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headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 2 years

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Dark Souls Chain 3

Hey guys, remember the chain game? We actually still do this and while it took a while, we finally finished the third chain for Dark Souls the first.

Original Prompt: Story about Oscar's journey through Lordran which ends back in the Asylum.

@dbzespio

Oscar rolled to his feet just as the giant crow dropped him. And it didn’t take long for him to take stock of his new surroundings: naught but a bonfire and a knight sat before him. For now, the knight was reposed; his stance and demeanor suggested he wasn’t yet a threat.

It wasn’t until Oscar drew closer that the knight finally raised his head; he was fair skinned and without a wrinkle on him. Not hollowed, then.

The knight of Astora relaxed, heading up to bid the man greetings. But the man’s face slowly lowered yet again, and he did not look up as Oscar approached. “Ah. Another one…”

“Having a rest?” Oscar asked good naturedly.

The crestfallen knight finally looked him in the eye then, and there was no cheer there. “There is no rest, not for undead such as ourselves…”

“True enough.” Oscar hefted his shield to his back, scanning the area once more, but again, the two were quite alone. “Tell me, fellow chosen, how goes your pilgrimage?”

The other man gazed blankly at him for a few moments before promptly breaking out into a soft, cruel laughter.

Oscar was left at a loss for words, and the other merely continued to laugh at him.

“So you have forsaken your calling?” Oscar asked, finally having found the words to speak.

“There is no salvation here,” the knight replied. “You would have done better to rot in the Asylum.”

This man was speaking madness; and yet, he was no hollow. Surely he wasn’t--!

Oscar shivered, an unknown feeling quickly gripping him. But he covered the motion with a wave of his arm, as if to signal that he was finished talking.

“Forgive me, fellow,” he nodded to the other knight, “but I must return to my duty.”

His fellow knight merely laughed again, causing Oscar to shudder slightly as he left for the nearby bonfire.

After a brief rest, Oscar left the area, finding himself within an empty plaza overgrown with various grasses and weeds. Here, again, the place was empty without a soul amongst the ruin.

He trekked onwards, reaching an open graveyard. The area was similarly overgrown and abandoned, with naught but bones to keep him company. He couldn’t help but feel puzzled. Surely there were more hollows about?

A sudden sound had him widening his stance. He whirled about, only to discover that the bones had formed into a proper skeleton, and it was wielding a sword and shield! It was charging for him too, and he hurriedly raised his shield in defense.

However, a sword plunged into his back, tearing through his insides and bursting through his chest, and with horror, he saw it, recognized it as identical to the one the skeleton before him held in hand. So they were working together then.

A bony foot kicked him off the blade, and Oscar crumpled to the ground, unable to catch himself before he hit the ground. He realized he was bleeding profusely as he struggled to his feet. But before he could even stand, the skeleton before him slashed away, and the other, the one who had shoved his sword into his back, soon lent its comrade aid.

Oscar died then; his soul returned to the bonfire.

This time, he was prepared.

Oscar of Astora slowly advanced through the graveyard, allowing no pile of bones to coalesce without his knowledge. He made certain never to turn his back on any of them, so that he might not suffer the same fate as before.

He was beginning to feel a small sense of pride well up within him, as he had dispatched several skeletal foes by now. But his sense of confidence slowly faded, as he took note of some particularly unusual bones before him.

And to his dread, a much larger foe soon towered above him, wielding a blade nearly as long as Oscar himself. When the abomination lashed out, Oscar quickly rolled away, careful to avoid the uncannily sharp blade.

And when the enemy struck yet again, Oscar was forced to dash away, unwittingly awakening more foes, who were soon ready to attack along with their fearsome companion. It wasn’t long before Oscar was overwhelmed, and he was forced to return to the bonfire.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

He certainly didn’t feel like a chosen one right now; rather he felt a fool. But his journey was only beginning; like last time, he would learn and do better.

The knight of Astora did notice the unconcealed smirk of the nearby crestfallen knight, but he chose to pay him no mind. Even when he could hear his haunting laughter echoing along behind him.

This time, Oscar was not so careful. His blade was rushed, and his shield work, sloppy. He needed to down an Estus or two before he reached the unusual pile of bones yet again. And now, when he avoided the creature’s attacks, he made certain to dodge backwards, towards the areas where he had already conquered the skeleton menace.

When the abomination was finally defeated, Oscar quickly emptied a bottle of Estus, in the hopes that the bleeding plaguing his shoulder might stop. He was now low on Estus, much less than he would have liked, but he only saw typical-looking bones on the path ahead. His shoulder was still bleeding, but the pain was tolerable. He felt certain he could handle the rest ahead. Hopefully he would happen upon another bonfire soon.

And so he continued onwards, taking the skeleton foes down, one at a time. But it didn’t take long for another blade to burst through his gut, and when it did, Oscar fell again to the ground, unable to pick himself up in time to properly defend himself from the ensuing onslaught.

Oscar returned to the bonfire with fury in his heart. How in the hell had they managed to surprise him like that again? He had been a little reckless, sure, but not enough so to warrant that kind of oversight. It was as if the offending skeleton had been brought back to life!

