Shiva laughed, Siegmeyer smiling wide as the joke landed despite the cultural differences between the two. Celia sat to one side, tentatively smiling, eyes darting across the assembled gathering as if she couldn’t quite believe she was here. Even Alvina had deigned to leave her nook for the first time in what had to be practically forever, given how I thought Shiva would have a heart attack when he saw her at the bonfire. I lay just outside the little space, basking in the little bit of warmth that came from the Flames. The two of them had come back from the Hydra full of cheer and knightly celebration, adrenaline and triumph burning in them like the sun. The Thief, who had made several good-natured (and handily blocked) grabs for Siegmeyer’s discarded helmet, made some quick-witted remark about the onion knight’s sword handling, which caused him to practically explode with mirth, painting the walls with the brightness of his deep laughter. It did not, however, prevent him from rapping the Theive’s knuckles with a paternal shake of the head, preventing his most recent attempt for the helm, while Shiva watched with amusement written across his face.
The Slaying of the Hydra, as the event was beginning to be known amongst the small rag-tag group of Hunters and otherwise, was apparently something that would typically be celebrated with wrecking a tavern and having both the deed, and the more dubious deeds against said tavern afterwards, immortalized in song in the outside world. Here, however, they had settled for packing the little bonfire area with as many people as could fit. The Hunters, all of whom were eager to hear the story of such a grand hunt. Celia, who was still just as nervous at finding herself in such a frankly incomprehensible situation, surrounded by people that had mostly been her enemies not so long ago. Alvina, hanging about, drinking in the warmth and the camaraderie with the wistfulness that had become almost as familiar as her mischievous tongue. Shiva, reigning in Siegmeyer to some degree, modestly trying to downplay the event with gestures and explanations that only served to make it seem more impressive to the gaggle of Hunters, though the effort certainly wasn’t helped by the mugs of… something Siegmeyer and the Thief had gotten from somewhere, that the onion knight kept pushing into his hands. Even Shiva’s bodyguard couldn’t help but be drawn in, lips showing through his mask as he slipped at the frothing whatever-it-was, giving the occasional small smile as his… master? Leader? Whatever Shiva was to him, kept trying to prevent Siegmeyer from telling the story at a volume fit for five people his size.
And there, at the center of it all, was the onion knight himself. Siegmeyer had done away with his helmet, revealing his thick mustache and fluffed hair, hearty brown speckled with respectable iron gray. Smile lines decorated his face, one not used to anything but that expression of joy and thrill at life. Wide sweeping gestures, as he recounted himself driving his blade into the Hydra’s head while I pinned it to the sand for the fourth or fifth time, every movement filled with energy that seemed more fit for someone half his apparent age. The gathered crowd held up their mugs and cheered as he mimed driving his zweihander forwards with both hands, his movements just as sure as they’d been then. More than anything, he seemed to be in his element, surrounded by good drink and better friends, easily directing the energy of his small audience of watching warriors.
“Another story! Another!” they called to him, voices and mugs raised.
“What, you want to hear the Hydra again!?”
“NO!” they replied, and they all laughed as a mug clanged off of Siegmeyer’s armour. The knight didn’t even seem to notice, his booming bright laughter filling the space again.
“Oh fine, fine! You are all just impossible to satisfy!” He dropped back onto his rear, settling onto a piece of rubble and taking another mug as if it were second nature. “Oh, let’s see… ‘twas a decade ago, and I was long from Catarina then- some dusty road through a forgotten village…”
I listened with one ear as he told the tale, a story of his meeting with some half-rusted hedge knight and their battle with a dark creature that had taken up haunting an old lord’s keep. He told the story with the same sweeping gestures, but this time there were moments where he lowered his voice and leaned forwards, practically thriving off of the tension that saturated the air. Moments of triumph and near misses with death, and a moment when he held his fist aloft, his face a mime of the hedge knight’s wonderment as he managed to call upon the miracles of the gods to bless his blade and smote down the evil creature with a single swing, while Siegmeyer himself dealt with the cultists that had summoned it- which, in a twist, turned out to be underlings of the lord’s.
The man was a masterful storyteller and a fantastic orator, and even I, at my seat at the edge of the ball of warmth that had sprung up around them, felt myself tugged this way and that as the story rounded its bends and curves. Mentally, I compared this Siegmeyer, so chock full of life that it felt as if he could restore the humanity of every Hollow from here to fake tits herself just by talking at them and giving them a jovial grin, to the broken man who hung above a pit of demons, contemplating one last act to assist the one that had helped him. Mentally, I vowed that it wouldn’t happen that way again.
Sieglind deserved more than that. Siegmeyer deserved more.
The bonfire never truly died down, Flame ever lit now that it had been kindled by Undead hand, but the energy of the party did. It appeared that not even Undead are immune to the vice of drink, not entirely, and the stories and songs had gotten more and more incomprehensible as time had gone on. A few careful nudges had kept everyone away from the edge, but eventually, the beast of the flagon proved too much for even this brave cadre of fighters to match. Even Celia, poor Celia, was out of it entirely, head back and mug dropped loosely in her lap, snoring loudly. Alvina had, at some point, ended up in Shiva’s lap, and the Easterner himself rested against the outside wall. Whether the cat was asleep or not, though, was anyone’s guess.
Siegmeyer, on the other hand, had outlasted them all. Oh, Shiva had tried, certainly, but the warm atmosphere had been too much for even him, and he’d fallen asleep- and was due to be mortified when he awoke to Alvina lying in his lap, with his hand at her ears. Which, come to think of it, was probably her plan.
Chrrrrk.
The sound of whetstone drawn across the blade was soothing, at this point, as Siegmeyer softly hummed to himself and cared for his sword. The man sat by the bonfire, where the light was best and he could angle the zweihander to catch the most of it, inspecting it carefully for nicks or damage. I’m sure he could feel me watching and listening, but he seemed content where he was, surrounded by sleeping youngsters.
Chrrrrk.
