The Undead Burg wasn’t hard to cut my way through. Ultimately, the Hollows that populated its rooftops and plazas weren’t any more a threat than the ones that I’d cut down in the Parish- less so, honestly. At least the Baldur knights had provided some modicum of a challenge, with the lingering remnants of the skill they’d possessed in life. Here, I was carving my way through them like so many corpses.
I passed the stairs, briefly watching the listless Hollow at the top, before nodding- it wouldn’t bother me unless I attempted the steps. I poked my head around the corner, into the tunnel, gazing down it. There, all the way at the end, looking over the edge of a balcony and into the Lower Undead Burg, stood another Black Knight, the Black Knight Sword, arguably the strongest weapon in the game, sheathed at their side. I glanced down from them, to the corpse that no doubt held the Blue Tearstone Ring, then shook my head. I’d risked my avatar once today to bring a Black Knight nominally to my side, I wasn’t eager to try for two.
I turned around, making my way back to the odd, thin tower that overlooked the courtyard where a number of Hollows stood guard. I made my way up the interior stairs, sinking my sword to the hilt in the back of the crossbowman before it even knew I was there, then coming back down and facing the crowd.
They shuffled as they turned, staring at me a moment, as if their half-rotted brains were attempting to process what I was. After a moment, they appeared to give up, and began shambling towards me, raising their weapons. I didn’t give them a chance to use them.
I darted forwards, and struck the first down with a flick of my muzzle, landing in the middle of their group. I glanced past them, towards the one that drew back, clutching firebombs in its hands, then quickly sidestepped an ax that whistled through the air and collided with the cobblestone, producing a cloud of sparks. I swung, and the Hollow stumbled back, now relieved of both its ax and the hands that had been holding it. I took a single step forwards to finish it, then took two very hasty steps back, as broken straight swords attempted to introduce themselves to my back. The firebomb Hollow seemed to hesitate, swaying in place, and I wondered if some remnant of its training remained, if some spark was whispering ‘friendly fire isn’t friendly’ in the back of its head.
No matter. I cut one Hollow off at the knees, dancing around the second’s clumsy blow and sheathing my sword in its rib cage for a brief moment, before drawing it out, flipping it in my mouth, then stabbing the first through the head. I darted forwards again, and before the firebomb Hollow had time to process that I was right in front of it, I’d bowled it over and was stabbing my sword into its eye. The last Hollow, crawling towards me, I dealt with by simply walking up and batting its head so hard with my paw that its helmet rang, and its neck made a loud crunching noise.
I paused for a moment, eyes on the fire bomb throwers on the roof of the house that made up one of the walls of the courtyard, before nodding to myself when they didn’t move. Hollows appeared to have the same aggro ranges that they’d had in the games, but here, I suspected that it was a mixture of having the approximate attentiveness, intelligence, and perception of a particularly rotted plank. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.
The rest of the Undead Burg wasn’t much more of a challenge. Mainly, the grouping of Hollows themselves were probably the greatest single challenge of the Burg because of a combination of unintentional combined arms tactics and numbers; a fire bomber for range, a few melee fighters with different weaponry, a lot to keep track of. The rest of the Burg was Hollows more onesie-twosie, in smaller groups and less team oriented.
I paused at the T intersection, gazing across the bridge, to where the two spear Hollows guarded the stairway down to where the Undead Merchant was. Briefly, I considered detouring to speak to him, but finally reconsidered. The man was nearly Hollow, speaking to an imaginary dog, and most likely only clung to sanity by the fingers wrapped around the hilt of his Uchigatana. My curiosity over how he’d acquired such a fine weapon wasn’t enough to make me spend the time pushing through the Hollows that guarded him- at least, not yet. Perhaps later, when I had time.
The Hollows between me and the entrance to the aqueduct proved no real challenge, weaker than the soldiers and the group I’d defeated before; the greatest threat was the creaking wooden bridge, which I was certain was going to collapse at any moment until I was past it and at the tunnel entrance. I poked my head through the door, grimacing at the green and slimy stonework under the shallow water, then reluctantly stepped into it with a gentle splash. Thankfully, while the stone was slippery under my paws and I could feel the thin film of plant matter squish with every step, the water itself was clean and gently flowing.
After the dark and damp of the tunnel, short as it might be, the moment of coming back out into the sunlight was a relief… which immediately turned, as I swore and leaped back and out of the way of an ax. Ah, right, the Hollows guarding the way up, I’d forgotten about them. One of those things that you sort of forget about, just because they’re barely a speed bump for experienced players. They’re more of a test of basic awareness and positioning for a new player, after the lessons of the Asylum. I ran out, claws clicking against the stone, sliding myself between the Hollow and the stone wall, before shoulder-checking it into the drop below. I leaned over the edge and watched with satisfaction as it fell, then dashed itself against the rocks far below, before moving on to the other Hollows staking out the path.