Well, of course it did. They were undead too, he supposed. But surely they couldn’t rise again that quickly…

“Something give you a scare out there?” the crestfallen jeered. “No problem. Have a seat and get comfortable. We’ll both be hollow before you know it.”

Oscar swiftly rose and walked away; he didn’t want to hear this man’s endless taunting again. But sure enough, he could hear his laughter drifting along the wind.

Oscar opted to explore further, hoping for another way forward, when he found just that: a ledge leading upwards towards an old bridge. Now that should get him somewhere of interest...

Several hollow soldiers arose at his approach. It was difficult, handling several of them at once; the two swordsmen before him were slow to start, but once they began to attack, they struck with a wild furiosity. And not to mention, the damn firebombs!

Oscar did his best to conserve his stamina, but what with the near-constant barrage of fire and blades, it wasn’t long before he was sent back to the bonfire.

Damn.

But he could do this! After all, he was undead, and therefore a chosen one, wasn’t he?

But now, he could certainly see the appeal… of…

Of what?

Oscar shook his head wildly as if to free himself from these confusing thoughts. He just needed to keep learning. He knew it.

He carried onwards, testing his strengths (and his limits) as he journeyed forwards.

Eventually, Oscar happened upon a corridor, just beyond a set of stairs which had led him down. At the end of the hall, he could see another knight, though this man was rather tall, far taller than… well, a man taller than any he had ever met. Regardless, this one stood quite still; his armor was black as night, and the man within was entirely silent. Was he even breathing?

Uncertain what to make of him, Oscar quietly approached. A gentle scrape of his boot was apparently all it took for the knight ahead to notice him, for he whirled about at once.

Oscar was about to raise his hand in greeting, but something about the determination with which the other knight began to pursue him had him quickly turn about and run away. If they really were to fight, then he would need more space than this. His much-taller-than-he-was foe would undoubtedly overpower him here within this narrow passage.

So Oscar raced up the stairs and didn’t stop running until he reached the nearest relatively open plaza. He turned about, ready to face this challenger. And the knight did not disappoint.

He fought with stunning poise, and his blows were nearly enough to knock Oscar off his feet. Thankfully, the other knight moved with relative predictability, otherwise Oscar would have…

No, Oscar died, caught by the other’s blade just as he tried to down a flask of Estus.

Surely there was no shame in losing to a foe as strong as that…

But no, a churning sense of doubt and envy began to boil over within Oscar’s gut. Surely that knight was undead too, given that he was here in Lordran and not… well, anywhere else. And if he were undead… Was he not chosen, as well?

Oscar stared into the fire, alone with his embittered thoughts. Surely this knight would be better suited than he to…

No.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

Any and all undead were tasked with this pilgrimage. And if this knight chose to stand about and do nothing, then he would stand instead.

Filled with a blazing determination, Oscar arose to confront the black knight again.

But this time, his blade was rushed, and his dodges, sloppy.

He returned to the fire.

Again!

And again! And again…

Well, that knight did seem to enjoy standing there in the hallway… Perhaps he should be left to it.

The next time around, Oscar ignored the knight’s corridor and carried onwards, soon finding himself within a tower, the stairs within spiraling, and each of the floors empty.

He began to feel nervous. Surely he had not killed every hollow within Lordran? Where were they?

He rolled to destroy the apparently empty barrels. No foes hidden here.

Eventually he came upon a long bridge leading out to another tower. Empty again.

An ominous feeling welled up within his gut as he slowly walked down along the bridge. And his feelings were affirmed when a giant beast alighted before him. Its body thick and stocky, the monster apparently used comparatively tiny wings to fly about; its bulk when it fell was enough to rock the very bridge itself. And, not to mention, it wielded a mighty axe, its size alone more than enough to dwarf Oscar by plenty and then some.

He was to fight this?! It was nearly forty times the size of that black knight!

Without thinking, Oscar rushed back for the safety of the tower behind him.

But the beast followed, flying up into the air so that it may crash down upon him.

And crash down upon him, it did, for the beast literally crushed Oscar beneath its giant ass.

Thou who art undead, art chosen...

A chosen one would have been able to defeat that thing.

Oscar watched the flames, wondering if he truly had it within him to slay that fearsome creature.

He was undead, no doubt of that. A regular knight would have long since died by now.

But was he chosen?

Oscar hurriedly shook his head as if to clear it. He had to be. He was undead!

And so the knight of Astora fought onwards, again and again, until he finally recognized the monster’s abilities and how to avoid them. His own attacks were paltry, compared to that beast’s. But every hit hurt, did it not?

Eventually, he would slay it. Eventually, he would.

He would repeat it to himself, like a mantra, until it became reality.

The beast was no more.

Oscar sank to his knees, astounded. He had done it.

He had done it.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

Of course he had done it. He was a chosen one.

Oscar found himself alone soon after. The winding stairs and halls of stone… all of them empty.

He was just starting to feel nervous again when he finally happened upon another: a knight standing alone within the rays of the sun. His armor vaguely reminded him of a fellow Astoran, though if he were, he certainly wasn’t a celebrated one; it looked rather plain. A single, red feather topped his helm, the tiny thing slightly swaying in the soft breeze.