I watched the stone slide up the blade passively, my only movement being the slow rise and fall of my chest as I breathed the cool and misty air of Darkroot, warmed only slightly by the Flame at this distance. I listened to each of them snore gently, and I wondered how long it’d been since they could truly be off their guard. With Lloyd’s Way of White thugs hunting Undead in the outside world, and Lordran being death at practically every corner, not to mention most of it being a festering ruin even in the few safe places, I’d imagine that none of them had had time like this in a long while.
Chrrr-
“They remind you of children, don’t they?”
Seigmeyer paused in the middle of the blade, blinking as he considered my words. His eyes raised themselves to the bonfire, and he ran his thumb over the whetstone.
“Mm. That they do. Young and full of… that thing, which I don’t think there truly is a name for.” His eyes roved across the sleeping forms of those here, and met mine for a moment, before going back to examining his blade. “The best swords of this century. Such a shame they would end up here, in this gods-forsakened place. Better for the old adventurers to come here than some poor ambitious fool with a shield and a half-rusted longsword, at least we’re not wasted on it.”
“But that’s not to be, is it? Not with the world the way it is.”
He went to run the stone across the edge again, but ended up palming it, turning it over and over again in his hand as he stared into the Flames.
“They…” Seigmeyer trailed off, and for the first time, there was something other than the boisterous knight there. Something sad, wrought with worry and concern, and… “They don’t end up here because they have a choice.” He looked at Celia, and something like pain crossed his expression. “The Curse took from us so much, will take more… so much more…”
he whispered the last part, and as I watched, he brought his gauntleted fist against his face. As it came away, little drops of water clung to the armour. I looked away, affording what dignity could be afforded in a place like this. But his voice came through, strong and unwavering, when he spoke again.
“I won’t let it. Not while I still draw breath.”
And there it was, the iron determination. An adventurer with a quest. I thought about his daughter, about Sieglind, who would eventually follow him here despite his wishes to the contrary. I had said children, but they reminded him specifically of only one child, a child that, if Seigmeyer was anything like this at home, was weaned on stories of adventure and battle and friendship between noble warriors. No, this Seigmeyer wouldn’t buckle, wouldn’t fall. I just had to keep it that way.
Chrrrrk.
I felt the stare on me, and I looked to Alvina, finding her eyes open and not clouded with sleep in the slightest, her focus on me sharp and searching. Whatever it was that she found, it seemed to satisfy her, as he closed her eyes again with a small sharp-toothed grin.
----------------------------------------
“Havel!?”
I made a non-committal noise. “I do not believe it ish Havel the Rock himself, but one of his… disciples.” The loam beneath my paws softened my footsteps, though not so much that it wasn’t obvious a creature of my size was moving through. “Regardless, though Hollowed, they have kept much of their s-strength and skill. They are dangerous, and I would see them dealt with.”
One of the Hunter knights, whose name I had discovered was Roland, nodded dubiously. I’d recruited, though it was more like press ganged, him into coming with me on this particular errand. Seigmeyer had followed Celia deeper into Darkroot, where there were the stone knights and the entrance to the Moonlight Butterfly arena. I’d sent them off with directions to clear the area, then wait for me.
I wanted to speak with Witch Beatrice.
Regardless, Roland and I were making our way towards the tower shortcut from Darkroot Basin to the Undead Burg, where I knew the particularly strong Hollow was lurking. Normally, you had to have a key to access the shortcut, but I didn’t particularly believe that a small wooden door could hold up to my brand of knocking. Still, given how insistent the Hollow had been to stick to its post in the games, lying in ambush for the player and refusing to follow them out of the tower and into the Basin, I had brought along Roland to engage the Hollow and lure it out. Once I could reach it, I could yank it into the Basin and squish it while Roland harried it and kept it from retreating back into the tower.
“This is the tower, yes?”
“Mm.”
I gave it an appraising eye, then stepped closer. I raised my paw, then shoved it through the wooden door, shattering its planks… but, funnily enough, still leaving the lock hanging, deadbolt bent, from where it slotted into the frame. I turned back to Roland, lowering my head to be closer to his level. Which… appeared to make him rather nervous.
“Remember. The creature is fully Hollowed, without the wit and cleverness of men, but do not undereshtimate it. It will lie in wait, and attempt to strike you from behind.”
The knight nodded, steeling his resolve. He raised his shield, and I stepped aside, allowing him to step into the tower. Immediately, I heard him make a note of surprise and the clanking of armour against stone, followed by a WHAM, which I assumed to be the Havel pretender’s great weapon striking the floor right where he’d been. Then, there was a sound of steel on stone, and, quite to my surprise, Roland came out. In a moment, I saw that he had actually thrown all his strength behind his shield, perhaps taking advantage of a moment where the fake Havel had been off-balance and hefting their weapon, and had bowled the great mass of rock-armoured Hollow right over and driven them right out the door. Roland rolled to the side, scrambling up onto his armoured feet with his shield raised, as I stepped between the Hollow and the tower door. The figure struggled to their feet and squared off, helmet turning back and forth, glancing between Roland, the tower door, and the giant fluffy obstacle that was me.
After a few moments of stand-off and consideration, the Hollow suddenly heaved their bulk at Roland. The knight lifted his shield and grit his teeth for deflecting the mighty blow of the dragon tooth club, but at the last moment, and in a quite masterful move, the false Havel used the weight of their weapon to change their course. They headed straight for me, aiming for the gap between my legs, and were about to roll- but I growled, bringing my paw down in a strike that shook the ground. They stumbled, and before they could fully recover, Roland was on them, a straight sword in his hand. He attempted to aim for the cracks in the great stone armour, stabbing and slashing as he moved in too close for the Hollow to properly use their giant weapon, but what I had said about their skill held true. More often than not, the strikes were met with a shift that made them spark against the armour’s rocky hide, and from Roland’s grimaces, even the few that got through were most likely stopped by the second layer of armour underneath the rock. Havel’s armour, as mighty and steadfast as the games portrayed.