As I drew my blade out of the last of them, leaving the smoking corpse to lie twitching on the ground, I glanced over towards the far end of the aqueduct’s arches. There, in the far arch, was the place that would be inhabited by Domhnall of Zena. Trickster, wielder of crystal weapons, and tentatively linked to the plot against the gods- as the one that had betrayed them to Seath. If this was true, then there was little doubt that Domhnall was a dangerous element in the wider world; the moment Celia went down to the Depths, Seath would know what we were up to, assuming that Domhnall was reporting to him.
I shook my head. Things to think about at a later time, bridges we could burn when we came to them. Enemy, ally, or otherwise, Seath would be something we’d have to prepare for, though in such a way as to not tip off my allies as to what was going on. Cold-hearted and self-interested betrayer Seath might be, turning on the dragons for a Lord Soul and a place in Gwynn’s court and destroying the plot entirely for the benefits it netted him, but he would still be viewed as, at least nominally, aligned with the Sunlight Throne. In the end, I will have to kill him or convince him that affirming his loyalty is what benefits him the most. I breathed out through my nose and turned back towards Firelink.
I took stock of what was there as I walked into the collection of ruins, right on the edge of a drop all the way down into Blighttown. There was Griggs, seated on a large stone, leafing through a book and making notes in a journal to one side. Down at the bonfire, close enough for a bit of the warmth but not so close as to form a connection with the shard of Flame, sat the Crestfallen Warrior, staring into the bonfire. Off to the right, I could hear what was even to my ears the barely-audible strains of prayer- Petrus, most likely. Laurentius would probably be sitting cross-legged in his customary spot, though I couldn’t hear or see him from here. I paused and frowned- no, Celia hadn’t been to the depths, yet, that I knew of. If Laurentius was down there, he was most likely still a captive of the butcher.
The first to notice me was Griggs. Clearly catching a motion out of the corner of his eye, he glanced up, then back down to his work, before freezing. Slowly, he raised his head back up, staring openly at me in something that appeared to be shock. Slowly, he began closing his book and reaching for his sorcery catalyst, which lay against the stone he was sitting on. Before he could reach it, however, I interrupted him.
“Well met. By your dress, you are a sorcerer of Vinnheim, correct?”
He started, fumbling his book and catalyst, barely catching the former and leaving the latter to rattle against the moss-covered cobblestone that made up the ground. He cleared his throat in an uncertain manner.
“Um, yes?”
He didn’t seem sure of how to react to a talking wolf wearing a sword, which was fair enough. I had to rank pretty high on the list of strange things he’d seen. After a moment, he seemed to decide that if I was sapient enough to ask him about his clothing, then I was probably sapient enough to warrant a respectful greeting. He stood and gave me a small, polite bow.
“Griggs of Vinnheim, specifically.”
I nodded. “I am Sif.” Felt weird, introducing myself like that. “Tell me, have you run across a woman named Celia? Perhaps she was accompanied by a knight of Catarina?”
He blinked. “Ah, yes? Yes. I was captured by some thieves in the lower streets, and they freed me from my captivity, at which point I returned here.”
“Hmm.” I glanced towards the bonfire contemplatively. If Celia was moving into the Lower Undead Burg, then she might be exploring in the direction of the Capra Demon and the Depths. “Tell me, did they mention their intentions?”
“Well… they did say that they were attempting to explore further. I’m unsure that they noted anything else.”
I inclined my head. “My thanks.”
“... Certainly. Of course.”
Griggs retrieved his catalyst from where it had landed, righting it against his impromptu seat, then settling back down with his book, though his gaze still kept flicking to me. I ignored it, moving into the bonfire area. The Crestfallen Warrior looked up as I entered the circle, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Well, now, haha, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes? Come for a bit of warmth at the fire, wolf?”
“Perhaps just momentarily. I’m passing through, into the Catacombs.”
His head twitched backwards and he blinked. “Well, now, gods be damned, a talking wolf. Suppose I should’ve expected such, this place being what it is.”
I made to turn around and speak to Petrus, maybe threaten the treacherous Way of White follower into rethinking his orders in regards to Rhea and her band, then hesitated. This man was fated to try… something, against Kingseeker Frampt, something that pissed the serpent off enough to do something to him that resulted in him ending up a Hollow in New Londo. Would seem to be a waste of a perfectly good sword if I let that happen.
“That seat taken?” I asked, twitching my nose towards the step next to him. He simply shrugged in return, and I took that as a no, settling in beside him and gazing at the bonfire.
I sat for an extended moment, drinking in the ambiance of Firelink. The gentle crackling of the bonfire echoed softly off the stone walls, bouncing around in the semi-enclosed ring. Faintly, I could hear Griggs muttering, and the scratching of pen against paper. Occasionally, the huge raven perched far up on the remains of a cathedral behind us cawed, or preened its feathers. It was… peaceful, here, and I could see why he’d chosen to sit here, to while away the time in this quiet, peaceful place.