Oscar kept his distance and found another way forward. After his dealings with the black knight, he did not wish to disturb a man who was equal to, or perhaps better than, himself. And to be so bold as to stand with his back turned, faced away from all entrances…

Oscar’s duty was to the Bell of Awakening. Not to challenge every foe in sight.

He happened upon another bridge, this time, with reposed hollows along it.

Oscar felt a measure of relief, to be among familiar foes once more. With a steadying breath, he made to challenge the company.

But to his horror, the bridge promptly became engulfed in flames, immediately killing him and all the other warriors fool enough to remain in place…

Just as Oscar’s body began to fade away, he heard it; the deafening wail of a dragon.

He awoke with a near-overwhelming sense of despair.

There was no path forward; he could never hope to defeat a dragon. Only the heroes of old (along with their bands of followers) could even hope to achieve such a feat. Oscar didn’t even have a simple longbow.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut. Not that thought again… He didn’t need to think about--!

But just before his mind began to slip into further despair, another thought occurred to him. What if he didn’t need to slay the dragon? What if he merely avoided it? Like he had with the black knight? And the nameless Astoran?

Oscar clutched his sword and shield with renewed purpose. This was the way forward.

Once he returned to the bridge, he didn’t need to look twice; the dragon was waiting for him, on the roof of the ramparts at the other end. He tentatively watched it; but it didn’t move. He scanned the path ahead; there was a small nook near the middle of the bridge. Perhaps he could hide there if the dragon decided to attack again.

With a steadying breath, he began to run for it, determined to ignore any hollows that awoke to challenge him. This was the correct decision, as the dragon soon alighted, ready to douse the area in its breath yet again. Oscar made it to cover just in time, and to his delight, he found a flight of stairs leading down below the bridge. Once he reached the bottom, he heard of the anguished screams of the hollows above as they were roasted by the flames.

Oscar shuddered; a fate he had narrowly avoided.

Soon, he happened upon a new plaza; a place cluttered with ruin and flames. And just ahead; an overgrown boar awaited him. Worse of all, it was wearing armor. What fool had decided to smith such a thing; and who had managed to force the animal to be adorned with it?

No matter; he gave the beast a wide berth as he steadily took down the hollowed soldiers creeping around within the area.

Before long, he took note of a nearby cathedral, and with it, the bell of Awakening: his proper destination, at long last.

And once he finally reached the top, he would have released a long sigh of relief, if not for the fact that one of the stone gargoyles came to life.

And, oddly enough, it was outfitted with its own helm, axe, and shield. Oscar would call the smith a fool, if it weren’t for the fact that the articles were hewn from stone. As far as he knew, no blacksmith worked with such material.

This beast wasn’t as enormous as the giant monster he had vanquished before, so it was easier to avoid its attacks. However, this also meant it was faster, so Oscar had a more difficult time both reacting and retaliating to its strikes.

Its skin was tough, thanks to the stone it was encased in, so any damage Oscar could make on it was minimal. He would have to slowly whittle away at its defenses, just as he had before.

And then, to his horror, another joined the fray. And it was now breathing fire.

However, while it was doing so, it remained stock still, which allowed Oscar time to attack its counterpart, so long as he kept his distance from the flames. Before long, the beast was vanquished, and only its companion remained.

So he kept at it, attacking whenever he wasn’t winded from dodging all the gargoyle’s strikes.

And before long, he emerged victorious. At long last.

Ecstatic, he hurried along to the top of the spire, only to take note of a shadowy figure near the end of the stairs. He quickly raised his shield and watched, but the man (apparently) did not move. Rather, he stood still, both arms extended and aloft. As Oscar slowly drew closer, he turned his head, a helm partially obscuring his face.

“Greetings,” the man declared, nodding to him. “I am Oswald of Carim, the pardoner. Thou art a friend.”

“No, no.” Oscar shook his head, strangely finding his voice husky from disuse. “I’m… not…”

Had it really been this long since he had last spoken to anyone?

“I have no interest in your pardons,” he continued. “For I have nothing to confess.”

Even if he did, he cared not for the teachings of Carim. He had a calling, and his duty was to fulfill it, nothing more, nothing less.

“Thou art welcome, anytime.” Oscar could see the man’s teeth as he smiled wide. “It is only human to commit a sin…”

His laugh sent a shudder straight down through Oscar’s spine, rattling him to his core.

Oscar shook his head to free himself of the resulting dread building within his gut, but it didn’t provide him with much ease. “Right then. I’ll be on my way…”

He rang the bell of Awakening with a somber sense of solemnity. He had thought he’d be more joyous, but he supposed the moment called for this.

And with that task complete, Oscar made the long journey back to the Firelink Shrine.

There, he would await Kingseeker Frampt, the primordial serpent of old. He was to be the one to guide Oscar throughout the rest of his pilgrimage, his calling as a chosen undead.

But when Oscar arrived, he did not see the sage. In fact, he waited for what felt like days (he had no sense of the passage of time anymore, as Lordran was forever stagnant, at least for the time being), but it did not matter. No matter how long he waited, nor how far he wandered within the shrine, the Kingseeker was nowhere to be found.