“Roland, here!” I barked.
The knight twitched, then rolled away from not-Havel, avoiding a strike from the club. They hefted the mighty thing, moving for another strike, only to be faced not by the armoured figure of the knight, but the towering figure that was me. I grinned, fangs on full display, as I watched Roland in the corner of my eye, taking his place in the tower door with both hands on his shield. Going by the inhuman growl the Hollow made, it saw that as well. It seemed to weigh the situation for a moment, before apparently deciding that I was the bigger problem right now. Of course, it decided this by taking a swing with the club.
Unfortunately for it, what was a mighty strike that would break the guard of most humans was not so for me. A paw batted the club to the side, where it struck the ground so hard the loam buckled, forming a small crater. Another paw strike, into its chest, served to drive it back into the ground so hard it formed a crater of its own. However, the third strike was not so successful. It came down, but met only loamy soil where the Hollow’s armour left an indentation, the pretender themselves rolling to one side and grabbing the club once again, hefting it over their shoulder. This time, they were more coy with their strikes, preferring to dodge rather than engage as I swung my paws at them. What swings they did make were horizontal, harder for me to deflect into the ground, and forcing me to backstep each time they did it or risk damage to my leg.
The contest continued in that vein for a time, each of us probing the other with strikes and trying to find an opening. Despite my growing frustration, I found myself some level of impressed- certainly, the incredible stamina and strength of a Hollow, especially one trained to use Havel’s set to its fullest, played into our bought, but still. The Hollow must have been quite the warrior in life, if this was a mere shadow of their strength. Still, however, not enough skill remained. An overextending swing left them to stumble for just a moment, recovering, but that opening was more than enough for me. I batted them with my paw, sending them crashing hard to the ground, and this time, my paw came down before they could get over their daze and roll out of the way. I heard the CRUNCH of bone as the blunt-force trauma from my limb and the strength behind it crushed them inside their armour, and a final exhale that sounded almost… relieved, to my ears.
I remained there for a few moments, paw pressed down on their chest as they twitched their last… then lay still. I waited a few minutes more, then lifted it away, leaving the slightly cracked armour of Havel wrapped around the one that had worn it in life, Hollowing, and, now, final death. Given how they did not show up again once defeated, I guessed that they collapsed into whatever bonfire they spawned at, their bones becoming so much firewood for it to burn.
“Magnificent, Lady Sif!” The awe and praise in Roland’s voice made me huff through my nose, though some part of me appreciated it.
“Not so magnificent, I think… defeating but a shadow’s shadow is no great deed.” I left the disciple of Havel where they lay, moving back towards the path up to Darkroot. “Come. We’ve tarried here long enough.”
Roland gave the body of the Havel disciple one last look, then followed in my wake.
----------------------------------------
Shattered stone knights were strewn across the small forest at the base of the tower, their remains littered with little bits of wood, which I took as a rather encouraging sign. Sure enough, when I stuck my head through the tower’s door, which was almost big enough to fit me in a strange turn of events, Siegmeyer and Celia were sitting on the stairs leading up. They looked up together as they heard the sound of fur sliding against stone, Celia giving me a pleasant, though hesitant smile, and Seigmeyer greeting me with his usual bombasticity. Celia’s helmet, of the Elite Knight set, lay on the steps besides her.
“Lady Sif! Excellent of you to join us! I take this to mean that your venture was a success, hmm?”
I nodded, much as I could with my neck through the tight doorway. “Indeed. It was not any great challenge.” I glanced up, noting that I could just see the fog wall from here. “I see you haven’t challenged Seath’s experiment quite yet.”
Siegmeye stood with the rattling of armour, hefting his zweihander. “Indeed! I had assumed that if you had directed us to wait beforehand, Lady Sif, then there must be a good reason for it.”
“Mm.” The sound was one of agreement. I, at least, felt it was a rather good one. “Under the stairs, in the bushes, I sensed a summon sign that felt as if it belonged to an Undead with some amount of magical power.”
One of the things that I was realizing, as I picked out the threads of summoning in the world, was that this was true. If you tapped the thread without pulling it, which was the closest comparison that I could make, you could actually feel a little of the temperament and skills of the Undead on the other end. I supposed that this was a version of what the Undead saw when touching a summon sign, though more simplified, a vision of the person who had scrawled it that could inform you more or less what that person’s capabilities were. Tapping Witch Beatrice’s summon sign through the skein of magic created a feeling of magical power, of knowledge, of not particular strength. The other thing that interested me was the fact that Beatrice’s link didn’t pass through the walls of this world, instead feeding back from whence it came, though it felt… it wasn’t on the same plane, as my own signature? It was difficult to quantify in a way that felt like it made sense. I had a theory about this, one that I was going to field to Beatrice herself.
Celia seemed to perk up. “Oh, d’you want me to…?”
I nodded my assent. She levered herself up from the stair, stretching slightly and wincing as she worked out the kinks, then walked down the stairs and turned the corner behind the stairway. There was a rustling of bushes, which I assumed to be her searching, then an ‘aha!’ of victory. A bit more rustling, and then I heard the sound that plays when you accept a summon sign. Observing the thread of summoning through the magic even as I watched closely, I felt the person on the other end tugged through the aether until they aligned with our plane. And then, the sound of a summon appearing.
“Hrm.”
The voice was definitely feminine, high and distinguished. Just listening, I would pin her in her thirties or forties physically, though I knew the Undead were ageless as long as they had purpose driving them. I wondered how much Humanity Beatrice had in her, soft or otherwise.
“Another Undead to challenge the Moonlight Butterfly? Excellent. Come, I’ll tell you what you can expect from it, and we can face it togeth-”
At this moment, Beatrice turned the corner around the stairs. I caught a glimpse of her face, impassive, though with a touch of eagerness, right before she saw me. And, the moment she did, she froze. Calmly, I stared back at her, looking over her robes and pointed hat, as well as the wand and catalyst she clung to. She merely blinked at me, then, after a few long moments, edged back under the stairs to where Celia was still no doubt standing.
