiri heard the steady, metallic footsteps of the knight, as he appeared above her, the pointed nose of his visor looking meeting her tired gaze. He laughed, slipping his sword back in his scabbard to lend a helping hand out to her. 

Atiri managed a grateful smile, offering herself up so he could hold her by her wrists instead, aiding her back upwards. 

“I cannot thank you enough, Syr.” Atiri sighed, clutching her wounds as she tried to make out the man’s face through the metal visor. 

The knight shook his head. “No need. You did just fine all by yourself.” He paused for a moment. “So I assume you are the Undead whom I have heard about?” 

The girl frowned. “Am I? I didn’t know anyone was talking about me.” 

The man chuckled, before offering out a leather gloved hand. “I am Oscar. Oscar of Astora.” 

She immediately perked up, face brightening at the familiar kingdom. “That is the same kingdom Solaire is from!” Atiri turned to look down the roof at said Solaire, who was too busy… staring up at the sun. She shook her head. “Do you two know each other?” 

Oscar turned to glance back at Solaire, whose summon form was now slowly disintegrating into particles of bright light, which drifted off into the wind. 

“We have met, yes. I was making my way to the First Bell of Awakening when I heard someone beat me to it.” He laughed. “He had mentioned to me he put his summon sign at the fog entrance to the First Bell. So when he suddenly vanished, I knew where to go. It was a miracle that I had managed to get here not a moment later.” 

Atiri sighed, waving over to Solaire before he disappeared entirely. “I… am still getting used to all of this.” She made her way over to the second gargoyle’s corpse, grasping the shaft of her halberd and ripping it out, examining it solemnly. Once she had done so, the gargoyle began to corrode into a blindingly white ash, something that elegantly drifted up and away into the air. “Are you too on the Undead journey, then?” She suddenly asked him.

Oscar nodded, meticulously swiping any excess blood off his weapons. “I was… but it looks like it rests in good hands now.” He paused, looking at her. 

Atiri strained herself, suddenly feeling as if she was in the presence and judgement of greatness. “Oh, it’s Atiri. Atiri of… the East?” 

“Huh, how peculiar. In a good way– I mean. You are a long way from home,” Oscar commented, with a hint of something sad within his noble voice.

Atiri closed her eyes, feeling the cold wind of their high altitude brush past her and rid her skin of sweat, causing her unkempt hair to billow within its breeze. Her eyes fluttered back open to gaze out to the horizon, seeing the stone wall the Burg had been guarding from all the way up here. It seemed so small and undaunting now, which caused something to lift in her spirits. 

Atiri’s attention snapped back to Oscar when she heard a loud pop sound. The knight was holding a cork he had unstuck, as well as a radiant flask, which contained a bright gold liquid. She watched owlishly as the man lifted his visor, revealing his mouth and strong jaw, allowing him to drink the other-worldly substance. 

Oscar seemed to sense her staring, pulling the lip of the flask away from him. “Are you not going to do the same?” 

Atiri frowned. “What? What is that stuff?” 

The knight nearly choked back on the liquid, coughing a few times before staring at her. “You jest?” 

She felt embarrassed, face heating up and opting to just stare down at her hands. 

Oscar popped the cork back into the flask, securing it back against his fancy belt. Atiri watched as he brought out a second flask, filled with the exact same substance. 

He uncorked the flask, motioning it to her. “It is called Estus. It’s a bit of an Undead necessity, especially ones who embark on journeys such as this one.” He watched as she accepted it from him, curiously examining it through the glass and sloshing the drink around. “It is like… a petite bonfire you can carry with you. Or at least the physical embodiment of its flames. When you drink it, the liquid heals your wounds. It is hard to imagine someone doing what you have done without it.” 

Atiri took the flask in her hands, weighing it and bringing it up to her nose to sniff curiously. She met the others gaze again, unsure, before cautiously putting the opening to her chapped lips. 

She slowly downed it, jerking her head up in shock. The Estus tasted strange, like if a fruit had been burnt and made into a warm drink. Or at least that was how it tasted to her. It made her chest and stomach warm and almost weightless. She stared down at her hands, bewildered when she caught the blisters and broken skin repairing itself before her eyes. Her broken rib cage seemed to magically repair itself, once broken bones now good as new. 

She wiped her mouth, wide eyed as she peered back up to the knight. “ Pa mor ddiddorol! That is incredible!”

Atiri quickly plugged the cork back in the top, almost as if trying to make sure its magical essence wouldn’t randomly decide to escape, as well as to not spill it all over herself, before offering it back to Oscar. The knight, who had slipped his visor back down over his face, raised a hand. 

“No, please, take it. I had an extra,” Oscar explained, placing a hand on Atiri’s shoulder. “You will need it, afterall. You have a bell to ring.” 

A smile slowly stretched across Atiri’s face, carefully slotting the golden flask into her own waist band. 

She placed a hand over his own, breathing in deeply. “Thank you, Oscar. I will not fail this.”

The knight stared at her, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder. “May the flames guide thee, Atiri.” 

Atiri gazed at him, gold eyes tense and brows furrowed. “Lost”, “guide”, “flame.” She wasn’t completely certain how to respond to that, so she simply gave him a curt nod. 

Oscar silently let his hand fall, before Atiri began to make her way towards the steeple’s entrance, sliding off the roof and onto its escarpment. The entrance itself was an ordinary arch, granting Atiri entrance as the fog slowly dissipated. It barely made any sound, as the ghostly white wisps drifted towards her, coursing her inside. 

Atiri glanced back, only to find that Oscar had taken to staring across the horizon, in a world of his very own. She stared ahead of her, making her way up the entrance steps and into the steeple with a renewed sense of purpose. As the fog slowly cleared from her eyes, the humble, ill-lit  interior was revealed to her. Dust wafted up to her, and the archaic rock that made up its walls was tainted a deep green. The floor below her had sprouts of moss and vines weaving their way through cracks and openings within the fragmented stone flooring. 

Atiri’s attention was directed upwards, noticing another rustic, old ladder that led all the way to the bell. She walked over to it, clutching the metal bars of the ladder firmly within her healed hands, before climbing her way up. 

The ladder led Atiri up two levels, before stopping at the third floor. She pulled herself up, grateful that the ladder didn’t break while she was on it with how it was shaking. The third floor room was small, but had yet another exit, leading back out to the open air. 

Atiri walked out to the wooden ledge, where her next ladder was placed. She felt her legs begin to shake as she was once again reminded how high up she was. Was she… above the clouds now? She was now looking over a cliffside covered in dark trees. Atiri quickly grasped onto the last ladder, chastising herself for staring downwards for longer than necessary. 

Muscles tense and the palms of her hands sweating off the ladder’s rust, she climbed further up the steeple’s side. As Atiri climbed, she noticed the looming mountain to her left. At its top, was yet another grand, stone wall, similar to that of the one that guarded the Undead Parish. Was that the wall protecting Anor Londo , she thought to herself, as she worked her way to the top.

Finally, Atiri hauled herself off of the ladder, planting the soles of her sandals firmly on stone ground. There, umbrellaed by the ancient dome, was the bell. The First Bell of Awakening. 

Atiri could hardly believe she made it thus far, and as she stared at the bell tears welled in her eyes. It was large and silver, with intricate designs and unknown scripture inlay within it. It hung grandly from its steel yoke, its clapper in the shape of a diamond as it sat awaiting to be rung. Almost as if its entire purpose was to sit idle, awaiting an Undead’s arrival. 

Atiri very nearly forgot how to breathe, stepping within the dome. The bell’s lever sat directly in front of her, its cogs stationary and long handle waiting to be pulled. Wind blew past her, funnelling in through the dome’s arch and around the pillars, causing her hair to momentarily obscure her vision. She brushed the strands away before placing both hands on the lever. 

Atiri inhaled shakily, tensing her muscles as she put her whole body into wrenching the lever, leaning back and using her legs to force it over. The contraption creaked, scraping against its metal base loudly before it eventually jerked over to her. 

Atiri stumbled over, falling flat on her back against the aged stone. 