Oscar grew increasingly listless and restless at the same time. He had been jumping about, testing his limits, when one random endeavor had found himself atop the roof of a particularly large section of one of the taller structures. He felt like it was a success, of sorts, reaching this place, though he doubted his sage would be hiding all the way up here.

Oscar explored the area further until he stumbled upon a giant nest. There were a few eggs there, but the nest was so large that there was room for a few more too. Curious, he moved in closer to the eggs to take a better look. They were quite... enormous, really. Maybe even his size, if he curled up into a little ball.

He laughed. The sound startled him. His own voice sounded foreign to him, almost as if he were…

No!

He grabbed his head, shaking furiously. He was not hollow! Not at all!

But the fear gripped his heart, scratched at his soul, made him question… everything.

Before he had even realized, he found himself lying in the nest beside the eggs, curled into a fetal position, as if reverting to his beginnings would soothe him, somehow.

Oh. He really was the same size as the eggs.

He laughed again, and the sound frightened him.

He curled up again, more tightly than ever now. He wasn’t hollow; he wasn’t hollow!

And then, he was taken. By the giant crow, back to the Undead Asylum.

When the crow dropped him, he fell to the ground and didn’t get back up.

When he finally drew up the strength and fortitude to try, he found he couldn’t; his legs were shaking too much.

He was pathetic. No wonder Kingseeker Frampt hadn’t revealed himself… to a hollow such as himself.

He grabbed his head. He wasn’t hollow; he wasn’t hollow!

He breathed heavily, trying his best to quell his heart, which felt like it was raging, rather than merely beating in place. He ripped off his gauntlet, staring at his shriveled fingers. But they had always been that way; ever since he first learned he was undead.

Surely a hollow wasn’t reduced to a quivering mess upon the ground. No, he had to be human, to still feel this way.

Or rather… undead.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

He was not chosen. The Kingseeker would not see him.

So it was fated then: he was to turn hollow… It was only a matter of time.

As if on cue, a manic cross between a hiccup and a giggle escaped him. He grabbed his helm, choking a little as he bit back the nerves that threatened to consume him. It was only a matter of time...

He wanted to cry. His pilgrimage, all the effort, all his perseverance, none of it, none of it mattered in the end.

Thou who art undead, art chosen…

He wanted to vomit as the words seeped back into the center of his thoughts, like a mantra to propel him onwards. That may have worked before, but now…

The words meant nothing now: he would not remain undead for long; therefore, he was not chosen.

He closed his eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace within his suffering. But the damned words echoed within his brain, again and again, until…

He slowly rose, his gaze directly upon the Asylum waiting for him ahead. He was not to remain undead for long, no… but…

But there were others, trapped there, no doubt waiting for someone to release them.

If Oscar were to release as many undead as possible…

Surely one of them might make the entirety of the pilgrimage their reality.

He rose to his feet and readied his sword; he would go hollow soon, he felt it, knew it in the deepest core of his being, but first, he had a duty to complete. @thefatladysang

@fateoftheundead

Hear! And reckon well the sagas.

When the bards and oracles chanted

The things that great souls did of old.

Sit and hoist horns for cold revenants,

Pour amber mead from oaken kegs

And pour sacred drops to the dry ground.

Clear the hallowed hall of cowards.

Clear the hallowed hall of the weakest.

Set brave women down and send the men

To serve them well of ale and sweet-meats.

We speak not now of Vulgen Cowslip,

Not Thornless Hram and the candle-feat,

Or canny Kwachie and his shield.

This song was old when Olaphis fell.

A tale dusty with blood and years,

Before even writing was conceived.

My father taught me, and his before.

Hear! Reckon deeds of mighty men,

Orisons to arms keen and bolts true.

Now, paradise we see, and yet…

Forests burned, grassland splits, valleys flood.

From pristine mountains did they come,

Two mighty men- princes, brothers, lords.

Their home a land of towers white

And hammers clanging out thunder’s crack.

To wife they brought the gift of arms

And glory fit for a woman’s might.

To man a gift of seed and hoe,

Salt, herbs and greatest yet, barley malt.

One brother, Carim so named he,

Eldest by moment only, lone grains of sand.

Tall, strong, his brother’s match, but vain.

Youngest brother, Arstor so named he

Was chief in war but honor-bound.

Hear! The times of beginning pass.

Arstor’s knights hoist gleaming spears, pennants

Bright with sunshine and beams ablaze.

Carim, with sickle reaping harvests,

Sheaves become grain, grain becomes flour,

Flour becomes loaves and children grow.

With beginnings done, the brothers rest.

Their forebears yearn now for mighty heirs.

No peasant wives will now suffice,

Now calls ring out to neighboring lands.

Princesses come, and woman-thanes.

At tourneys proved they their might with arms,

Feats of speed and war upon horse,

Games of wit, sweet words of oration.

Beauty had they as well, and yet…

Hear! A tale of brothers mighty,

Brothers, both restless bachelors they.

‘midst proving grounds and perfumed tents

Thronged by maidens of surpassing worth,

Yet alone, these twinly lords were.

None of these perfect mates could stand to

The ancient lineage and its pull.

As courtesan or myrmidon might

Brothers choose or both enjoy,

But nothing more. These lordly two sighed.

Pouted and yawned upon their couch.