“So.” I said. “Do you know anything about philosophy?”
“Oh, gods.” He buried his face in his hands.
----------------------------------------
“-so, ultimately, absurdism would then be the logical extreme of nihilism in that direction, being someone saying ‘nothing matters, so I might as well revel in the purely absurd nature of the universe’ rather than just stopping at ‘nothing matters’.”
“I find myself something of a- what’d you call it?”
“Nihilist.”
“Right.” He nodded his head. “That.”
We’d sat here a while, having this discussion. At first, it’d just been me talking at him, but over time, he’d started responding to some of the things that I’d been saying, offering commentary or asking the rare question. Rodger- “Rodge, if you will”- seemed somewhat perplexed by the idea that the position he’d ended up on had an actual term for it.
“Well… if nothing matters, then why keep going?” I asked, my head tilted. He shrugged.
“See, there’s the rub, yes? I’m waiting to go Hollow, I suppose. Not like I could die, in any real way.”
“But death is, itself, a vital part of Hollowing. If you were truly sitting around and waiting to Hollow, why not drop yourself off the cliff a few times? You’d Hollow much faster than if you just sat here, staring at the flames.”
That question seemed to catch him a bit short. He placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands underneath his chin, narrowing his eyes slightly at the bonfire as he considered the question.
“I suppose…” he began, then trailed off, frowning.
“From my observations, there are two components to Hollowing. The first is a loss of purpose- a focal point to orient oneself towards keeps sanity intact. The second is repeated deaths, particularly in a single place. A purposeless Undead that cannot overcome an obstacle and continues to die to it, or simply refuses to put forth the effort to overcome it, will inevitably Hollow.” I regarded him out of the corner of my eye. “It’s said that the most effective way to refute the arguments of a nihilist is to kill them. How would you react if I, say, ran you through with my sword?”
“Ah… angry, I suppose.”
“Well, why would you be angry? You were trying to go Hollow anyway. Me killing you would only help the process along, and, as you said, you can’t die. So, if I killed you, all you would get is a tad closer to your goals.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyebrows came together, and his expression changed from a frown to pure consternation.
“What… are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that, if losing something provokes a negative reaction in you, then clearly you must have valued that thing to some degree. People don’t become upset over the loss of things that they don’t consider to be valuable to them, and yet…”
“And yet…” he said, quietly, hesitantly, “I would be… angry.” He blinked several times, in quick succession. “Are you suggesting-?”
“I’m suggesting that how you actually feel might be at odds with your stated goals.”
Rodge tilted to the left, then to the right, then centered himself again and groaned, massaging his temples with his fingers.
“Gods, this is why I hate clerics and sorcerers.” He turned a frown on me. “And I can now add philosophers to that number as well. It’s unfair that anybody should be able to cause someone a headache through words alone.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So you’d prefer a cudgel upside the head?”
He made a noise of frustration and made a halfhearted swing at me, which I ducked under, grinning. He folded his hands again, placing his chin on them again and staring at the fire.
“I think…” He ran his tongue over his front teeth. “I think I’d like to consider this, for a while.”
I nodded. It was a lot to process, I understood that: I’d really left-fielded him with a lot of concepts he’d probably never considered, given that the basis of them wouldn’t exist for… well. Ever? Philosophy wasn’t exactly a focus for the lorebuilding. For everything I knew about the world and the events and locations of Lordran, my information about the rest of the world outside this self-contained bubble of Hollows and fallen gods was sparse, at best.
Griggs had approached at some point during the impromptu- and probably inaccurate to actual philosophical thought- lecture I’d given Rodge, and had listened with rapt attention. When I glanced in his direction, he met my eyes and raised an eyebrow of his own.
“I admit, I am not one to pay much attention to the philosophers- Vinheim has few, sorcerers pontificating on the finer points of the existential nature of magic and Soul. You, however, Sif, seem remarkably informed for a… talking wolf.”
I made a neutral noise. “One picks up these things whether one wishes or not, when you live as long as I have.”
Rodge, at this point, had checked out of the conversation, staring into the flames and in deep thought. My ears twitched as I heard something shuffle lightly behind one of the stone walls- Petrus, I’d guess, listening in and probably trying to decide what he should tell the Way of White about me, the traitorous rat. Not that he’d be able to hear much, at that distance- between the crackling of the bonfire and the low tone of voice we’d been speaking in, I doubted he could discern more than one word in five. Which was fine by me, I was glad for him to waste his time on such a frivolous effort as eavesdropping on a philosophy discussion. Griggs, for his part, brought his eyebrows together, curiosity in his expression.
“How long does a talking wolf live, in any case?”