Bong…

Bong…

Bong…

She stared up from directly beneath the large bell as it tolled, swinging from left to right, to left, to right. She watched the rhythmic sways of the pointed clapper, deathly silent as the tears were finally released, trickling down her cheeks like small rivers on a scorching desert. 

Atiri was the Chosen Undead. 

Chapter Text

Y Craen Syrthiedig.

When we arrived here— when I had brought her to Semta Morhn— I was so desperate. Too desperate to realise what it would do to her, the rules of our curse. No, I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve doomed my baby.

Sunlight seeped in through the openings of the room, bright and golden like the very desert sands it graced. The rich and prosperous morning arrived steadily in waves of warmth and fire, rousing the wildlife from their slumber. 

Even from the confined space, the chirping of crickets fluttered in through the little window, accompanied by the rushing water of Semta Morhn’s river down below.

A young Atiri lay asleep in her hide bed, which sat tucked within the stone walls, not unlike the hole a mouse would use as its home. A small place only a small, nimble person would find cosy. Her scruffy, mauve head sank within the brightly woven pillow, a blanket pulled up to her forehead. 

First, it was the sweet smell of freshly lit incense that stirred her from her slumber. Then, it was the ever familiar and much welcomed smell of savoury food being cooked just outside the room. The smell wafted in through the doorless entrance, past the flimsy rags that draped its opening. 

Without pulling her head up from the blanket, Atiri’s senses tuned in to try and decipher what was being made. Distinct spices, the distant sizzling of fire, and… cinnamon . 

She heard shuffling from outside, before the soles of worn sandals began to thump their way into the room. The way the person carried themself, was the careful and calculated way only her father did. Atiri continued to feign sleep, eyes screwed tightly shut. There was an added joy whenever it was her father who woke her, no matter how many times he insisted that she get into the habit of waking herself. 

With one sudden yank, Domhnall swept the blanket out from over the girl. Atiri grinned up at the old man, who glared down at her through his small glasses, thin, cracked lips pulling into a smile. 

“You’ve slept long enough, child. Breakfast will be cold and fed to our lizard friends if you don’t get up this instant.” 

With her usual surge of morning energy, Atiri leapt out of bed and began pattering across the small room. She ran over to the basket of clothes to get out of the sizable tan shirt filled with holes and dressed into what her father deemed as “presentable,” which only has a short amount of time before it, too, acquired holes.

All it took was a few seconds for Atiri to get ready and for Domhnall to fold the blanket, before the two made their way under the long draps of the entrance and into the largest part of their hut. 

Their home was small, and compared to Domhnall’s previous— much more cluttered— home in Zena, it was barren. This time, it felt less like a wealthy merchant’s store and more like a proper place to live. It still smells of spices and wood, though it now lacked the fireplace he wished he had. They had made-do with a makeshift bonfire to keep warm at night, scrawny shreds of hemlock wood stacked in a messy pile under where he cooked… No more was the colourfully patterned rugs to lavish the floor, or the bright colours to paint the walls. It was a dull tan that covered the room. Perhaps— if they acquired the right materials— Atiri could help him paint the place. 

Maybe a few years ago, Domhnall would have baulked at the idea of living in such a rundown, minimalistic place. He supposed that this was merely a side effect of the Undead Curse. It can humble even the richest of lords, make him realise how good he had it. Domhnall liked this home, this new life, despite everything. It felt like a place he could properly settle down, a proper place to raise a child. 

At the hut’s centre sat a wooden table and exactly two chairs at each end. Atiri always remembered which side was her’s, as her chair was barely held together from haphazardly leaning back on it one too many times. 

The small girl scurried over to the fireplace to try and take a peek at what her father had been cooking, but Domhnall promptly shooed her. Atiri watched from her seat at the table as her father finally began making his way over, setting one plate down in front of her. 

Atiri beamed as hard as her chubby cheeks would allow her to, smiling from ear-to-ear as she looked at her breakfast. Semolina pudding, the perfect breakfast dish from Zena. It was a velvety, tan mush usually served cold, tastefully topped and decorated with cinnamon and chopped pistachio. Placed beside the clay bowl of pudding was a small slice of pita bread and some string cheese to balance out the dish’s sweetness. She breathed in deeply, the scent of the food inviting. 

“Baba! Diolch yn fawr .”

Domhnall’s eyes crinkled up behind his glasses as he smiled, slowly seating himself at his side of the table. He propped his head up on his rough fist as he watched his daughter devour her breakfast with the excitement of someone who already had a full plan for her day. 

Atiri glanced up suddenly, motioning her hands down to the food in a silent offer to her father. 

Domhnall merely shook his head. “ Na na , I am fine. You eat.”

Atiri frowned, bright eyes staring back down at herself. In all her life, she had never seen the man eat. Atiri attempted to do the same, as she often did whenever she noticed the quirk about her father, but he got furious at her. He insisted that he does so, just not around her, and that her health comes before his. 

Still, it felt odd. She wanted— more than anything— to be just like her father, but he seemed to want her to be anything but. 

The two of them always managed to find something to talk about— or at least Atiri certainly did. It always started with “How did you sleep?” then, Atiri would find something completely unrelated to go on a tangent about. When she was not complaining about her time stuck with Tatiana, she often asked her father about things she read in the books the pardoner kept. Stories of knights, of dragons, of the ancient wars, of lords made gods. Thankfully, such stories were deliberate in keeping any word of the Undead Curse out of them. Many approached the issue by pretending it never existed in the first place.

Domhnall knew quite a lot, as Atiri had grown to learn. Tales and stories more often than not found their way to merchants. Domhnall, however, was able to speak on these matters first hand. 

He’d talked about his run-in with wyverns— dastardly creatures with large horns and feathery wings, his time stranded on an island full of man-eating crabs, and the moments he dealt with the wrong folks, which lead into chaotic battles. Atiri soaked in the stories like a spunge, staring at her father like a disciple would a god.

“You know,” Domhnall began. “When I first arrived here, a flock of cranes visited our home. I think they wanted to see you.”

“Really?”

“In Zena and most of the East, cranes are a symbol of innocence and youth.” Domhnall stared across the table at his daughter. “Besides, they are my favourite animal.” 

“Do they like me?”

Domhnall propped his head atop his hand. “They are known for being territorial. I doubt they would accept just anyone near their home. They must sense the good in your soul.”

His old eyes turned into crescents when he winked, making Atiri’s smile brighten. 

The little pitter patter of multiple, tiny feet sounded from the hut’s entrance, prompting both Atiri and Domhnall to glance up from the table. Three, scaly critters scurried into the kitchen, and Atiri beams down at them once they reach the bottom of her seat. The blue crystals adorning their lizard-shaped bodies glinted in the morning sun, easily making them the shiniest thing in the house— even when compared to all her father’s trinkets. 

“Ah, there they are.” Domhnall sighed exasperatedly. “Wouldn’t have been breakfast without them.” 

Atiri took some of her food between her fingers, reaching down under the table to feed each eagerly open maw. Their tails curled around each other, the sounds of their shuffling feet and shifting scales perfectly imitating the sound of multiple crystals being tapped together. 

It had been only two or so years— if the water clock was correct— since Atiri had burst into their hut carrying an arm full of the little critters. A sandstorm had been on its way, suspected to sweep through the area. The child begged him, then, to let them stay here and out of the storm. It took some time, and Atiri’s tears, before Domhnall managed to stop himself from taking his sword to the lizards and tearing the jewels from their scales. Ah, it took every ounce of self control to ignore years of training for his daughter’s sake.

“Speak of the devil…” Domhnall muttered, watching as the peculiarly red crystal lizard followed its siblings into their hut, scurrying in with the swiftness and speed of a wild, hungry animal. 

Domhnall had been watching that one closely, curious as to why the thing hadn’t exploded yet. He knew the red ones were rare, and only common in the Eastern kingdoms like Olaphis and Melfia. He had heard stories of soldiers and merchants getting blown to bits after mistaking the creature for one of its blue cousins. This particular one, however, seemed perfectly docile, the large red jewel at its back dulled a cracked. The child had even gone ahead and named it, for gods’ sake.