“That’s… that’s the Great Grey Wolf Sif.”
“Well, yes.”
“I didn’t- I wasn’t intending to fight her, not for a while- why is she here!?” There was a note of desperation in Beatrice’s voice. Celia just sounded uncertain.
“Ah, well, it’s… she just decided to leave her post. Felt dissatisfied apparently.”
“Dissatisfied!?” Beatrice let out a laugh that sounded just this side of completely hysterical. “Dissatisfied! And just- Sif hasn’t left her arena since I set up shop in this tower! I’ve been here some time, helping out any Undead who pass, trying to figure out the Butterfly’s abilities, and Sif hasn’t budged an inch, and now you tell me that she’s just up and left her arena because she was, what, bored!?”
“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t put it quite like that…” Celia replied, sheepishly.
There was a long moment of silence, then Beatrice poked her head around the stairs, using her wand to push up the brim of her hat and squinting at me. When I didn’t immediately go for her head, she half stepped out of the leeway of the stone structure, though she kept a hand on it and seemed to be ready to dive behind it in a moment. Which was silly, she was a phantom and was incurring no risk even if she started jabbing me in the nose with her magic stick, but it did amuse me.
“You’re not going to kill me, are you?”
I shrugged. “Not unless you attack me, Witch.”
She mulled this over for a moment, then nodded and stepped fully out, examining me closely. I looked her up and down again, frowning slightly as something occurred to me about her… she was here, and her summon sign was, but wasn’t she- ah, right, it also appeared outside the Four Kings fight. And then you find her set on a corpse. She was wary of me, exceedingly so. I wasn’t precisely sure how the boss fights worked vis-a-vis multiple Undead, given that each Undead that entered Lordran would have to be tested, but given that the bosses disappeared after you defeated them each and every time… I had a sneaking suspicion how the game design might relate to reality.
Still, though, she had pushed through all of Lordran to reach this place, may have attempted the Sif fight, but Sif is only necessary to beat for Artorias’ ring, which allows one to fight the Four Kings. In all likelihood, she could have ignored Sif, pushed through Sen’s to Anor Londo, fought Snorlax and Pikachu, then received the Lordvessel. In that version of events, she must have attempted to traverse the Abyss without the Covenant of Artorias, and fallen to it in the process. She might very well not have known about the Covenant in the first place.
“Your name?”
“Ah… Beatrice, Lady Sif. Witch.”
She winced as she realized that I had addressed her as such already, but I pretended to have not seen it. I remembered something about Beatrice not being Vinheim trained, and wondered if her title was related to that.
“Mm. I assume that you have not moved beyond Darkroot?”
“N-no? I don’t suppose so. What do you mean?”
Ah. It should have occurred to me that my understanding of game progression relative to Dark Souls wouldn’t necessarily communicate itself clearly to the people actually living within it, especially not those who had not gone through the events yet.
“Have you rung either of the Bells of Awakening?”
She nodded. “Both. The lower was definitely the more difficult of the two, however. Frampt had appeared, directed me to Anor Londo, but I wasn’t intending to make the ascent through Sen’s Fortress just yet. I wanted to puzzle out the abilities of the Butterfly before I did so- spellwork of such power would be very useful, going forwards.”
I nodded. So, she had access to Sen’s, though she had not pushed through it yet to Anor Londo. She hadn’t fought Sif. I wasn’t sure precisely of the timeline of events, but I didn’t need to be to get the gist of things. This was rather like Iron Tarkus, where, while the man was long dead and lying where the Painting Guardians had put his corpse after his fatal fall, the Undead of the future could still summon him because they weren’t aware of his death and the summon signs transcended time and space. Beatrice, in the proper order of Dark Souls events, had long ago faced the Four Kings and fallen to the Abyss without the Covenant of Artorias to protect her. However, here she was, still alive and whole. The miracles of magic. Heh.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“If I should make a suggestion for your path?” She hesitated, then made an affirmative gesture. “Breach Sen’s, find your way into Anor Londo, and reach the Duke’s Archives. There is stored the entirety of Seath’s works, all of his research. You are present in an earlier time, and we are to reach Anor Londo eventually regardless- we have questions for the gods, should they still sit their thrones.” They didn’t, but even knowing the answer to the question, there was too much in Anor Londo to pass up the trip. “Seath, should he be sane or not, ought to be avoided at all costs. Simply remain in the Archives, and one day, perhaps decades or mere months from your perspective, we will meet with you there.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed slightly, her grip on her magical implements shifting. “You want me to wait for you? I don’t know how long that will take.”
“Neither do I, but I am attempting to gather every sane being left in Lordran, and another sword- especially one so competent and knowledgeable about the ways of magic- is direly needed.” I gave her a wolfy sort of grin. “And besides, you hardly have anything better to do with the infinite time on your hands, hmm? Though…” I tilted my head up. There was something about- no, there it was. That could’ve turned out very bad. “I have heard rumours about Seath’s archival of knowledge driving magi mad. Perhaps it is from the revelation, perhaps from studying alone, or perhaps it is from purposeful traps that Seath placed on his store of knowledge in either moments of madness or cunning. I cannot know, but I will caution you all the same.”
Beatrice nodded, knuckles white around her catalyst. I imagined that she was rather horrified at the idea of trapped knowledge driving one insane; it was rather like being told that your computer could, at any time, rear up and attack you with no provocation or warning. Still, though, it was heartening to see that she took my warning seriously… though, really, there was no reason she shouldn’t. Seigmeyer took one look at her unsure stance, and stood.
“If that is all, Lady Sif?”
The words echoed a bit inside the tower, his voice starting Beatrice slightly. Celia, on the other hand, appeared to be used to it at this point- either that, or she’d just given up being surprised entirely as a bad job. A quick glance at her face said that it really could be either.
“That is indeed all, knight Seigmeyer. If you would like to match blows with the Moonlight Butterfly, then good luck to you.”