“Oh, I’m not sure of the exact amount of time to pass, but suffice it to say, I swore allegiance to the Sunlight Throne when Gwynn still sat upon it.”
Griggs out and out startled, eyes boggling slightly as he nearly slipped off the perch he’d found on a short stone wall that followed the edge of the stairs. It was even enough to pull Rodge out of his thoughts for a moment to offer a low chuckle at the sorcerer’s reaction. I cracked a grin of my own, to which Griggs replied with a slightly indignant huff, settling back into his seat.
“Ah, if you think that comes as a shock; this isn’t even my true body. Just an avatar, an extension of my will.”
They both tensed for a moment, then each relaxed. Rodge most likely didn’t really care, as such, but Griggs most likely realized that if there was some chance of me attacking him, I probably would’ve done it when I’d first appeared.
“Lordran is widely known as the home of Anor Londo, city of the gods, but… if you…” Grigg’s face went through several very fast expressions as he connected the dots. “Ah.” He stood, giving me a bow. “I apologize for not recognizing what you were the moment we met, Lady Sif. I had not looked so deeply as to see your true nature.”
I huffed, waving a paw in his direction.
“Oh, straighten up and sit down. Divine I may be, but what good is divinity without followers?” You could, of course, argue that the Hunters were essentially the followers of Sif, but that wasn’t really relevant. “In these forsaken lands, the divine spark is merely a mark of power, something that isn’t uncommon amongst those flocking to this land. Like a pyromancy flame, but much less directly useful.”
“Still, divinity deserves respect, and I have not properly given you mine.” I was unsure if he was more perturbed that he’d somehow missed it, or that he’d then acted as if I was just your average talking wolf.
“Y’know, magic man, if her divine majesty felt slighted, I think you’d already be a stain on the flagstones.” Rodge said.
I gave him a frown, he wasn’t helping. He pretended not to see it, and went back to staring at the fire. I huffed, then pushed myself to my paws, stretching and enjoying the cracks of my vertebrae and joints.
“Well, it was time well spent speaking to the both of you, I think, but I’m afraid I’ve delayed long enough. I have business in the Catacombs, and I’m afraid that I must be off.” Between Patches the Hyena and the Rite of Kindling, I wasn’t sure what was more important. Either way, however, it was high time I got on my way. “Farewell.”
“Ah…” Rodge spoke up, something like concern flashing across his face. “I don’t suppose your weapon is holy, is it?”
“No.” I shifted slightly, causing the metal bits of the sheath to tap against the blade. “I’m afraid that it’s attunement is lightning. Don’t be concerned, I know about the skeletons that haunt the graveyard and the catacombs beneath- not a new scourge, that one. Don’t worry, they can hardly catch me, and if I’m correct about them…” Necromancers, after all, were only human, and thus died to any old sharp bit of metal. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Rodge nodded, then returned to his thinking. Griggs nodded to me, then moved off, back towards where his books and catalyst still sat. Behind the stone wall, I heard the gentle shuffling as Petrus returned to his spot, no doubt intending to pretend that he’d been praying the entire time and hadn’t even realized I was here. Rat bastard. Hopefully, if I timed things right, I could interfere with things in such a way as to save Rhea’s companions by removing Patches from the equation, then dragging them out of the Catacombs and taking a chunk out of Petrus for his betrayal. Hopefully literally, I wanted the dirty Way of White spy out of the way in a permanent sense as soon as possible.
I walked up the steps, glancing to the left at the top of them, to the little alcove where Laurentius sat after the Undead rescued him, but before he went searching for Quelana- should the Chosen Undead meet both and tell him about her. Sure enough, the path of grass was empty, as Celia hadn’t yet plumbed the Depths- heh- and rescued him from the butcher’s claws. Hopefully, one she had, I could shanghai him into a trip down into Blighttown. I wasn’t sure if I’d need him to see Quelana, but regardless of that, he might find that the place reminds him of home.
I walked past it, then through the opening into the area where Frampt appears, carefully avoiding the pool of water in the center and the closed doors underneath it. While the ruins were remarkably sound, overall, I had no desire to test my luck on top of a fall all the way to the entrance of the Kiln, nor did I wish to risk attracting the attention of Kingseeker Frampt. Hopefully, by the time the second bell rang and he awoke, my own plots would have too much momentum for him to derail, which would give me time to turn the others- particularly Celia- off of the idea of the serpents entirely. Kaathe and Frampt would be my primary adversaries in Lordran, if I could interest Seath and Gwyndolin proved amenable. Whatever their game was, I wanted no part of it, and neither did I want them to succeed.
I left through the doorway to the left, giving the sheer drop all the way down to Blighttown below and the crow watching me intently above an anxious glance each, hoping that the soil wouldn’t collapse and pitch me into the former and that the latter didn’t see me as a possible snack. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t beat the crow, should I choose, more that I absolutely wanted access to the Asylum and Oscar. As I came down the steps towards the graveyard, I saw the skeletons ahead of me twitch and rattle, before they began assembling themselves, bones drawing together like magnet toys assembling themselves into forms.