At last with no hope of mates or heirs

Arstor and Carim heard hoofbeats.

Deep silence among those pledged in suit

Until the rider turned a bend.

Hear! A sigh from mighty maidens,

As they saw the rider’s ebon train.

Cloaked in feathers black, neck to knee,

A woman- no, a goddess was she,

Black braids beneath a raven hat.

The others parted to let her gray

Steed pass unto the spacious tents

Where chastened brothers, mighty men

Sat wordless, awed and enchanted they.

One eye took them in, the other gone,

Cloven by a scar, beauty rent.

The brothers’ tongues held rigid in their

Mouths, and none spoke but in the air

Hung clear, a goddess’s name: Velka.

She pulled her steed abreast the tent.

Hear! The goddess fixed her good eye

Upon the brothers, mighty men, and

Spoke she, a husky voice and strong

With words that lay claim to all she saw.

“You waste these worthy women’s time.”

Silence, ringing out like none before,

Until among the suitresses

A solitary laugh and then more.

The brothers, mighty men, chastened,

Bent their knees in supplication

To that goddess here in the flesh.

Velka held a finger to her lips

For to silence their entreaties.

She turned then to the maids assembled,

Saying “Return home, sweet sisters.

I shall wed one of these princes fair

And show them a man’s proper place.”

Hear! A goddess speaks when she will

And not before. To the brothers now

She turns and her eyes ensnare them.

“No groom I take who is not worthy.

What works have you to offer me?

Your sword’s keenness, your harvest’s bounty?

A goddess deserves more than what

Mere mortals laud as the greatest gifts.

Answer me now, you mightiest,

Lest your hesitation bury you.”

The brothers froze, yet their thoughts burned.

Their gifts, and the other’s, tallied they.

Then it was that Arstor spoke out.

By his honor and his warm spirit

Would have let his brother speak first,

But was by Velka’s beauty transfixed.

She turned to listen to his boast.

Hear! How was sword to spade supreme?

“What good farm and field if men are slaves,

Or green things if watered by blood?

At point of sword and spear, create peace.

Safe farm and smith beget they trade,

Then gold, just rule, and peaceful living,

And fair in the eyes of ancient lords.”

He looked to Velka, faint nod and grin

Received he, then looked to Carim.

Eldest brother, chosen words undone,

Looked to the sickle at his belt,

And to his brother’s spearpoint so bright.

For all his wise and clever thoughts,

Arstor, worthy, would overcome him.

Velka’s slim smile upon him

Would never shine, nor soil and toil.

He grabbed the spear and smote his twin.

Hear! No sound escapes Arstor’s lips,

Nor Velka, but in the distance: crows.

Her smile grew, the sign of wrath,

And from her solid steed alighted.

She spared no glance for Arstor, lost

But closed then upon the brother cruel.

His grip in fear released the spear

In his brother’s body still impaled.

Words came to Carim, but then gone

And as his lips parted for to try,

The goddess closed them tight with

Fingers cold and hard as naked steel.

Carim could think of nothing but

The pain and fear her dark eye brought him.

Anger showed they, yes, but silent

As ash from fire fades, sun to clouds.

Then goddess spoke, and storm with her.

Hear! The mighty man, indicted,

Scolded, harangued, silenced, cursed, and worse.

“Carim,” spat she, “unworthy man,

Unfit to lead, unfit even to serve,

Unfit to lay with maid, or beast!

A goddess to woo? To look upon?

Feh. Gutter filth stands above you.”

His face released she, what could he say?

“I offered troth, a gift to man.

Not his right. I would have given it

To fair Arstor, closest came he.

You took his life, worm; I give you sight.”

In Velka’s eye dark now he fell,

Midst fluttering quills, which parted wide.

Then a vision- mountain crags high,

A rocky outcrop dusted with snow.

Kneeling there among a nest of

Twigs, roc’s eggs’ fragments scattered all ‘round,

A knight in Arstor’s brown and blue.

Hear! “The future,” now Velka spoke.

Carim saw this sword and armor bright,

Wondered how dead men’s lines persist.

“Arstor. The memory of his name

I shall repeat, in ages hence.

A great nation, from his honor formed

While you to exile wander hence.”

From the earth, Arstor’s spear she took up

And thrust it into Carim’s hands.

“Take this token of your treachery.

May your brother’s blood congeal and

Foul the air and water you partake.

Bear it with you, coward, proudly

Unto wastelands distant and in dust

Found you a nation undeserved.

Let it live on in your name, Carim.

A land renowned for vice and sin

As much as memory lauds your kin.

But halt! Lest you think this the end.”

Hear! So Carim shivers and then

As visions clear, sees the goddess now.

Her wrath terrible, her visage

Beautiful, her raven train flapping

As mounted she her grim, gray steed.

“Find another goddess’s favor,

Worm, garb yourself in armor gilt,

I care naught but for your suffering.

And to this end,” said Velka stern,

“What punishment think you deserve? Speak!”

Carim, mighty man, tried and failed.

“Eternal life in shame is fitting.

Prophecy now, so know your doom.”

To knees in fertile soil he collapsed.

Then Velka vanished, save her words

And faint fluttering as of a crow,

So sole to hear, undone, vile Carim.