Atiri picked Evie up, its small body curling up against the girl’s chest and making strange clicking sounds. “Don’t be mean, Baba . She is very sweet.”

“Those things live forever, if not harvested.” Domhnall used a bony finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his crooked nose. “I swear, if that thing outlives me, I might just have to hope Tatiana gets rid of it.” 

Atiri frowned up at her father, prompting Evie to stare at him with its beady black eyes. Tatiana would never let a possibly explosive lizard reside anywhere near the city, so Atiri had been careful to hide it from her. 

A horrible idea, for certain, but Domhnall and his daughter seemed to be full of those.

“ Baba , I am going to play outside with them.” Atiri finally said. Before Domhnall could say anything, she was already hopping off her chair and running out of the kitchen. “I will bring back anything shiny I find!” 

This was how their morning started everyday. Everyday, Domhnall woke Atiri up for breakfast, and everyday, she would run off to play outside. Sometimes she’d return with rocks or shiny objects she’d found, bringing them back for her father. Everything stayed the same, most days. Everything but Atiri. It was still strange, watching her grow and change, when he was no longer able to do the same. In the very back of his mind, he loathed, every waking moment, that he would eventually outlive her. But he couldn’t think about that, not at all, not ever, so he kept to this familiar schedule everyday.

Domhnall merely nodded, smiling under his scarf as he watched a horde of shiny lizards scurry after her. 

It was still early in the morning, the sun perfectly positioned near the eastern horizon, as the sky changed from its vibrant, twilight hew. Domhnall had already made his way out his hut and down the sandy slope leading into Semta Morhn. 

The merchant had a rigid schedule. It helped keep his mind sharp and his body— relatively— un-hollowed, which he had grown to learn was a vital thing to ward off undeath. Schedules, traditions, habits. These were important things for the merchant, even before leaving Zena, and he needed, more than ever, to retain who he was.

The village itself was lively, Hollows left and right wandering about, enjoying themselves as much as they could. Many stared at him as he walked, and a few even stopped what they were doing to greet him, gaunt, decrepit hands waving. Much to his surprise, he had grown rather comfortable around the Hollows, treating them as if they were still alive and untainted. He had learned much about them since his arrival. The most surprising of which was that they were very peaceful, almost to a fault, and ( With some exceptions ) were incapable of fighting to save themselves. Now, he understood why Tatiana did what she did. They were all poor souls. 

As Domhnall walked, sand crunching under the soles of his sandals, as he steadily adjusted his scarf higher up his face. The aurelian pendant his former partner had gifted him felt cold around his neck, the circular medallion weighing heavily against his chest. Despite its treacherous background and the depressing memories attached to it, Domhnall had kept it for years, almost never taking it off. 

It was Tatiana who had seen it first, and it was her, who told him what its purpose was. Saloh had been wrong, much to Domhnall’s glee. The pendant was made up of pure titanite, infused with a divine ember, easily making it the most valuable and expensive item he has ever owned. However, this was not why he kept it. Tatiana explained to him that its magical properties aided Undead in retaining their fleeting memories. With it, Domhnall was capable of looking back on his life in Zena. Anything was worth that privilege. 

After some idle strolling, Domhnall eventually found himself within the village’s tavern, seated against the plush cushion of a pillow and smoking from a long pipe. Both Azure and Cyrus were there to accompany him, the sorcerer and pyromancer finding a plethora of topics to argue on while the merchant sat idly and observed. 

Domnhall twirled the pipe around between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, I’d assume you can’t just fight a giant Carthus worm head-on, no matter the firepower.” 

Azure tilted the brim of his hat up to stare at Domhnall, hollowed-out eyes still managing to convey his smile. 

“See? At this rate, you’re just asking to be a creature's next meal.” The sorcerer coughed into his gaunt hand, smoke oozing out from between his fingers. “You tire poor Maewyn with the pace at which you perish.”

Cyrus laughed, voice raspy and ringing out through the space. “Someone needs to exterminate those monsters, and I am the only one willing to be worm food!” 

The pyromancer shifted in her seat, leaning over the small table to look Domnall in the eyes. She was much larger than any Hollow he had ever seen, so the merchant had just assumed that was how all residents of the Great Swamp looked. Though he suspected that Cyrus was a special case.

“The bastard beasts don’t like it when they eat pyromancers. Ya know why?”

She looked at both men with wide eyes, bordering on crazy as she waited for them to shrug. “We explode! Combust into flames!” Cyrus leaned back again, her pillow compressing under her weight as she looked at Azure. “It’s why a pyromancer will always beat a sorcerer in battle. Stuffy scholars don’t bother to learn a lick of pyromancy.”

“I don’t speak for the scholars, but we have a superior variety in spells.” Azure scoffed.

Domhnall sighed, leaning back in his seat and neatly crossing his legs. “I hardly think a  small pyromancer’s explosion is going to be enough to take out such a gargantuan beast.”

“That’s what ye think, ser Dom. But just ye wait. I’m workin’ on somethin’ real big, and when the time comes, I’m gonna finally show that beast whose boss.” 

Poor Cyrus has been at that very same worm since Domhnall had arrived in the village. The woman would leave for days on end, trying to hunt it, only to appear back at the village’s bonfire. The merchant had started to worry about how obsessive she had become, but she insisted it needed to be done. 

It was what made Domhnall realise that such endeavour, no matter how stupid, was the only thing keeping the pyromancer from hollowing completely. So, of course, he had to indulge her.

“Oooh. I say, you are growing craftier by the day, miss Cyrus. Next time you leave, try and nab me one of their bones. I’m sure I could get a pretty penny for it.”

The hollowed woman beamed, brown, torn skin wrinkling up into a toothless smile. “I knew ye’d approve! See, Azure?”

The sorcerer’s much smaller form slumped back, his robes engulfing his body as he pulled his scarf up his meak face. 

“This is ridiculous. What if she’s the reason the beast finds the village? Then what? Every man for himself? We endanger Maewyn? Oh yeah, that’ll be a perfect way to show our thanks for her hospitality.”

Domhnall shook his head. “It is highly unlikely that would happen. They are not intelligent creatures, from what I know. It is also harder for them to track the scent of Undead, as opposed to humans.” The merchant stopped to blow smoke from his mouth, thinking to himself with a hand on his chin. “I am sure Tatiana would know what to do, if it came to that.”

Azure chuckled, the noise coming out as a weak wheeze. “Ah, yes. The doomsday prepper. I am sure she has a message to the Blue Sentinels written and ready for when the next bad thing comes about.”

“Mhm. That ‘next bad thing’ could very likely be your painful and agonising death, if you keep up the attitude.”

The sorcerer froze, frame as stiff as a stick. Domhnall smiled under his scarf, glasses glinting in the light as he stared up at the pardoner, who was hovering over Azure and Cyrus’ back. 

“Yes! Of course. Sorry miss, uh, ma’am.” Azure quickly apologised, shifting closer to the others. 

Before Domhnall could speak up, Tatiana’s eyes flicked over towards the merchant. “Domhnall. There is something important I need to tell you.”

Domhnall looked over to Cyrus and Azure, before leisurely gesturing to the seat next to him. However the pardoner made no move to join them.

“ Privately .” She finished, firmly.

The merchant’s expression fell, nodding promptly as he swiftly rose from his seat. The others watched silently as he followed Tatiana out of the tavern, the pardoner’s quick pace causing the merchant’s skin to grow prickly with his own sweat.

The two made their way down the sandy roads of the village, onlookers glancing their way curiously, but keeping their distance. Domhnall looked skyward, up at the pardoner’s watchtower that loomed over them, wringing his hands together into his long sleeves. 

“Have I done something wrong? Has my daughter done something wrong?” Domnhall quickly asked once they entered the tower and she had closed the door behind them.