I watched this happen for a second, fascinated by the process of the various parts clicking into place, before I remembered that I didn’t exactly have a permanent way of dealing with them. Maybe I could break their bones, but I wasn’t sure that the necromancy powering them wouldn’t just glue them right back together without an injury, and without holy damage I couldn’t put them down for (relative) good. I growled in annoyance, then dug my paws into the dirt and ran past them.
One of them had formed enough that its skull turned to follow me, its arm snaking out and attempting to score a hit with its blade, but I simply leaped over and ran on. A domino effect of rising skeletons followed me across the graveyard, rattling like alarm bells as they picked themselves up from graves and grass and soil, shaking off the various bits that came with them. Ultimately, however, I was far too fast for them- by the time they’d formed, I was well past them, and none of them had the speed to keep up. I easily made it to the dead tree that marked where the beginning of the catacomb stairs snaked down the cliff face, starting down them as the skeletons came behind me. At the top of the stairs, then hesitated, chattering amongst themselves as they shuffled back and forth at the top stair. I smirked; whatever reason for their hesitation, I was home free to make my way deeper.
I dashed through the room with the shaft, the floating exploding heads not even registering I was there until I kicked the single skeleton guarding the steps down out into the shaft, colliding with one of them and causing it to explode, scattering the bones everywhere like shrapnel. I didn’t bother watching where they went, already moving down and past the second skeleton, leaping over the edge and sliding on the pile of bones, grimacing. I turned, quickly gauging the wall that I’d just leaped from the top of. Short enough that I could make a run at it and scramble over the top, if I couldn’t just leap up onto the lip, so thankfully I wouldn’t have to do something totally humiliating like having Patches help me with the ladder. I shuddered at the very idea, then twitched as the skeleton threw itself down, scattering over the pile of bones and beginning to reform instantly. I turned and was down the hall in a split second.
The room beyond, I barely spent a few moments in, dashing past the two skeletons trying to reform as they realized I was there. I went straight into the opening in the wall to the left, skidding down the passageway and surprising the necromancer in the bonfire room so badly he nearly dropped the lantern he was holding. Before he could even properly look at me, I leaped into the air, my teeth coming down like a vice around his neck. He made a desperate sort of gurgling noise, but I simply bit down harder and shook, causing his spine to give a sad sort of snap. The newly-made corpse sighed out a last breath, and I felt the small amount of Soul being added to my own, dropping the body and turning my attention to the skeletons that had followed me.
One had come down the stairs, and I could hear the two others trying to squeeze down the passage, but this time I didn’t avoid them. They lacked one important thing: the pale white fire that had before suffused their eye sockets was gone, leaving them empty and dark. Now, instead of an eternally resurrecting enemy, they were an animated pile of dry bones. And everybody knows what wolves do with bones.
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I tackled the first one straight off. Stupidly, it attempted to raise its shield to ward off the attack, something that might have worked had I been using an actual weapon. Instead, I crashed into the rusted bit of metal and wood, dropping the skeleton to the ground, where I stomped on its skull contemptuously, smashing it. The bones shuddered, then lay still where they were, as I gave a rather dangerous grin of satisfaction. Running up the hallway, I realized that the other two skeletons had somehow tangled themselves together into a mass of bone and weapon at the peak of the steps in their rush to follow their fellow. It made them easy as hell to deal with, as I simply just leapt up and crunched one of their skulls between my jaws, driving my paw through the other, then kicking off the shield one was holding. I landed, watching them fall to pieces with satisfaction, then turned back towards the room.
The mechanism trigger was surprisingly easy: even without the directed leverage of a biped, I was easily big enough to sling my paws over it and push with my back legs, though it took a little bit of doing. Still, the satisfaction of the stone rumbling out of place wasn’t to be underestimated.
I glanced at the dead bonfire and its gently glowing coals, studying it for a moment. I hadn’t encountered a bonfire that hadn’t been lit yet, and it was interesting to feel how it contrasted the others. Its connection to the First Flame felt atrophied, thin, weak, just enough flow to keep it here. Somewhere underneath the fire was a maiden in a rock tomb, blinded, in the dark forever… I shuddered. Some things were better left unpictured. I turned my back to the coiled sword and swept up the stairs, carefully stepping over the skeletal remains.
I came out of the dark passage and into the dim light, glancing skyward to the towering structures far above, then shifting my gaze to the right. There, across a chasm that dropped all the way to the territory of the bonewheels far below, was another necromancer in his black robe. He shifted uncomfortably under my gaze, but didn’t move, obviously feeling unthreatened. After all, there was a drop between him and me, and the only route I could obviously take was packed with his skeletal minions- he was safe as safe could be! I drew my sword from the sheath at my side, and immediately set to proving him wrong.