“Of course, milady! I certainly wouldn’t pass up the chance to fight such a magnificent creature!”
Indeed, Seigmeyer seemed outright eager, shifting his grip on his Zweihander. The edge of my mouth tilted upwards, and I gave him a respectful nod, which he returned in kind, then began treading up the stairs with Celia in his wake. Beatrice followed after them, gesturing with her wand as she explained how the Butterfly fought, what magic it used and how to avoid being hurt by it. I watched them go for a few moments, then withdrew my head from the door and shook the stone dust out of my fur.
Darkroot was quiet, with the enemies that inhabited this section dead, quiet enough that I could hear the tiny sounds of the start of a drizzle, hitting the leaves above my head and dripping down to the thick grass that grew wild across the forest floor. I tilted my head up, closing my eyes and feeling the little specks of wetness against my face and muzzle. I stood there for a long moment, listening to the soft rain and the faint sounds of Seigmeyer shouting something in his loud, boisterous tone. An explosion sounded, nearly deadened by the trees and the rain, but it was swiftly followed by an equally loud boom of laughter, triumphant. I smiled slightly to myself.
Perhaps, then, things would turn out alright.
I breathed out, then stepped away from the tower and began my walk through the woods. There was an heirloom of Artorias that I would like to retrieve from its resting place, if only to give it the honour it deserved instead of leaving it to rust and rot in the possession of some long dead adventurer.
I leapt to the top of the earthen wall that the tower that led to the Moonlight Butterfly was a part of. To my surprise, I found myself near level with the bridge, and watched as Beatrice raised her catalyst and prepared to throw a Soul Spear at the Butterfly. The magic struck it, and the entire creature shuddered and answered with a volley of its own, which the three Undead on the bridge avoided by ducking behind the small wall on the outside of the bridge. I noted that none of them were even scathed, and that the only spell-caused burn marks were on the bridge itself. I nodded, then stepped down and settled myself on the other side of the barrier.
The secret path that led around to this little ledge was circuitous, hidden by a living tree. Celia hadn’t picked up on the fact that it had existed, and Seigmeyer had been concentrated on fighting another “magnificent creature”- thus, the path remained blocked, and the secret wealth remained hidden.
I paused. Calling it a “living tree” was rather redundant, wasn’t it? Trees lived, it’s what they did, like any organism on the planet. In this case, would it be more appropriate to refer to it as an “animate tree”? Mm, perhaps. I’d have to suss out the proper language later- maybe never, considering that there were all of two of them in Lordran, and both of them were here. Perhaps they were an existent species out in the larger world? I’d have to ask. I made a mental note to do so at a later time, and filed it away.
Regardless, it meant that the Wolf Ring had not been disturbed from its resting place. I approached the ledge, and found, to my amusement, that it was about shoulder height for me. Gently, I raised my paw and touched the tiny band of silver that the corpse there had in its dessicated hand. It grew, as the other rings had, and I took it, slipping it over one of my toes.
I jerked, somewhat violently, and almost fell into the ravine between the two ledges. A rush of emotion- longing, anger, despair, mourning, sadness, regret, a practical storm of feelings washed over me all at once. Without explanation or reason, I suddenly wanted to howl, something I’d never done.
After a moment, however, I felt the ring’s magic link with my own, and I felt a wave of coolness sooth the riot of colours that had sought to drown me. If the emotions were an ocean, the ring was a mountain jutting out of it, steadfast and solid and unmoved by the waves, despite how they crashed against it. It cared not for the rage of the sea, its depth or its strength, it simply resisted it because it was.
And with it came another rush of images and feelings: a man in armour standing before a sword as large as he was, and shunting it to the side with sheer fortitude. A warrior meeting the charge of an animal head on, refusing to be moved, pushing back and matching its strength with theirs.
Poise, I thought, the wolf ring gives you poise.
Except even that didn’t feel accurate. The Wolf Ring gave you steadfastness in all regards, the ability to have all manner of storms break over you, only to find yourself unmoved when the skies cleared. I understood in a moment that Artorias had drawn strength from it, and perhaps this was the answer as to how he could have plumbed the Abyss without falling immediately. This was almost a physical expression of who he was, a will of steel with foundations of hard stone, a structure nothing could topple. Until, of course, it did.
There was wetness in my fur. Annoyed, I reached a paw up to my muzzle, then was startled to find my eyes wet. Had I been… crying? I blinked at the patch of damp fur on my leg, confused and unsettled. I hadn’t known where the emotions had come from, or why they’d had such an affect on me, or even where they’d gone after they’d finished breaking themselves over the bulwark of my mind, shored up as it was by the Wolf Ring.
Whatever these emotions were, I could only hope that they wouldn’t overcome me in a moment of desperation or vulnerability. I was fast and strong and durable, but there were things here in Lordran that could easily kill me, should I be unbalanced by a tide like I had felt now.
At least I have the ring to help now, I thought to myself, as I walked down the path and back towards the faint light of the bonfire.
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It didn’t take long for the group of them to return from smiting the Butterfly into oblivion. Seigmeyer and Celia came back together, the large knight gesturing and speaking loudly as Celia walked by his side. She had her helmet under her arm, and smiled at the knight’s words, her lips moving in a reply that was quickly drowned out by a booming laugh.
I stood from where I had been laying in the clearing before the Crest door, and Celia went silent, her face showing the slight hesitancy that she always had when she saw me. Seigmeyer, on the other hand, had no such hangups, and immediately marched right up to me and gave me a bow.
“Lady Sif.”
“Knight Siegmeyer.” I flicked my eyes over the two of them, and the box that Celia held in the hand opposite her helmet, flickers of light shining through the open top. “I trust that your venture was a success?”
“Indeed, milady! ‘Twas a good fight, a magnificently beautiful thing indeed! Ah, the streaks of magic, the light shining through its wings... it was, aheh, quite magical, if an old adventurer might give his opinion of it.”