The room had grown more cluttered over the years, crates, barrels, and books all stacked together, filling up the silo-shaped space. The stones surrounding them were dark, the room just as cold as the last time he had paid her a visit. He wondered, absently, how much time the pardoner spent locked in here, furiously writing away beneath dim candle light. A life Domhnall couldn’t even imagine living, but he supposed someone had to do the dirty work.

“No, Ser. Neither you nor your child have done anything wrong.” The pardoner peeled the black leather of her gloves from off her hands, revealing ghostly pale, bony fingers. 

Just like Atiri, Tatiana has aged since he had arrived at the village. The woman had acquired more wrinkles and had grown more bony, granting her a more grizzled appearance. Her eyes, just as sharp as ever, were now accompanied by dark bags that rested beneath them. Domhnall will need to remind her that she is meant to sleep at night. Again.

“Domhnall, there is something I have yet to tell you. Something that you will need to know for the coming future.” Tatiana seemed anxious, now, clasping her hands together. Very uncharacteristic of her. “But I will go one at a time. You may want to sit.”

Domhnall’s heart sped up, hammering against his ribcage like a wild animal. He managed to seat himself against one of the wooden chairs in the room, hands folded tightly atop the table’s rosewood surface.

Tatiana stayed standing, muscles unmoving as she mulled over her words. 

“I am sure you have heard about why I’m here, yes? To provide and protect this village.”

Domhnall stayed silent, face stiff. He didn’t bother nodding. 

“Yes, well, that is why I stayed . It is not the reason my superiors sent me. I was sent to ‘ cleanse the rot of these lands’. However, once I arrived here my mind changed and my people back in Carim believe me to be dead, as I have sent no notice saying otherwise.” Tatiana rubbed her face, smoothing out the wrinkles in her forehead. “To them, I have failed my mission. This is far from the case.”

The merchant pondered on whether he should speak up or not. Before he could stop, the words had already left his mouth. “You fell in love with Maewyn. So you stayed.”

Tatiana paused, and for a moment, Domhnall saw an assorted amount of emotions pass through her intense gaze. She looked angry at him, but must have realised that she had little reason to be angry at all, so she calmed herself.

“I didn’t ask you here to make assumptions, but, yes.” 

“But you are human. That cannot work.”

That was it. That was what caused the pardoner’s demeanour to shift. 

Tatiana’s silver eyebrows softened, the crease of her forehead disappearing. She gazed down at her hands, eyes droopy as she leaned herself against the edge of the table. The legs of the furniture creaked under her weight and her head fell into her hands. Domhnall watched silently, expression schooled as he listened to her.

“I know. That is why I have done something… careless.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure where she was taking the conversation, but then it dawned on him.

Domhnall shot up from his chair. “You! You… couldn't have!”

Tatiana let out a deep sigh. “And yet I did.”

The man watched as she pulled down her white cravat, far enough to reveal her chest. He stared in horror, as the hauntingly familiar, black tendrils of charred skin became visible under the room’s firelight. They spiraled out from her heart, deep and dark like swatches of ink against her pale breast. 

Domhnall shook his head in disbelief. “I… why? ”

“Because,” Tatiana began. “They will all outlive me, and I can’t leave Maewyn alone. No, I must be there to protect. You have to understand; this is my duty, Domhnall.”

She shook her head, silver strands of hair coming loose from her braid. “It was bound to happen either way. I live amongst the Undead. It is best to take the curse now, then be trapped in an old woman’s body for eternity.” The pardoner stopped, head turning to look at Domhnall once more. “That… brings me to what I actually wanted to talk to you about.”

Domhnall’s frown deepened, holding his breath.

“I am unsure about how much you know when it comes to the Curse of Undeath. However, you must know now that it spreads to any living human who comes in contact, and infects their soul long before they die.”

Oh. Domhnall thought dimly. He knew where this was going, and it made him want to vomit. He knew this fact to be true, but what it entailed was far too much to bear.

“Atiri. When she dies, she will inherit the Undead Curse, just like the rest of us—”

Domhnall shot up from his seat, storming out of the tower before the pardoner could continue. She might’ve called out to him, but the ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear. His mouth was dry, as he felt as if the medallion around his neck were tightening, its chain growing colder, biting into his skin and choking him like a viper. It reminded him of how he murdered his partner, as he began to tremble. His thoughts were dulled, as his legs carried him into the open air, right up to the ledge the watchtower sat on. 

The day was already ending, and the sky above grew dark and red. The sun sunk over the sandy horizon, and Domhnall watched it. He felt so entirely numb, his skin deathly cold. He watched as a group of beautiful cranes flew off, their silhouettes outlined by a mix of gold and crimson. 

Domhnall’s ears picked up the sound of Tatiana’s footsteps following him out of the tower and into the sand, quickly approaching from behind. He didn’t look at her, only kept his eyes out to the horizon. 

“Domhnall…” She spoke slowly. Even now, he can hear the worry laced in her tone.

The merchant lowered his head, then shook it. “No… not possible. She can be saved. She is not cursed… I… I can’t.”

“Domhnall,” Tatiana lowered her voice. “You knew this. You accepted this fact when you brought her here.”

He would never forget the scent that hit him the first time he entered the village. The scent of rot and undeath that was only accompanied with those afflicted by the curse. When he had held Atiri tightly against him, he was certain he was keeping her safe. And when he held her up for all the Hollows to see. But no, it would be selfish to blame them. Oh, how foolish he had been. It was he who had given her the curse first. Not the villagers. How foolish was he to believe that it would be some stray Hollow that would curse her, and not himself. He had doomed her from the moment he found her within the remnants of her village. 

What a father he was.

“No… When we arrived here— when I had brought her to Semta Morhn— I was so desperate. Too desperate to realise what it would do to her, the rules of our curse. No, I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve doomed my baby.” Domhnall’s hands shook as he took his glasses off, eyes burning as he struggled to see past the sorrow that engulfed him. “ Duwiau da. I have damned my baby!”

Would it have been better if he had left her? If he had simply left her there to die a human’s death? Surely it would have been a mercy, compared to the horrors of their curse. Now, she will be forced to endure a fate worse than death. 

Domhnall could see it now… His daughter, horrified by the mark tainting her skin. Her skin, drained of colour and the shrivelled flesh eroding from her bones. Her sunken eyes, no longer the beautiful lakes of gold, but lifeless pits of darkness. The merchant sank to the ground.

“No!” Tatiana gripped the merchant’s shoulder before he could fall over, turning his head to face her. “Do you truly believe I wanted to tell you this simply because I desired to see you hollow before my eyes? No!”

“This is all my doing. I will never escape this curse.” 

“That is our unfortunate truth, Domhnall. Tis our burden, but that does not mean we cannot try our best.”

“‘ Try our best’? To what? To cling onto the things you cherish most before it is inevitably taken from you? How could we all live our lives like that, knowing it is all for naught? I will lose my baby, just as I have my life. Just as I have with all of my treasures and pride.”

Tatiana’s movements were quick, like a cat. She reached for something at her side, swiftly taking out a small humanity before surging towards Domhnall. Before the merchant could even realise the dark sign against his chest had begun to unravel and spread, causing his flesh to wrinkle and darken, the pardoner pressed the sacred flame into his chest. 

Domhnall kept his head down, breathing as slow and as deeply as he could. 

“When you phrase it like that, why live at all? Why continue if you know what treachery lies ahead?”

The pardoner crouched down beside him, keeping her cold hand atop his shoulder. “We must prepare her. We can still help her.”

Domhnall stared up at her, eyes wet and cheeks stained. Tatiana continued. “Let me train her. Let me show her how to defend herself so she may survive in our world. It is the very least we can do. It would be stupid to allow her to carry on in her naivety, and it will bite her when she inevitably turns.”

“Yes.” Domhnall sighed, his voice impossibly shaky. “Prepare her. Train her. Please.”

Tatiana stared at him, a mixture of remorse and determination in her dreary eyes, as she mentally began to plan out their lessons. He couldn’t believe that she had grown as old as himself, both of them greying and etched with scars of life. And to think, just a few years ago he was talking to her like she was a second daughter. 