I packed up a few paces, then pushed myself forwards, hard, running at the chasm. The necromancer took a few nervous steps back, unsure of what I was doing, but by then it was too late. I took a flying leap, rebounded off the rock wall hard enough to crack the stone, then hit him like a pickup truck, bowling him to the ground. Before he could even make a noise of surprise, I twisted and lopped off his head, splashing his dark red blood across the worn stone of the crypt. The skeletons that had moved forwards to protect their master shuddered as the light faded from their empty sockets, leaving them far less of a threat than before, and one I dealt with easily as my paws and blade smashed bone and broke rusted blades.
Emerging into the light again, I huffed as I remembered the spike-coated bridge and the mechanism that powered it. The… woman? Man? Whatever, the necromancer in black smirked at me, folding their arms confidently. With no ranged weaponry and no way to cross the bridge, the spikes impossible to straddle and the gap too far to jump, they were safe as they could be. Once again, I’d have to prove them just as wrong as their colleagues.
Across the way, I could see a man in leather armour holding a spear and shield, bald head prominently displayed. My target, and potentially the source of a lot of answers reaching back to a time before time, as far as this universe was concerned. He appeared to be taking stock of the various threats and enemies that he could see from his vantage point, though my Titanfall trick with the rock wall appeared to have attracted his attention. He was watching me with interest, but didn’t seem inclined to lend a hand, given that he hadn’t moved a muscle and simply leaned on his spear. Ah, Patches, what an altruist.
I ran to the right, dodging the skeletons and trapped statues, trying to time it so that I hit the pressure plates that triggered the spike traps when they were right behind me. The force of the trap firing launched one of the skeletons into the abyss, at least, and I simply ignored the others, and the floating heads exploding behind me as they struggled to catch up. A Dark Souls character is slow and ponderous, even at their lightest and fastest, but I was an awkward and short target with a completely different biological setup than the usual Undead, and I easily skated through the hazards that would have provided quite a challenge for your average warrior.
When I reached the mechanism that would turn the bridge, one nearly identical to the one that opened the passage earlier, I did the sensible thing. That is, I ignored it entirely, because I could see the gap in the rocks through which Patches was just visible. Easily, I jumped to the rather unsteady short wall that separated the narrow path from the fall into the chasm, then jumped again and rounded. Patches, trusty Patches, grabbed his spear and sat up straight, finding himself cornered against the rock obstacle that I had so easily circumvented, with me between him and his escape. He seemed to weigh things for a moment, then broke out into an easy smile.
“Ahhh, well, hello! Ah, I would’ve helped you with the bridge, and all, but I find myself on this side of this little thing.” He knocked against the rock behind him with his leather glove. “And, you see, the skeletons triggered the bridge, so I can’t exactly get back across, can I? Even if I got past that lump and his guards.”
I regarded him for a long moment. While the easy smile and open expression came naturally to the man that would, time and again, goad people into having a look at treasures that he would immediately screw them over for, I could discern the slightest threads of nervousness through the mask.
“Well, now, you’re the first person to try and reason with a wolf I’ve seen.” I mused.
He tensed. It was nearly indiscernible, just a momentary action, but I’d been looking for it. He relaxed a second later, and his eyes flickered to the sword strapped to my side, where I’d returned it to its sheath.
“Not many wolves carry around steel fangs, hmm? Figure it was as good a chance as any that you’d be the reasonable type.”
“Hm.” Well, do or die. “Tell me, would it mean anything to you if I said…” I rattled my brain, trying to remember Demon’s Souls. It wasn’t a game that I’d played myself, damn Sony’s greed, but I knew a little about it. What was the hub…? Ah! “The Nexus?”
He froze. This time, there was no effort to mask the reaction, the way his knuckles tightened around the shaft of his spear enough that I was sure they were white under the leather. He stared at me as if I wasn’t just any old wolf, but something incomprehensible, something that he suddenly found deeply unsettling.
“What?”
“The Nexus. The gathering place. A bunch of people of all stripes, and one person fighting their way through every creature around. I believe there was one called the… judge? No, adjudicator, that was it. And the phalanx.” I tilted my head. “Did you know that there’s a phalanx here, contained within the painted world? Might even be related to the one there.” I huffed. “They may even be one and the same… after all.” I gave him my best piercing stare, and he wilted slightly before it. “Some relics from that time before time are still around.”
“That’s… impossible. Isn’t anyone that should…”
“What? Know about the primordial era?” I shrugged in a rolling motion. “I admit that my knowledge isn’t perfect, but I know that the Chaos Flame wasn’t the first source of demons in this world. Though, I do wonder whether it came from the-”
“DON’T-!” I blinked in surprise as Patches winced at his volume, then dropped his voice to a low hiss. “Don’t mention… that. Clerics and gods’re bad enough without… that thing, coming back.”