Your sin carries on forever.

Your name, past death- I choose you for this.

Though you find bondage, or freedom

your feet will carry you to the land

of your forebears, and when you hear

the pealing of the bells, then you shall

awaken to that shame, vile thing,

and know my prophecy to be true.

Recall this fate… and be undead!

@pan-de-torao

@irnbruforthetrue Still, She Watches

Velka Watched.

That was her want.

While others would take the stage for their own; making the proclamations and adjurations that would be marked in stone for their descendants to look back upon and wonder.

Velka would watch.

And she would judge.

She had stood there upon that first day, all those years ago, her back to the rising sun and her eyes upon a firestorm.

In the first moments of dawn, the first dawn, the gathered legion of gods and men had left their boltholes and stood, for the first time, in ranks against their enemy. As they formed into rank and file the sky remained unmolested. Grey, mottled, cloud still stretched all around, only broken by the intrusion of the arch trees. The shining gold and silver of the knights now arrayed seemed dull under the oppressive blandness of the sky.

Then the king arrived.

The sky itself seemed to be rent asunder by a shining blade to the cry of a thousand irate drakes.

Velka dared not look to the newly risen sun, the warmth on her back growing with each moment. If only to deny her husband the satisfaction of the grin that no doubt would split her face. He had promised her that his greatest miracle would impress even her when it finally came to realisation. The gasps that escaped the coterie gathered around her did not help matters. As he passed, flanked by his greatest warriors, his eyes seized hers and she felt that same heat on her back burning into her soul.

She had watched as the first dragon, probing the peculiarity it had found on this plain, had been struck down by a hail of lightning and miracles. The triumphant cheer that peeled across the land was quickly eclipsed by the vengeful roar of a sky filled with stone winged beasts.

Velka had watched the skirmish devolve into a dogfight. When the silver legion and their human allies had failed; their incandescent lord had sought help from those who also dwelt where the dragons could not reach. Fire Witches, walking corpses, dark worshipping pygmies… Velka swallowed her pride for the sake of her people and the future they were building.

Her husband never broke stride; ranks of silver knights and dragon slayers became mingled with knights of the dark soul and hordes of plague-ridden dead. The air itself, once shining with his new sun, became choked with ash and smoke as the arch trees burned. The dragons fell in droves… yet that was not what Velka dwelt on.

She had seen as the pale drake emerged from the great pillars of smoke. He had slunk out from behind piles of corpses and the fallen trunks of burned trees like a great worm. Velka had not heard his words, whispered in a rasping voice to her husband, but she watched their consequence.

It had not taken much longer than that to not just drive the dragons back but to the brink of their annihilation.

That was something she could not watch.

Velka had approached her king in the small hours of the morning before battle would be joined. Her urges and pleas of clemency had met deafened ears. His words were not his own, she knew this; behind his voice whispered others. A curious pyromancer? An indifferent spirit? Covetous weaklings? No. They were the chorus she could hear but the aria was performed with venomous jealousy.

She could not watch.

She would not watch.

Velka waited, her child held to her, for a king, a husband, a father to return from his crusade.

From his sin.

After all, was that not the duty he had bestowed her with? To stand by his side in all things and be the voice in his ear that he could trust most. If ever there was a doubt he had she would be the one to soothe him. Yet here she stood, alone, while he carved his glory out of extinction.

She watched his return with a gentle sadness; more a funeral procession than anything like the cheering parade he received. While his sun glared from above upon the land he had claimed from the dragons. Far in the distance rolled darkened clouds.

Velka had played her part; a radiant smile, golden dress, and raven hair hanging in ringlets. She met her beloved lord and husband atop the stair of his newly built cathedral. As he stopped, only a few steps below her, their eyes met. The feelings that passed were querulous, undefinable really, yet contained an age of conversation and tiring argument.

“My Queen,” his voice rumbled, like thunder that could shake the mountains to rubble.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Velka stepped aside, bowing slightly, “We have long awaited your triumphant return.”

** ** **

Velka watched for hundreds of years.

At first it felt like the memories of dragons and arch trees would fade with their absence. Indeed, the long summer days took the edge off of her husband’s destructive actions. The city of the gods prospered and grew; their power undisputed. Mirroring their people, the royal family grew to reflect their power.

Velka watched as her son and daughters prospered under their father’s radiant sun. Gwyndion and Gwynevere took to their roles as the son and daughter of sunlight like there had been no question to their destiny. Little Filianore, on the other hand, drew from her mother’s aspect far more strongly. She was quiet, reserved, and insightful of all around her. While her elder sister could inspire the love and worship of her people. The youngest of the trio could draw the truth from even the most inscrutable of queries.

Her son grew to be everything her father wanted; a warrior of Anor Londo that could face every foe that would come in his father’s stead. Utterly implacable in his duty; Gwyndion sought to honour his father in all he did. Yet Velka found him to be a truly gentle god; caring for his people almost as tenderly as how he doted on his sisters.

The sweetness of those memories clung to Velka.

Yet the bitterness that followed dulled them into hollow pain.

She watched her son march off to war from the same steps she had welcomed her father home. A thousand silver knights and dragon slayers shouting his praises to the setting sun as the glow of chaos called from the horizon.