A sound. The sound of feet wading through sand, slowly hiking up the watchtower’s hill. Both the pardoner and marchant paused abruptly, pulled out of their daze as they both stood up and turned towards the noise. 

Domhnall’s heart sank. Though it was not in horror, but a deep sadness, as he watched Atiri and FireKeeper Maewyn make their way up to them. 

In her small arms, Atiri held the limp, feathery body of a crane.

His daughter’s face was streaked with tears, eyes puffy from crying, as she held the bird's large body to her chest, its long legs dragging against the ground. Maewyn walked with her, a slight limp to her steps and a gentle hand placed against the child’s back as she guided her. The FireKeeper spoke gentle words to Atiri, before her mellow, blank gaze drifted in their direction. 

Tatiana darted into action, boots fast in the sand as she ran over to help Maewyn. The pardoner let the FireKeeper put a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you alright? You shouldn’t be walking so far from the hut on your own.” 

Maewyn didn’t say anything— didn’t need to— silently gesturing down to Atiri. Tatiana closed her mouth, standing aside while Domhnall slowly knelt down in front of his daughter. He examined the crane. Lifeless. It’s usual beauty no more, leaving a husk of a body behind. 

“What happened, babi? ” The merchant asked quietly.

Atiri hiccuped, lips trembling as she refused to look her father in the eyes. “I did a bad thing.”

Domhnall’s eyes drifted up to Maewyn, who sensed his gaze and shook her head sadly. Both women stared down at him, as he looked to them for some kind of guidance. Yet he found none. He didn’t think it possible for his girl to kill an innocent beast. 

The pardoner and him locked gazes. Not a word said, yet he understood what she was asking. Domhnall nodded. 

Help her learn.

Chapter Text

An Unlikely Trio.

Clank, clank… clank…

The ladder creaked under Atiri’s weight, its filth staining the sweaty palms of her hands. Long strands of her hair were matted to her head, which pounded and ached unendingly. She felt faint, her vision blurring with exhaustion. Her muscles pulsed like a thousand knives piercing through her flesh, and her hands still tingled from the scorching flames of the gargoyle. She moved down the ladder at a slower rate, afraid she might slip. Her halberd only offered more painful weight, heavily strapped to her back, her movements causing it to rub and scrape against her chest plate. 

Atiri felt exhausted, like she could fall asleep for the rest of eternity at the next bonfire she clapped her eyes on, waste away in her slumber and grow oblivious to her surroundings. 

The First Bell of Awakening has been rung, its grand sound echoing out through the entire kingdom, and perhaps beyond, shaking the ground. A feat only a brave few have accomplished. 

Making it to the bottom of the ladder, with her feet firmly planted on the bottom level of the bell tower, Atiri wiped the back of her hand across her moist forehead, then her nose. She stared down at the blood, its foetid scent barely registering.

Despite her overwhelming exhaustion and pain, Atiri felt amazing. At this very moment, she felt as if she could conquer anything. Giants, dragons, man-eating rats. Even those blighted Black Knights, if luck was on her side!

“Greetings, Child.”

Atiri felt as if her skeleton was about to jump from her skin and bolt away from her, jerking herself around to the mysterious voice echoing from behind her. The unfamiliar face, with a body that stood all a bit too close for comfort, prompted her to yelp and slam back into the rustic ladder, causing its flimsy frame to rattle. 

Before her stood what appeared to be a figure almost entirely swathed in black, shimmering leather. Expensive leather— unlike the tattered, dirty brown type Atiri had grown accustomed to seeing. Its hair, thin and white like snow, was pooled out against its black shoulders like curtain drapes. She wouldn't have thought the being to be human, if not for the sliver of ghostly pale skin that revealed the beings wide grin and wrinkled cheeks, the rest of its face shrouded by a richly ornate helm. 

The figure held its arms out in a welcoming manner, yet it did little to fix the already threatening appearance. Especially not with the dangerous scourge that hung against the figure’s sharp hip.

The figure looked like some sort of agent of death, Atiri acknowledged grimly. She knew that the great bell’s ring vibrated all throughout the sky in a way that the entirety of Lordran would hear, but she had hoped she would have had longer before someone were to attempt to claim her life ( for whatever reason that may be ).

The figure didn’t seem all too fazed by Atiri’s defensive stance, still holding the eerily wide grin on its face. 

In a single, swift motion, it rose its gloved hands up a little higher in defence. “I mean thee no harm. I am Oswald of Carim.”

The voice was that of an older man, his minacious tone adjusted to put her at ease. Atiri’s eyes bore down at the thorn-covered whip hanging idly at the man’s hip, like a serpent curled up against its master. Oswald noticed this, and gestured to himself reassuringly. 

“I am a pardoner, as thoust can likely tell. On duty, here in Lordran.”

Shoulders undecided whether to relax or stay taught as a bow, Atiri's mind raced. Carim, the land of bad men and imprisoned women. If she was smart, she should heed Sir Siegmeyer’s warning and run from this pardoner . Yet…

The clothes were oddly familiar, as was their unique stench. Slick leather, rustling about and always paired with the sharp sounds of clicking heels. Ghostly white hair framing a stern, sharp face that stared down at her. The smell paired with candle wax and old paper, as she sat hours a day staring down at books Atiri couldn’t care less to read. Or sometimes, the smell was paired with sweat and blood, with dirt and grime as she struggled to get back up to her feet. Wounds bruising her flesh as the same, stern face stared down at her.

It took a few moments before Atiri pulled herself back from her fragmented memories, realising she had yet to say anything.

“Oh. I haven’t done anything… wrong, have I?” 

Oswald stared at her for a moment, grin disappearing. 

“Nay. Thou hast done nothing wrong.” He finally spoke, adding, “Nothing yet, at least.”

Atiri quirked a thin brow, knuckles white as her hold on her halberd tightened. “ Why are you here, then?”

Oswald straightened his back and folded his hands behind him as his grin returned, causing the wrinkles in his pale face to become more prominent. 

“Why, to offer my good graces to thee, of course.” Oswald pulled a thick scroll out from the shadows of his robe, a large quill stuffed within it. “Thine name, child.”

Atiri stared blankly at the pardoner, dumbfounded. Not dwelling too much on it, she responds. “Uh, Atiri, Ser.”

She watched with curiosity as the man scribbled furiously onto the paper. He was definitely writing more than just her name, but when she craned her neck to peer over the at the parchment, every streak of ink was in an alien language.

“Pardon me, Child— Atiri ,” Oswald spoke up suddenly. “I prefer to keep track of the Undead within the area.”

“...Why?”

Oswald glanced up at her. “‘Tis classified.”

Atiri shifted, muttering a quiet oh before perking up. “So you pardon folks? … Could you pardon me?”

The older man’s eyes scanned her up and down, gloved hand tapping against his chin. A beat of silence passed before a smile creeped onto his face.

“But of course! ‘Tis my duty!” He tented his fingers, making no move to sit. “What has been bothering you?”

Atiri shifted, uncertain, uncomfortable. “I’ve killed a lot recently. I was counting but… I stopped after a while.”

Oswald frowned, leaning towards the girl ever so slightly. “ Thou? ” He spoke with raised eyebrows. “A killer? I find that rather difficult to believe. Thine eyes speak of naivety.” 

Staring blankly, Atiri tried to not let the comment get under her skin. “But I have. I have killed so many poor Hollows, so many creatures of all sort—”

The pardoner chuckled, the sound more akin to a bird’s squawking. Atiri felt ashamed at that moment, though she didn’t know why. Did she say something wrong?

“Child,” Oswald began after wiping a single tear from his eye. “Hollows are not human. Not even Undead . Killing them is not a sinful act, but a heroic one. Thoust has little to worry about.”

Atiri’s face went blank, suddenly feeling like her mind was leagues away from her body. “Oh.”

Another flash of yet another fleeting memory reeled her in.

It was the figure dressed in black again. A woman. Her eyes bored through Atiri’s soul like a dagger to the heart. She was seated at her desk, but she was not writing.

“The holy soldiers of Carim have many beliefs…”

 Atiri listened, as silent as one could be, for she feared that any sound would disrupt the lesson.