I inclined my head. “I can understand the feeling. Might I ask what you found beyond it? The Butterflies are a creation of Seath, like the Crystal Golems, and thus it may have been set to guard something.”
Celia hesitated, then held up the box containing the Divine Ember. I sniffed at it, once, and felt the power of the gods and their miracles flow through the thing. It was as if miracles had been given form, an embodiment through which they could work upon steel, iron, stone and wood, elevating even the rudest weapon into something… more.
“Ah… beautiful, really.” I drew my head back. “You mentioned a smith named Andre, yes?” Celia nodded, looking puzzled. “This, my dear Undead, is an Ember. Such things are powerful artifacts, few in number and difficult to craft, that allow a master smith to imbue a weapon with power beyond mere mortal steel. This one is aligned with the energies of the gods themselves, and will strike down many things that make themselves the opposite of the gods. Andre, if he is truly a master of his craft, may be able to use it as it was intended.”
Celia blinked, then looked at the thing in something like awe, carefully tucking it back under her arm. “Of course, L-Lady Sif. Thank you.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, I don’t-” Celia stopped, then patted down the pouches attached to her armour, before drawing out a rusty key. “Ah, the dead blacksmith that had the Ember also had this on him. Figured that it might be useful for… something.”
“Hrm, let me see.” I leaned my head down again and examined it, then sniffed it. Immediately, I smirked: of course, I already knew where this key belonged, but the smell confirmed it. The boundary between the Undead Burg and Darkroot. “Ahah, yes… I know where this belongs. Come along.”
Celia glanced at Siegmeyer, who shrugged.
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“There we are. Now, put the key in the lock.”
Celia stared at it. Then she looked back at me. Then back at the lock. Seigmeyer, for his part, simply stood there and shook with barely contained mirth, one gauntleted hand clamped to the front of his helm as if it would help him keep the laugh inside.
Slowly, Celia approached, and slid the key into the lock. A perfect fit, as I’d imagined, though it was obvious when she turned it that it had seen better days. Indeed, said better day was probably around… yesterday, if my guess was accurate. As she drew back the bolt slightly, as far as it would go, the lock fell right out of the slot that was holding it, the key slipping right out of her hand as the entire thing went ‘clunk’ on the empty stone doorframe.
Seigmeyer howled with laughter, doubling himself up. I simply smirked. Celia glared at the utterly trashed remains of the door that led to the base of the Undead Burg shortcut as if it had wronged her somehow.
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“Come now, it was simply a joke! Lady Sif was attempting to lighten the mood, that was all- I’ve certainly done my part in many a group of adventurers myself, over the years.”
“I feel that you may have done quite a bit more than your part, knight Seigmeyer.” I said, a note of teasing under my voice. Seigmeyer let out a good-natured laugh.
“Perhaps, Lady Sif! But, truly, I believe that no man can provide too much levity. Good for the soul!”
Celia smiled a little despite herself, then quickly caught the expression and slipped back to frowning and pointedly not looking at either of us. Which, of course, simply provoked more of the combination of good-humoured ribbing and reassurances that Seigmeyer and I had been tossing her way since we’d left the shortcut.
Without a doubt, the fastest way back to the gargoyles was for the two of them to pass through Andre’s workshop, which was conveniently where they needed to go anyway to drop off the Ember. From there, they’d progress through the Chapel and climb to the Gargoyles, where they would summon me to assist in the battle.
To tell the truth, I wasn’t entirely sure how that’d pan out. I was large, yes, but given the amount of strength that I’d pushed through the link… I don’t know. Perhaps my summon ghost would come out smaller than my actual form? Though, even if it did, I rather hoped that the strength and speed remained. The only reason I was getting away with a lack of fighting style or real training in this body was because I had the brute strength and raw speed to do so. That had been painfully obvious, in practically every fight that I’d been in since waking up here. I would hate to be summoned, only to find out that I’d lost the advantages that made me capable of contributing to any efforts.
I stopped before the entrance to the little arena where the Titanite Demon had been slain. The two of them turned to me, some of the levity evaporating as they saw the serious expression that I took.
“Understand this, the both of you. You are skilled and strong and brave, of this I have no doubt, but the Parish presents threats that you must be wary of. If I know anything of Seath, and I would hazard that I do, he will have most likely placed a sentry of his own before the first bell, if only to guarantee himself a steady stream of captured Undead for his experiments. Watch for them, and for their magic- they are dangerous and wily, and will attempt to use any advantage they see.” I raised my head, looking up towards the Chapel, just visible through the fog. “I know not how the god’s test will function, nor do I know what enemies you shall face, but it will not be an easy fight, of that you can be assured. Take no more risks than necessary, and I will assist you in the end.” I bowed my head. “Good fortune, to both of you.”
They bowed back, Seigmeyer confidently straightening and turning, marching straight into the demon’s hall. Celia lingered for a few brief moments, then rushed to follow him, sliding her helmet on in the process.
“So much like children, aren’t they?”
I twitched, jerking my head to where Alvina lounged luxuriously in one of the trees that stood towards the walls that marked the boundaries of the hall’s exit. She looked lazily after the two of them, but I saw the veiled shrewdness in her gaze. I turned back to the doorway, hearing the echoes of their voices, my ears twitching in response.
“Perhaps. Celia most definitely, young and uncertain, but proving herself time and again.”
“Mm.” I could practically hear the stretch. “You seem to be leaning on that little Undead quite a bit, Sif. Are you certain she can take the weight?”
“I have no doubt. She would not have reached us, or faced me, if she did not have it in her to carry on regardless. With our Catarina knight by her side, and your Hunters, I suspect that she’ll see the halls of the gods by her own merits. She will not have to rely upon ours.”
“You have a high opinion of her.” I glanced at Alvina: she was giving me a deeply searching gaze, making no effort to hide it. I met it for a fraction of a second, then broke it and looked back.
“I think she’s deserved of it. Perhaps Gwyn and the holders of Lord Souls selected her, perhaps it was fate or destiny or what have you, but I feel that she has a part to play in Lordran, and she won’t stop until she’s played it.”