I sat back on my haunches, looking smug. For his part, the Hyena grumbled something that sounded like several swear words, rubbing a hand across his scalp.
“Where’d you even-? No.” he held up his other hand, grimacing, leaving his spear leaning against the rock. “I don’t want to know, don’t tell old Patches, you’ll be giving me conniptions already…”
I felt a flicker of amusement at the idea that I was causing such for the guy specifically famous for attempting to fuck over the player character in every single game he appears in. Then, the last word registered- conniptions? Huh, maybe Patches would be the actual origin of that particular line. Go figure.
“Well, regardless, I know a bit. More than that, I know that you, Patches the Hyena, are older than time itself- at least, from the perspective of this modern era.”
He let out a breath through his teeth.
“Fine, you’ve caught me. Not something I ever thought I’d be caught about, but here we are, suppose. Now, what could you possibly want with Trusty Patches, eh?” I narrowed my eyes at that, and he shrank back a little. “Oh, fine, fine. What do you want with Patches the Hyena. There, that better, your majesty? Maybe a little bow?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, this era’s faded. It’s not like the primordial time, your time, before the true dragons and the archtrees. The Flame…”
Patches grunted, leaning against his shield and sliding into a sitting position. “Faded, it is. Dying, slowly. Damnable clerics and their…” he wandered back into muttered swear words. From several different languages, if I was hearing correctly, and none I recognized.
“It’s not the cleric’s fault.” Patches fixed me with a glare, which I avoided. “Very well, it’s not ALL the cleric’s fault- I’m willing to admit that it at least partially is. The Way of White is the main driving force for this mad plan of the god’s in the human lands, rigging things so that the strongest Undead possible lights the First Flame.”
“Bastards make it hard to move around and do anything. I’m a simple man, just looking to help people-” it was my turn to pin him in place with a glare, which caused him to stutter. “W-well, m-maybe help them find some treasure?”
“With a boot. To their back. I may not know much about the primordial time, but I know that much, at least.”
He didn’t seem inclined to disagree, resorting to being sullen in response. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, sitting down where I was.
“The point is that this Age is fading, dying. The First Flame is out of First Logs.” He snorted, then looked annoyed that I’d gotten that out of him. “I need to solve the problem, one way or another, prevent the Age of Flame from fading, or carry the world into another era.”
“Not going to like this very much, am I.”
“The world is where you keep all your stuff.”
That, more than anything I’d said, gave him real pause. After a moment, he shrugged.
“Fair. Ol’ Patches can’t deny that one. Still doesn’t give a reason I should be helping any of your lot- gods, that is. Responsible for your own messes, you are.”
“You should help because I’m specifically looking to fuck over the Way of White and any other clerics between me and saving the godsdamned world, so even if it doesn’t work out, you, Patches, should be along just for that.”
He pressed his clasped hands to his lips, then tilted them towards me. “... Go on.”
Well, at least I had his attention, if nothing else.
“Look. The reason I approached you, despite your tendency of sinking knives into any available back, is because despite all that, you can very well keep a secret. Not a word breathed about the primordial time from you. Thus, I think that you’ll realize it’s in your best interests to keep quiet. Mainly, I’m giving you a fantastic chance to put all different kinds of clerics from all different kinds of persuasions into some really sticky situations, in addition to ensuring that you can rest easy knowing that whatever stuff you have scattered around in caches or what have you is safe. No world-changing fog banks that mess with the nature of reality.” He grimaced again. “As if I hadn’t given you enough reasons, you will also be able to keep an eye on me, the only one that could spill the secrets of your actual origins and make some very powerful beings very interested in you.”
“Fine. Fine, fine, all fine, fantastic.” he pushed himself to his feet, grousing, and kicked a pebble over the edge, letting out a ‘hm’ of satisfaction as it rattled off the walls and bounced off the head of one of the bonewheels. “Trusty-” he rolled his eyes as I narrowed mine. “Patches the Hyena gets dirt on you to balance your dirt on me. All’s fair and balanced. Only, problem- what do you get out of this, exactly, your wolfishness?”
“Somebody who hates the Way of White absolutely and will gleefully work to their downfall, as well as someone who has seen the ages pass and may know things that will prevent the slow fading of the Age of Flame. Or, perhaps, the start of a different era.”
“Mm, dunno how much I can promise of the second, but you’ve got me on the first.”
“Right now, however, I need someone to help me push down to the bottom of the Catacombs. If I’m right, there should be something there that will take us a step in the right direction.”
He snorted. “Yeah, not likely, I don’t see why I should.”
“The edge is right there and I’m stronger than you.” I said brightly.
Patches pushed himself to his feet, picking up his spear and shield.
“Alright, where we heading?” he replied, just as brightly.