“The boundaries of what is and isn’t deserving of death are crystal clear. To them, it is as simple as night and day. Black and white. Dark and light. That is how the teachings of our gods go. But think this way, and you will soon find your beliefs tested. As was mine.”

The woman kept her unrelenting gaze towards her, continuing with hardly time for thought. “Is a thief who steals for the good of the poor deserving of death? Is a cleric who questions the church’s teachings deserving of death? In Carim, it is. But then again, if a madman killed many, is he deserving of the same death as the thief and cleric? Where is that line of dark and light drawn?”

“That is for you to decide for yourself.” The woman leaned back, crossing her legs. “So I ask you; what do you believe?”

Atiri blinked a few times, pulling herself out of her daze for the second time and back into the belltower. The dry air of the outside blew in as sharp gusts, tousling her hair.

“Velka.”

Oswald quirked a brow. “Yes?”

“The goddess of sin— your goddess. The rogue goddess and killer of lords.”

“Ah, then thou art familiar with her? I didn't expect it from a… well, it is good to see her teachings reach far.”

Atiri thought back, hard. She thought back to the mystifying woman, to any other teachings she might have retained. She remembers… reading books— Remembers the lectures. But only fragments of them. “It is said she was cast away for her differing beliefs on how the gods clung to the first flame. The gods trapped her somewhere so she couldn’t punish them for their crimes.”

Oswald’s smile grew, like a teacher applauding his pupil. “Yes! Very good. My my, I had not expected to meet an Undead who knew Carim’s teachings.”

Atiri forced a smile, reaching with a dirty hand to wipe her face. When had her eyes started to water? Atiri nodded. “Yes sir, sir.” She fumbled with her halberd, adjusting herself. “I… should go.”

Oswald tilted his head. “Wherest to? The Second Bell? Thoust truly wishes to follow through with thine quest?”

The girl paused at the bell tower’s exit, the walls of her throat clamping together. “Yes. Yes, that’s the plan.”

The pardoner grinned, letting out a strange chortle of a laugh. 

“Well,” He began, feigning astonishment. “Tis a perilous journey, or so I’ve heard. May the gods grace thee, young hunter.”

Atiri smiled, though it came off as more of a nervous quirk of her chapped lips. She turned her back to him, as she did with all the other Undead she had met, and walked back out onto the church’s rooftops. The frigid, cold breeze doing nothing to brush the sweat from her face.

Clank… clank… clank…

“Ahh, there ye are.”

Atiri leapt down the last few steps, landing so hard it caused the dead leaves to sweep out from beneath her. She looked up at the familiar altar, then off to the side to find Andre’s hunched form. 

The blacksmith turned from his work, unkept beard speckled with grime and copper. Atiri turned the corner to see what he had been working on. 

“Oh!” She gasped. “You fixed it?”

Andre nodded gruffly, wiping his sweaty brow with a large hand. “Aye. She should be up n’ workin’ just fine now. All she needed was a lil’ oil and some new parts to get them gears turnin’.”

Atiri made her way up to the lift. It still retained its rusted colour, but the chains holding it aloft had been wiped clean. She reached out to its flimsy gate, glancing at the blacksmith for approval, before prying it open. 

“This’ll lead ye right back down to Firelink.” Andre got up from his crouched position, popping his back. “Ye know how to use a lift, aye?”

Atiri stared into the small interior of the lift, turning back to smile nervously. “I’ll manage,” She patted herself down for her various packs, shuffling through the junk she had rapidly accumulated. “I, uh, I should pay you for your work.”

Before she could start scrapping up any souls she still had from her sorry little pouch, Andre let out a rough chuckle and shook his head.

“Don’t bother. I’ve been meanin’ ta fix that thing, just never really thought it would be used again.” Andre placed a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder, the blacksmith’s sheer strength felt even through her chestplate. “I’ll be back in me shop, if ye need anythin’.”

Atiri wasn’t sure what to say, or how to properly thank him. Her eyes were still trained on the lift, her hand moving fast, before it returned to her side. She only pried them away to look back at Andre’s retreating form. She stared at him expectantly, watching the way the large man paused, patting his tattered apron down, before reaching into one of its pockets to pull out a couple of souls she had slipped in. Andre turned back to look at Atiri, brow raised, and she smiled brightly. 

He spoke lowly, his gruff voice bounced off the walls of the old church, disturbing only the leafs beneath them.“Yer a good one, kid. Don’t let anyone change that,” He spoke again, a little louder this time. “And don’t ye dare go hollow.”

Atiri continued to stare back at the hulking, scarred back of the old blacksmith as he left her in the church. It was quiet again, with nothing but the persistent chirping of birds to accompany her in her solitude. 

I won’t. She thought.

Atiri worked her jaw. She had been planning something from the moment she rang the first bell. The moment she watched Solaire’s golden form dissipate and Oscar retreat from the roof. She moved a dirty hand to pat Oscar’s gift to her, a surprisingly reassuring weight against her hip. 

She was just… unsure of how the idea would be received, or if it was even a good one. She wasn’t sure if any of her ideas were necessarily good.

Her throat involuntarily clamped shut, her breathing becoming nothing but short inhales and exhales of air. Firelink Shrine— the very place her undead life began— was just within reach. Were they even still down there? She thought to herself, rather dimly.

Even though it would be contradictory towards her plan, she silently hoped they weren’t. That she would return to an empty sanctuary all to herself. 

Worse case scenario is they have hollowed, and she will need to put them out of their misery. She could make good use of their things. She stopped that train of thought as soon as it came. The idea didn’t sit right with her, making her insides convulse. 

Atiri stepped into the lift, muscles tensing when her weight caused the enclosure to creak. It swayed, rust falling from above and into her unkempt hair. She stood there, in the metal box, for a few moments before the lift seemed to register her weight. Once it did, the creaking grew louder, as the sounds of chains rustling and rolling screeched and she began to descend. 

The girl held onto the decrepit metal of the contraption’s frame, heart hammering and causing her chest piece to vibrate. The elevator screeched almost deafeningly, as the stone walls of the church disappeared, opening up to reveal a bird’s-eye-view of the shrine. It was beautiful from up here, its greenery more visible when put against the rest of the land. Why someone would build a seemingly important sanctuary so far below a church, Atiri could not say.

With one final, loud screech, the lift came to an abrupt halt as it hit the bottom. The impact jostled Atiri so hard her knees nearly gave in, instinctively holding onto her precious estus flask to keep it from shattering against the ground. 

She stepped out, almost immediately greeted by a fresh gust of air and the hauntingly familiar smell of firewood and mossy stone. Walking down a little cove and further down a short flight of stairs, Atiri acknowledged that the shrine was just as she had left it. She was unsure as to how much time had passed since she had been here, as time seemed to pass so strangely in these lands. She had half expected to come back to a pile of rubble, or even a putrid lake of blood after ringing the first bell. 

But if that had been the case, she supposed Petrus wouldn’t still be here. 

Atiri felt as if her armour had grown two sizes smaller, constricting her airflow as she stared from the bottom of the staircase, over to the cleric’s seated form. 

The man was hunched over in what seemed to be pain, breathing heavily as he rested his back against the stone wall. His leather armour, Atiri noted, was coated in a thin layer of dirt and rubble, almost as if he had just climbed out from the ground. 

Atiri’s internal alarm went off when she noticed the dark blood oozing from in front of him. It must’ve been his blood, as it was too new to be anyone else’s.

“Petrus…?”

Petrus’ shoulders froze, his head abruptly turning so his wide-eyed gaze could meet her’s. He opened his mouth to speak, floundering with his words as he quickly stood up, but Atiri was much faster than he was. He attempted to shift away from her, even tried to swat her away, as the girl moved to his side. 

Atiri reached for her belt, which caused Petrus to grasp his morning star and prepare to bash her skull in if need be. Much to the cleric’s surprise, however, she instead took out her flask full of liquid gold, uncorking its top and handing it to him.