She watched as barely a hundred of them returned. Gwyndion’s soft eyes were little more than hollow pits in his ash marred face. The bright blue dulled to grey from the hundreds of ghosts swimming in their depths.

“Was it like this?” His first words spoken since his return, whispered into a silent bedroom with a crescent moon shining through the window, “in the last war?”

“Yes,” The queen of sunlight replied, “the dragons were a foe of tremendous ferocity that tested even the might of all 4 lords.”

“And that is why father slaughtered them all…” his eyes held her like a vice, “for their existence alone portended the end of ours?”

Velka bit her tongue before her response.

“Your father, our king, did what he thought right.”

“And was it?”

She did not respond.

“The… demons, did nothing to us. They are a brutal, primitive people yet we struck first against those who used to be our allies,” he rose from his seat by the window, “Izalith blasphemed against the fire yet her people should not pay for her crimes.”

“Yes,” Velka replied, a whisper that echoed in her ears.

“You are the goddess of sin,” he slowly paced towards her, towering over her, “you are the lone arbiter of what my father, and thus the fire, considers to be profligacy and heresy,” he stopped and knelt to meet her eye.

“Is my father a sinner?”

Velka could see much in her son’s eyes. Fear, confusion, hesitancy, anger, betrayal and a maelstrom of feelings aside. Her world swirled around her in a cloud of memory and old pain. Her son had seen the same hell her husband had eagerly marched back into. Even then, in this crucible, the son seemed to learn the lesson that the father had neglected.

“Yes.”

“And the dragons deserved their oblivion?”

“No,” he took in a breath, ragged and filled with pain.

He paced around, for many hours after she left, he continued.

Velka watched her son depart the next day. His glorious armour of silver and gold replaced by travel leathers and wrapped in cloth. He did not announce his absence yet she watched him go all the same. Slipping away while the sun was low in the sky.

She watched for his return yet it never came.

She bit her tongue and watched as tales of his exploits came in his stead. Stories of a god atop a feathered drake descending on robber barons and bandits, slaughtering all, then disappearing. It was not long before her lord husband sought out this supposed storm king and left with a company of his finest dragon slayers.

She watched as he came back with blood on his blade.

Her son became nameless, struck from the world like an errant mistake. Word of his exploits fading to whispers and rumour.

** ** **

Velka watched the people that gathered outside the walls of the city.

A city built around a city.

Oolacile, it had been called, a city of beautiful white marble and verdant greenery that had been built as tribute to the gods above.

Gone.

The Abyss had risen like a cancer from below and the white and greens of the city below became black, purple, and grey. The people were few now. Holding out in whatever stronghold they could secure against the gibbering remains of their former neighbours and family.

Whatever had come of sir Artorias was unknown save for he had succeeded in stopping the spread of the darkness below. All the same, Velka’s lord husband had ordered the city purged and razed; another void in the illustrious history of the gods. Even now she could hear the drumbeat of thousands of silver knights on the way to fulfil their oaths.

Still, she watched. Her husband by her side.

He stood shorter than he once had. Despite his claims to godliness, he felt the waning of the years.

They all did.

Whatever force that prolonged the fire was failing and along with it so did the gods.

Filianore was gone. Sent to the pygmies as a gift. Like cattle.

Gwynd-… her son was gone. Little more than a feared whisper amongst the humans.

Gwynevere remained. Her once radiant daughter mirrored her father’s temperament. Once rarely seen out of the company of her handmaidens or others of the court; she locked herself away in prayer and contemplation. Her burning mane of hair dimmed to a pale blonde as worry and fear consumed her.

“This threat must be met,” what had once been a roll of thunder was now little more than a stirring of the air.

“You are laying a city to its foundations my love,” the words came with no warmth, stale facts to hang in the air, “the threat has been met and answered.”

“You would do well to increase your vision Velka,” she did not turn yet ire bubbled up in her throat.

“What threat have I yet to see?” her eyes swept up to the horizon, “beyond the obvious.”

“The fire fades and I shall not concede my throne,” one hand fingered the rings on the other, “I have consulted the duke and he sees only one solution.”

“He sees much for one with no sight,” a sneer threatened the corners of her lips, “are you sure his gaze is not still on our daughter.”

“How could it, she is at the end of the world… safe,” his voice faltered and, for a moment, Velka’s heart faltered.

“If you can call a nest of vipers safe,” once his voice would have come down on such a biting statement like an avalanche but now it was little more than a resigned sigh.

She did not watch him leave, only listened to the rustle of his robes and the metal clank of his retinue as they retreated. Velka hung her head to the small rise of her belly; the last remnant of a love long thought run dry. She had let hope build for a return to a time before the slow death existence seemed to be subjecting her kind to.

Yet she knew that his plans would rend those hopes into pieces.

There would only be more pain for her to watch.

Enough.

** ** **

Velka watched from afar as the fire began anew.

She was…

She was Velka.

Once a queen, stripped down to nothing.

Her followers were myriad, their belief righteous, yet brought down by the weakest link. The fighters went down after a valiant struggle. Those that did not resist… were cast out. Consigned to the cold and dark for eternity.