“Perhaps not even then.” Alvina stood, stretching again, then sauntered towards the path back. “Be careful keeping pets, dear Sif. Sometimes, if you don’t feed them, they might… bite.”
“That bite is what I’m looking for,” I replied, but Alvina was already gone.
I sat on my haunches, thinking about what she’d said. Alvina didn’t doubt Celia, I didn’t think- if anything, she might very well think that Celia had enough potential to be a threat, given her comment about pets and biting. But what did that mean? Was Alvina discouraging me from becoming too attached, in case Celia went hollow? Certainly, I could take it that way, but I suspected that, like near everything the cat said, there were more meanings than I was seeing. Perhaps Alvina was seeing something that I wasn’t, or perhaps she was simply warning of a potential for something that she’d witnessed. I didn’t know and couldn’t tell, at least for the moment, so I would have to wait and see.
I don’t know how long I waited there, ruminating, before I felt a tug on my very soul. It was… disturbing, like something was trying to suck me through a straw that was too small, like I was being compressed and yanked along like a toy. I held for a moment, more instinct than anything, then let myself go, the feelings of my body fading as I rode along with the pull.
I heard the summoning, and then I was there, blinking, standing in one of the high rooms of the chapel. Celia stood there, apprehensive look quickly fading to something both surprised and pleased as I came through… and, given that I was looking up at her instead of being squished into a too-small space and pressing her either into the floor or against the walls, I was rather pleased as well. I glanced around, nodding to Siegmeyer guarding the door, who nodded back respectfully.
We were in one of the two small square rooms with doors on either end of the Channeler’s room. Windows on the right hand wall looked outwards on the bridge that circled around to the right side of the chapel, and, looking through them, I noted that I could catch just a glimpse of the green and grey of Darkroot. I stretched, much like Alvina had done, then looked down and examined myself.
I looked much the same as I had before I’d been summoned, though markedly smaller, and I noted that there was some element of… insubstantiality to me. My fur, already silver, now seemed to glow slightly from the insides of each follicle. Physically, I didn’t feel any different- though perhaps I was lighter? Hm. I shuffled in place, then hopped, and was surprised when I nearly went as Celia’s head- who, for her part, jerked back when I did so.
“Ah… apologies. I’ve never had this done to me before, being summoned, and it’s a… rather unique experience.” I looked up at Celia, who crouched slightly to bring her face to my level. “I admit, having to look up at you is a rather novel experience on its own.”
“I could say the same for you, Lady Sif! Having to look down at you without your head stuck through a door far too small for the rest of you is very odd, I must admit!” Seigmeyer, cheerful as ever, spoke up from the doorway.
I shook myself from head to paws, then walked out through the doorway, Seigmeyer carefully stepping out of my way. The room beyond was filled with a variety of the most basic Hollows, the exact ones the Channeler swarms you with the moment you start coming at him. The guy must’ve had something like undead rapport, in order to get that close to and control that many Hollows, but I didn’t think that I’d be getting an answer for how he’d done it. After all, that was his body- or, at least, bits of it- lying on top of a pile of Hollow corpses against one of the walls. I nodded in approval. Seigmeyer kicked at the Channeler’s bits with a noise of disgust.
“You were right, milady, dirty bastard- pardon my language- was waiting here to capture any Undead he could. Tried to get those Hollows to swarm us, but not to worry, nothing that I haven’t dealt with in many a dungeon before!” He laughed, and I nodded again.
“Does this mean…?” Celia asked, hesitant, and I nodded.
“The only thing left now is to face whatever test the gods have left in our path, and ring the Bell of Awakening.”
Celia nodded, grim more than anything else. Seigmeyer shifted the grip on his Zweihander’s hilt, eager to see what test the gods had arranged to determine our worth, and his specifically. Part of me wondered if he actually had to fight his way past the gargoyles in canon, or if he simply followed in the path of the Chosen Undead as they unlocked all the sections of the game that he showed up in.
And, of course, every bit of that dignity and bravado lasted exactly until I found myself staring up at the ladder that led to the roof. Both of them stared up the ladder, then looked back at me, and though I couldn’t see their faces through their helmets, I could just feel the grins plastered all over underneath their visors.
I didn’t whimper. I would need as much dignity as I could hold on to.
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“Well!” Celia said, then paused. “That… worked.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I growled.
“Ah, but surely, milady, the graceful ascent-”
“I don’t. Want. To talk. About it.”
Thankfully, and entirely because it was necessary and not because I marched us right up to it, we didn’t have to, as Celia examined the fog wall that blocked the roof exit. Gently, she poked and prodded at it. The fog itself rippled like liquid at her touch, but she seemed more resigned than disturbed. That, at least, I could attribute to her earlier encounters with similar walls on different boss areas.
I stretched out towards the wall, and found myself… reduced? Yes, reduced slightly, as if I was stretching more than I had to before to read its magical nature. Still, though, I could make it out- a marker, a divider, a… flag? Yes, this was actually something linked to a wider network of things. I realized in a moment that this must be how Frampt and Kaathe tracked the Chosen Undead’s progress through Lordran, by feeling the ripples in this sort of magical sensor network. I had no doubt that this was set up to tell someone exactly how far along an Undead was towards the First Flame, though who that person was and what purpose they’d had in mind was a mystery. Such things weren’t written into the magical network that this was but a node of, though…
I concentrated, quashing specific parts of the spellwork, reporting how many people and who came through the doorway. Whoever was reading the output of the sensor, I didn’t want them to know that I was here.
“I suppose this is the marker for the beginning of the test, such as it is.” Seigmeyer mused.
I blinked, pulled out of my reverie, then nodded in return, glancing at Celia. “Indeed. Through here lies whatever obstacle the gods have decided to place in our way, to test whether the Undead seeking to toll the bell is worthy of doing so. Whatever it might be, it will be difficult, and dangerous, but not insurmountable.”