Not a word was spoken between them, as Petrus eyed her suspiciously. Atiri frowned, sighing as she gestured more insistently. He eventually gave in, bringing the opening of the flask to his mouth and drinking, just enough so that the gaping wound on his arm would stop bleeding. Atiri watched as the cleric handed the flask back to her without looking, before rubbing his eyes, exasperated. 

“I was going to heal myself, child.” 

“No, you weren’t. You were just sitting there.” 

“We come back when we die. I was prepared for that.”

Atiri narrowed her eyes at him, before speaking again. “Well, I can kill you now, if you want.”

“No— That’s not necessary.” Petrus went silent, pinching the bridge of his nose, before letting go of the matter. “So… it is safe to assume it was you who rang the bell?”

“ ïe .” Atiri nodded, popping the cork back in the flask and returning it to her belt.

Petrus seemed to recover from his mysterious wound fast, as he was quick to move a few paces away from Atiri. The cleric scanned her up and down, a gloved hand placed under his chin. 

“You look healthy, despite everything. Well done.”

Monster , Atiri remembered the red eye orb like an open wound, still fresh in her mind. She remembered the way its crimson flesh laid in her palms, filthy and waiting to be used. She wasn’t sure whether to attack the cleric where he stood, or simply glower at him.

What have you done? Why did you do it? How long will you play innocent?  But then again, maybe he had his reasons. Maybe she was being too harsh in jumping to conclusions. Or maybe, she refused to believe she was safe due to the actions of a monster.

Atiri opted to glower at him, staying silent as her eyes bore into the man’s soul. “You’ve looked better yourself. Why were you bleeding?”

Petrus puffed up his chest. “I haven’t spent the time you were gone cooped up in one spot. I was attacked by the cadavers wandering the shrine’s graveyard.” 

Atiri kept her eyes narrowed, but didn’t push further. The cleric did seem to have a connection with that place, afterall. He was probably burying bodies, Atiri thought distastefully.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Atiri asked, suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“You know, your plan for your future. Do you have any?”

Petrus looked confused for a moment, but found his voice, coughing once into his hand. “The future looks uncertain for me. I may simply stay here, in the shrine, as it is the safest place to be. At least for the time being.”

“Will you ever return to Thorolund?”

The cleric didn’t look at her this time, his expression growing spiteful. “They will not have me back.” He waved at her dismissively. “I do not wish to speak of this any further.” 

Atiri went quiet again, trying to concentrate on her next words. “...You could come with me.”

Petrus paused, turning to stare at her. “... You? Now why would I do that?”

Atiri shrugged, a poor attempt at appearing nonchalant. “I am going to ring the second bell. I… would like allies to accompany me.”

“That sounds like a blasted suicide mission! I will have no part in it.” Petrus picked up his shield and weapon, strapping each to his armour as if he were about to go somewhere else. He sighed. “And you are far too quick to refer to me as an ally.”

“Why not? Are you not my ally?”

“Is this just because I saved you? Once?”

“Of course it is! I am indebted to you!” Atiri’s voice grew louder, wondering if the warrior could hear them from wherever he was.

“ Dii boni… You are naive, girl.”

“My name is Atiri .” Atiri spoke firmly. “Stop calling me girl.”

Petrus crossed his arms, brow arching. “Is it now?” 

She scowled, before her face dropped and her eyes flicked away from the cleric’s own. So he didn’t want to join her. She couldn’t blame him, but it still stung. She won't force him.

“Well,” Atiri began with an aggravated huff, stepping down the last stone ledge. “Your choice.”

Petrus did not bother stopping her as she swiftly passed him, leaving the little, vase-cluttered cove and entering the main area of the shrine.

The old sanctuary was in the same, sorry state Atiri had left it in. Most of its walls and staircases were broken, with the remaining parts slowly being reclaimed by nature. The once polished stone had faded, with moss covered in some places and eroded away in others. Although the shrine was old and falling apart, it eased a lot of her anxieties, she could have sworn it was magic. 

It was almost hard to spot the warrior amongst all the green and grey, as he may as well be a part of the structure with how well he blended in. Same spot, same expression, same posture. As if the passage of time meant nothing to him. 

As Atiri approached, the man shifted his legs, lifting his head up from his slumped position.

The Crestfallen stared, eyes so dark they nearly blended in with his lashes. “You should’ve rung it louder. I could hardly hear it from over here.” 

Atiri breathed out harshly through her nose. The man’s voice was ladened with sarcasm and a small amount of spite. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Either his ears were just as rotted as his soul, or he was lying. 

“I nearly lost my hearing. Any louder and my head would’ve exploded.”

“Oh, and we wouldn’t want that.” He snickered, though it did little to conceal his envy. “Poor, headless Atiri wouldn’t stand a chance against the second bell. Hardly stood a chance against the first one. Even with her head squarely on her shoulders.”

She grit her teeth, working her jaw as she tried her best to let the comments slide right off her. He must’ve overheard her tell Petrus her name. At least the man actually bothered using it. 

“Yeah. I guess so.” Atiri said, shrugging. “Is eavesdropping all you ever do here?”

“What? Can’t celebrate your sliver of memory?” The Crestfallen leaned back in his seat, humming as he idly popped his knuckles. “You're one of the lucky ones. Most never get to remember their names.”

Atiri knew he was referring to himself more than anyone else. She knew he didn’t deserve it, but pity began to swell in her stomach, causing her to drop her attitude. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The Crestfallen attempted to hide the way his eyebrows raised, frowning instead as she took a seat next ( But not too close ) to him without waiting for him to respond. Atiri sat there in silence, which the Crestfallen didn’t seem in a hurry to break. 

The sky above them began to darken once more, the blues turning to blacks, and the birds around them falling into their usual slumber. It was at this time when the bonfire’s light became so vibrant, and its crackling noises grew louder. A chill passed through the area, causing said bonfire to wane, but never go out. Atiri understood now why the Crestfallen spent so much time like this.

“What?” He began after a beat of silence. “Giving up, are we?”

Atiri didn’t look at him when she spoke. “Is the Chosen Undead taking a break not mentioned in the prophecy?”

She kept her eyes ahead of her, towards the flickering bonfire, but she could sense the warrior’s smile. From her peripheral vision, she noticed the way he raised a gloved hand to cover his huff of laughter. Atiri grinned, too, despite herself.

“Careful. You might end up enjoying this spot, and I’ll have to kill you.”

Suddenly, Atiri sensed an opportunity presenting itself.

“I’d like to see you try. Sitting for that long? I mean, you probably can’t even wield your sword right.”

Atiri sensed the man beside her stiffen, felt how his own anger practically seeped from between the chains of his armour. “Oh? Did ringing the first bell suddenly make you all cocky and better than everyone else?”

“Well…” Atiri knew she was delving into hot water, but she continued anyway, “Maybe a little.”

She heard the stretch of his gloves when his hands balled up into fists, which was all she needed for her muscles to tighten in preparation. When he inevitably swung at her, she was ready for it. 

Atiri shot up from her seat, quickly leaping away from the warrior seconds before he could grab his sword. She was swift on her feet, knees bent, as she moved so the bonfire sat in between the two. From around the flames, she watched as the Crestfallen stood up, the rustic handle of his sword in one hand, and his battered shield in the other. His face was dark, outlined by the bright fire and painting his chainmail in red. 

“You think you’ll survive Blighttown, eh?” He spat.

Atiri glowered, pulling her halberd out, then tying her hair up and out of her face. “It’s not a competition, Twpsyn . You are making it one!”

They circled the bonfire, bent in their battle stances. The tips of their weapons glinted as they maintained eye contact. Moonlight filtered through the trees looming overhead, highlighting the two at the centre of the shrine. The small, flickering bonfire still burned brilliantly in the centre. The night was still and silent as the two sized each other up. 

Atiri fidgeted a bit, her loose pants rustling as she shifted her weight between crouched legs. Her breaths were calm as she alternated the grip on her halberd between her calloused hands, readying herself. She noticed something odd about the way the warrior held his sword. His wrist twitched slightly, making the blade shake involuntarily. An injury, maybe? Or was the man truly as old as he looks?