At last, they came for her.

The three knights, intent on clapping her in irons, did not expect her to be armed.

Or so competent.

The first fell with his weapon still sheathed. The point of her rapier finding a home in the pit of his eye.

The second, likewise unarmed, drowned in his own blood with the simple flick of her wrist.

The final knight, to his credit, managed to match her blow for blow… for a time. A simple mistake in his technique and her blade was buried in his armpit. His divine blood wiped off on a nearby drape.

They all seemed to forget that she may not be a goddess of war but her reign had been forged in the arch dragon war.

She had left the city before their bodies were even discovered.

Alone.

Her new born child, so much like her, left with his father and sister.

There was no place beside her that would be safe for him.

Now… she sat to the side in a far away court. Just another courtier of no consequence. Any who gave her more than a moment’s consideration would see a simple woman with eyes as dark as her hair.

The king knew, she was certain of that, yet he made no attempt to question her presence. Happy to let her exist around his palace.

In truth she barely left the room she had taken for her own.

The window her view of the new world her dear husband had brought to life… if only for a time.

Today she sat at court like she used to; not beside the king but out of sight.

On the floor before everyone were two men; fighting for the righteous absolvence only offered by the gods.

To the death.

The Count, armed with a spear, claimed justice on the knight in opposition; accused him of siring a child with his wife whilst he was away. The knight, armed with a warhammer, rightly, claimed the divine rite of combat to prove his innocence.

They sparred.

She did not care for the spectacle of battle.

Her interests were far more singular than the flash of steel and titanite.

And, at last, the final blow was struck. A spear-tip buried between ribs, bursting through organs, severing a life from the world. With one desperate gasp the knight collapsed before going still. His blood pooling around him on the polished alabaster and slate floor.

Velka could not help but reach out a hand gently towards the dying man.

It wafted off of him like a stink, even more so from his vanquisher.

Innocence.

Her eyes on the victorious count soon drew his. Her unerring gaze buried her message deep within him.

You.

Have.

Sinned.

His smile wavered.

His posture too.

Velka let a smile creep on to her face. A short, bitter, smirk that cut him deeper than any blade.

He may have won but the gods had sat in judgement this day and found him wanting.

Gathering himself he turned his back on the former queen of Anor Londo and continued his feigned victory.

All the same.

Still, Velka watched.

@yharnam-everchase

@ghoulsteak

Velka’s black-eyed servants whispered to her of his coming. They saw him leave Anor Londo for the last time, heard the clamour of the great fortress gate as it shut its teeth behind him. They came winging before him as he travelled the roads of the air. Now he stands in her lightless sanctum, on the very steps of her throne, and she has never seen him look so lost.

Make no mistake, there is power in him still; those he leaves behind have not stripped him of that, though perhaps they will come to wish they had. He still has his father’s bright eyes, still carries himself with the insouciant ease of a man who has never met an equal. When he calls, the lightning comes running to heel. If a crown is warranted through strength, then he will ever be a king.

All this has won him nothing.

His might has been a hammer, again and again, splitting the skulls of his father’s enemies, shaping the world to his great decrees. Now the hammer, refusing to strike, has been thrown aside. Without the hand to wield it, without the work to be done, naught remains but inert alloy. Thrown down from his place, stripped of his name, he has arrived upon the steps of her throne like a grand figurehead cast upon a distant shore.

He asks her, his voice resonant and clear, if his father is a sinner. A different question lies in his heart; he does not speak it aloud, but he does not have to for Velka to understand. She, of all things that draw breath upon the earth, knows a plea for absolution when she hears it.

Sinner. One who has violated the rightful order of things. A breaker of oaths, a heretic, a blasphemer, a traitor. Gwyn, who wrought disparity, who carved the boundaries of the world, cannot sin and never has, for he is the absolute against which sin is defined. This is the fundament of her doctrine, passed down through her black-clad pardoners and instilled in the subjects of the gods as inviolable truth.

Such was her role. A stage villainess who, for all her loathsome posturing, her witch’s mystery and her shroud of taboo, nonetheless played her part in bearing the great tale towards its predetermined end.

Yet it has been long since she faded from that stage. In this far land, untouched by the light of the Sunlight Court, she is a witch in truth; no longer the play-villain, but a power great and terrible. Black-Haired Velka, they call her, Velka the Fell, Witchmother, Queen of the Air, titles as grand and fearful as any the Lord of Sunlight might array himself in. In the dark and secret places far from the sun, miracles are worked in her name, and the old doctrines are taught no longer. It is no longer her way to speak of sin, except to claim it as her own.

All this and more is true, but as she looks upon this nameless fool, Velka cannot find it in herself to refuse him. His simple heart is broken enough.

In time, perhaps he will come to understand how little her absolution means. But here, today, it is all he has. She gives her verdict as one would give a last drink of water to a dying man.�� @theschneckenhouse

Thanks so much to all the writers and artists who made this chain a possibility. I am a bit baffled how the original prompt turned into something completely different. Poor Oscar must be super cursed that his prompts always change the main character ^^

#dark souls #fanfiction #fanart #oscar of astora #nameless king #velka goddess of sin #chain game #dark souls chain 3 #thank you everyone who participated

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