“Well… there is one more summon sign, I suppose? It’s… golden.”
Celia stepped to the side, as much as you could on this narrow strip, and frowned at a patch of ground that- as far as I could see- was blank. Gold-? Oh, Solaire! Yes, he did have a summon sign here, didn’t he? I’d forgotten it, I was so focused on the eventuality of fighting the gargoyles. It would most likely be an excellent idea to summon him, honestly, irregardless of our current party makeup. Solaire was always an excellent addition, and if I intended on averting the entire Sunlight Maggot happening, then it was necessary anyway.
“Golden? A sunlight warrior, perhaps. They pride themselves on cooperation and assisting those with difficult tasks to complete. They, whomever they are, will be quite welcome.”
Celia nodded, crouching down and placing her hands on a part of the floor that, to me, looked no different than the rest. Interesting, that, that the Undead could see the summoning signs and I could not. Was that a result of my being a summon myself, or was it a result of my not being dead? The magic of the soapstones was at least partially linked to that of the First Flame, which is what allowed it to network Undead across time and space, so it might very well be that my connection to the bonfires was altogether too tenuous, if it existed at all, for the magic to work through me as intended. Even my summoning here was my own doing, piggybacking on the network rather than actually being a true part of it.
The sound of a successful summon interrupted my musings, and I focused back in as Solaire’s golden phantom rose out of the ground and settled on his feet, his arms raised in the iconic V. Celia immediately brightened upon seeing him.
“Knight Solaire!”
“Hm? Oh!” He stepped forwards, his hand falling easily on the Sunlight straightsword at his side. “Young Celia! What a surprise, but a welcome one! It’s good to see you’ve pushed through thus far- I hope the Hollow knights in the rest of the Chapel did not give you too much trouble?”
Ah, what a familiar voice. He stood straight and tall, almost imposing, but something about him radiated a sort of warmth. Where Seigmeyer’s was the warmth of a hearth, promising easy friendship and camaraderie, Solaire’s was… I wasn’t quite sure how to express it. It shone forth like, well… the sun, I suppose, a clean and pure aura that felt something like how I imagined Sunlight miracles might feel. Like his very presence purified some of the rot of the Hollows from the very air, the wood itself under his feet repairing itself and filth burned away. This, more than any of the miracles of the Way of White or any other I’d felt glimpses of thus far, felt holy.
Seigmeyer bowed his helmet slightly, gauntleted hand making a quick gesture over his chest that I recognized as a polite martial greeting.
“Knight Seigmeyer of Catarina at your service, sir. I say that I’m very glad to make the acquaintance of a knight of the vaunted Sunlight order- I have not had the pleasure to fight alongside one of your number, but I cannot deny that I’ve heard the stories!”
“Indeed?” Solaire seemed surprised, but pleased, as he returned the gesture. “Well, I am truly glad to hear that word of our order’s deeds has spread to the ears of at least a few. I fear the god’s moratorium on those that choose to join us means that we have no songs of our own, sadly, but I am very satisfied to hear that our deeds speak for us.”
“Ah, they do! I know few stories of those of Sunlight, but would be glad to share them with you, should you happen to need a flagon of ale and a fire to sit beside for a time.” You could practically feel the smile radiating through Seigmeyer’s helm. “Whatever stories I have are yours, if you wish to hear them, and I am always looking for another tale to add to my vast collection!”
“I shall have to see what I can do about accepting your gracious offer, knight Siegmeyer. Companionship is a rare luxury in these lands, and I would be remiss to let this chance at it pass me by.” he turned his head to me. “And what is this? Did you…?” He paused, then leaned closer. “Is-? Well, now, what a shock! Is this the Lady Sif that I’ve heard tell of?”
I blinked at him. I hadn’t expected… Solaire knew of Sif? That truly made me wonder about Solaire’s past, if he knew things that, by all right, should have passed into the dust of history long ago.
“I am. And I feel that I am as surprised as you were, that someone has heard of me. I had thought myself nearly forgotten in this faded age.”
“Ha!” The laugh was jovial, and resounded inside Solaire’s cylindrical helm. “I suppose we’re both old legends, then.”
I frowned at that turn of phrase, but before I could ask a question, Solaire had already turned to Celia.
“So. You are ready to face the god’s challenge, then?”
She hesitated, then seemed to root herself in the floor, nodding decisively. I looked on in fascination- Solaire, for lack of a better term, seemed to inspire something in her. Come to think of it, Solaire was probably the first person you met in Lordran that appeared to be both entirely sane and very competent. He even mentors the Chosen Undead before they try to cross the bridge. If I were to guess, Celia must have latched onto him at least a little.
“Well, now, if we’re all ready, let’s go on out and face it! Not that it’ll be any match for the likes of us, hah!”
Seigmeyer slapped the belly of his armour good-naturedly. Solaire nodded, gesturing Celia forwards. When she looked to me, I gave her a nod, then slid in at her heels. The Undead steadied herself, breathing in and out, then stepped through the fog wall. I followed right behind.
The barrier was cold, but it was almost pleasant, refreshing. It was only an instant, however, before I passed through directly behind Celia, who clutched her sword in one hand and the Grass Crest shield in the other, helmet turning this way and that, scoping out the roof before her. I fell in to her right, eyeing the statues on the roof before turning my attention to the ones on the tower above. Seigmeyer followed behind me, his Zweihander gripped tight in his hands as he moved to Celia’s left, forming something of a line that was completed by Solaire, Sunlight sword and shield in his hands. Our heads jerked upwards and we stopped in our tracks at the sound of shifting stone.
The gargoyle stretched its wings wide from its perch on the tower, looking down at us all. It roared at the sky, stretching out the halberd it held in one hand, then leapt from the plinth. For a moment, it silhouetted itself against the sun, wings and limbs outstretched, and then it brought them close and dove into the roof, shaking the entire building. It stood on all fours like an animal, a predator, its bladed tail lashing across the roof and scraping sparks against the tiles, and the four of us, as one, prepared to meet it.