The Crestfallen also watched her movements, seemingly analysing Atiri’s small ticks and nervous habits. He raised his shield slightly and shakily adjusted his grip on his sword, remaining silent. He seemed to have no intention of making the first move, which quickly caused Atiri to grow impatient. 

She lunged first, leaping over the bonfire just high enough and causing its smoke to part around her, like a bird taking flight. She did not intend to kill the man, so she positioned her halberd so it was outstretched to her left, leaving the point directed away from him and instead using the blade’s beak. However, if she was not quick enough, this left her torso exposed. 

The Crestfallen instantly raised his shield to block her strike, a loud clang ringing out. Atiri quickly shifted the halberd to one hand and attempted to attack the side of the shield, but the Crestfallen pushed it away in an almost perfect parry, his stance not budging as he blocked another blow.

The two continued to fight, the sound of metal clashing against metal filling the old sanctuary. The warrior parried another strike, and attempted a quick stab. Atiri stumbled back, quickly bringing up her polearm to parry and jumping back. She steadied herself onto her toes, breathing slightly heavier as her halberd dug into the grassy floor to keep her from falling into the bonfire’s flames.

The Crestfallen took her moment of steadying to his advantage, and quickly rushed forward. A large CLANG echoed out as Atiri hastily blocked and pushed him back.

The Crestfallen was… a lot better of a fighter than Atiri had expected. She had assumed all his time sitting around— slumped over with his head in his hands— had done a number on his abilities. Which meant her first mistake was underestimating him. 

Atiri’s breaths became more laboured as the two continued to clash weapons. Every time she attacked the Crestfallen, he deflected it or parried, his blade never striking her. Her hands were growing sweaty and her halberd began to way heavy in her grasp.

But while Atiri grew slower, the warrior’s attacks grew quicker, his eyes analysing every one of Atiris moves without slowing down a beat. A small smirk crept across his face.

“Blighttown is filled to the brim with man-eating bugs and poisonous swamps. Cannibals and butchers hunt the area for poor, unassuming girls like yourself.”

Atiri’s face grew red as she attempted to catch her breath. She could feel her legs trembling under her weight.

“ Cau dy geg! ” She responded between ragged breaths, gritting her teeth, “I’m just getting started—”

The Crestfallen moved quickly, harshly slamming his shield up into her chest, then sweeping his foot under to knock her off her balance. 

Atiri lost her footing, falling to the ground with a loud THUD , leaving her flat on her stomach and knocking the wind clean out of her lungs. As she attempted to push herself up, the warrior shoved the sole of his armoured shoe against her head. She heard the Crestfallen chuckle as he approached her. With her face pushed against wet grass and dirt, she felt the tip of the warrior’s blade press against an opening in her chestplate, right up against her neck. 

“You aren’t the first one to ring the first bell, and you won’t be the last…”

His words sunk into her mind, making her skin hot with frustration. When she tried to say something back, the warrior dug the point of his blade further into her skin, just enough to draw blood. Atiri hissed into the ground, before finally relenting, releasing her halberd. 

The Crestfallen loomed over her for a few moments, and for a split second Atiri thought he was going to finish her off. Thankfully, he seemed to have let it go, lifting his shoe off of her and slowly retreating his blade. 

“Remember that.” 

Atiri felt her eyes roll, hauling herself up from the dirt. She spat grass from her mouth, using a hand to wipe her face, picking up only some blood that had began to trickle out from her mouth. She straightened her back, turning to stare at the warrior as he slumped back into his seat like nothing had happened. The man glanced at her with raised eyebrows, giving her a condescending look as he propped his head against his knuckles. 

“You will never get yourself through Blighttown.” He chuckled, breathy and light like nails against metal. “You’d best give up now. Wait here, safe and oblivious to Lordran’s horrors, until we all hollow out…”

“That’s why I need your help.”

The warrior stopped, face dropping as he stared up at her through furrowed brows. “What?”

Atiri spat the remaining grass from her mouth. “The second bell. Help me reach it.”

 “I’m not a bloody charity worker. I’m not giving you anything.” The Crestfallen replied.

Atiri shook her head. “You said you’ve been down Blighttown before, and that you got really close to ringing the second bell. Yes?”

The man said nothing, stubbled jaw set. The tightening of his fist conveyed that he already knew where she was going, but she needed to make sure. If not just to get under his skin.

“Is this true?” She started. “Or is it a lie?”

His mouth curved into a snarl, his frown darkening and that angry glint returning to his sunken eyes. “Yes, it is true. I have seen the blighted deep lands and was broken by its treachery. Like I said, you wouldn’t last one bloody moment down there, brat .”

“I have a name.” She tilted her head up. “I am aware I wouldn’t last long. So I ask that you come with me.”

The Crestfallen starred up incredulously. Then, to Atiri’s shock, the man planted his fists on his knees and hauled himself from his rundown seat. As he stood, Atiri quickly moved back a few paces and held her halberd out between them, watching his hands for any motion toward his own weapon. But he made no move to attack her, standing there with his fists at his sides. But his gaze, for the first time, felt hot with anger and his voice became low.

“What the hell do I look like to you? A bloody escort? ” He hissed. “A meat sacrifice for your victory?!”

Atiri’s eyes stayed wide and unblinking, legs bent and ready for another fight. “You are making assumptions that aren’t true. I am not asking to use you.” 

“You want to be a hero, eh?” His voice shook with rage.

“No.” Atiri responded quickly. “I do not want to be anything.” 

When the Crestfallen let out a clipped laugh, shaking his head in disbelief, Atiri raised her voice, just loud enough so as to not disrupt the sanctuary’s peace. 

“I just want to stop the curse! I don’t care about the bell, you can ring the blasted thing if you want it so badly! But I will not shirk my duty. This is why I am here. This is my purpose now!”

His smirking finally fled his face, his eyes lessening their intensity slightly.

“And if you won’t come, that is your choice. But you will not be there to ring it yourself. You will regret your choice once you hear the second bell’s ringing from beneath, as I emerge victorious.”

Atiri watched the man’s face, seeing an odd mixture of resistance and a deep amount of sorrow. The warrior’s face turned forlorn, turning his gaze over to the stairs leading under the shrine, then up to the sky. With his head tilted up like this, his eyes appeared much brighter, like a caramel. If only the warrior didn’t keep his head down for the majority of his days, he would appear much more human than undead.

But it didn’t last long, as the warrior turned away from Atiri, saying nothing as he held his head in his hands. Her gaze softened, wondering if she had come across too harshly. She contemplated reaching out to him and offering her comfort, but she knew such actions would be unwelcome. And if he hadn’t reached for his sword and chopped off her hand before, he would certainly then.

So, she turned away to leave him be. She felt hot with anger, but it clashed with her increasing loneliness and— dare she say— sympathy. Though she could not say who or what it was directed towards. She had tried her hardest with those two bastards, and they had proven to not be worth her time, so she needed to let it go. If anything, it encouraged her to go through with this prophecy, if not to save these men from their spite and misery. 

Atiri pondered on what her next move would be. Going back up the lift and to Andre seemed like the wisest course of action. She could ask him for directions and ( if she could gather enough souls ) purchase supplies. Then, she could ask good Sir Siegmeyer if he had any tips on what to expect down there. Hopefully something more specific than the Crestfallen’s vague descriptions of “horrors beyond comprehension.” 

Atiri quickly made her way back towards the secluded cove where Petrus still resided, paying him no mind as she took the steps back up towards the lift.

“Atiri.”

Her movements came to a halt mid-step, debating on whether she should pretend she didn’t hear him or not.

“ Atiri .” The cleric said again, more firmly.

Atiri finally turned to look at him, face placid when she met his eyes. 

Petrus sighed, then, slowly making his way towards her. Atiri began stepping down the stairs, so that they both stood on level ground. Petrus was bigger than she was, so she needed to tilt her head up to hold his gaze, waiting for the cleric to say something. 

After a moment, Atiri began to think he just planned on staring down at her in silence, before he spoke again.