----------------------------------------
“Augh! These things! I hate these things! Who MADE these!?”
Patches dove out of the way of another bonewheel, and I tackled it from the side, causing it to tip over. He ran up, driving his spear through its skull, then swore and rolled again as another came barreling through. I jumped out of the way, watching it roll by until it hit the rock wall, sparking against it and coming to a stop, the skeleton driving it immediately reorienting on us, not having an inner ear to be confused by the spinning.
“I have no idea.” My sword was in its sheath, being not very much use against these things, leaving me free to speak normally. “If I were to hazard a guess? Either the necromancers got experimental, or this was some kind of torture visited on them while they were still alive.”
“Yes, well, it’s now a torture visited on us!”
“Ohhh, you really have no idea.” I muttered to myself.
Still, despite the normal terrible nature of the bonewheels, we were doing quite well against them. They didn’t really seem to know how to handle two targets, not even mentioning the fact that one of those two was agile and very difficult for them to pin as they would your average Undead. I could simply move slightly to the left or right as they came, then smash my back paws into the side of their wheen, causing them to overbalance and leave themselves totally vulnerable to a coup de grace from either myself or Patches. As Patches wasn’t the stand and fight type, none of them had managed to corner him, either.
As the last bonewheel threw themselves towards me, iron spikes sparking against the rocks, I drew my sword. Just before it hit me, I sidestepped, leaving it without the time I would need to turn itself back on a trajectory to collide with me. I lashed out with the blade, severing several of the wooden spokes; instantly, the wheel exploded into wooden chunks from the sheer force, smashing the skeleton so hard against the ground that they exploded into pieces of bone like shrapnel. I stood there a moment, blinking, then looked at Patches, who had his eyebrows raised all the way to where his hairline wasn’t.
“Well. One way to do it.” He said, levelly.
“Hn.” I made a careful complete turn, examining every part of the chasm carefully. I wasn’t going to be caught unprepared by one of those unholy mobile blenders. Satisfied I wouldn’t be caught unawares, I nodded and sheathed my sword. “That would appear to have been the last of them. If you’d like to go on ahead to the passage onwards, I have a small bit of business to take care of.”
Patches shrugged.
“No skin off mine if I get to sit down a minute.”
He walked off towards the gap in the rock wall, humming something to himself. I stared after him for a few moments, just to make sure he was going the right way, then padded towards the only irregularity: a bit of stonework, poking through the natural rock of the chasm wall. Usually, the stone was blown outwards from within by Vamos’ pickaxe, the player character coming down from above through a hole in the roof of his little sanctuary. Who knew how he’d gotten there in the first place. I paused, tilting my head slightly. Maybe it was his tomb?
Anyway, usually, Vamos himself punches out the wall, probably in an effort to get the Chosen Undead to go away and leave him alone. Even through the stone, I could hear the faint ringing of his hammer, working away at one of the many weapons that I suppose he had to have been entombed with. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed he was sealed in until the Chosen Undead broke his concentration? Whatever might be the case, I wanted to speak with him, and I wasn’t going to go through the humiliation of doing it the intended way.
I pushed myself off the ground, pressing my paws against the wall, giving it a sniff. Moisture had wormed its way into the mortar between the stone blocks, softening it and giving this section a slight structural weakness. It was probably this very thing that had led to the hole in the roof, the stone funnel above the tomb concentrating water on that spot until it collapsed. I took a deep breath, braced myself, then pushed myself off and slammed my paws back into the wall so hard that one of the stone blocks that made it up cracked through- but it didn’t collapse inwards.
I was about to pull back and make another attempt, when I realized that the ringing had stopped. Hurriedly, I hopped away from the wall, just in time for it to come tumbling down, the stone blocks scattering themselves like so much detritus. And there, in the dark hole, stood the man himself- and, of course, his magnificent metal beard. Vamos. He peered out at me, pickaxe in hand, actually pausing rather than just telling me off and returning to his work.
“You’re different.” He grunted. “Been a long time since a god has sought me out.”
I sniffed the air again. Vamos smelled of damp, but also faintly of fire, of hot metal… but there was something underneath it. Something somewhat… hot? Cinnamony. Ah, he was the smith that ascended weapons to Fire and Chaos, was I detecting some hint of it about him? I had a hunch. Only one real way to test it, I suppose.
“You smell of Chaos.” I said, levelly. Vamos simply grunted again in return.
“Working for the Witches of Izalith does that to you. Now, little god, you’re spoiling my focus. Tell me if you need something, or get off.”
I blinked. Well, that was… refreshingly blunt? I suppose that must mean that Vamos might have worked directly with the Chaos Flame, way back when, before the fall of Izalith, the corruption of the Witch and her daughters, and the invasion of the demons. Would explain the fire ascendancy, as well.
“I’m gathering like minds above, in Lordran. Eventually, I’ll need to delve into the ruins of Lost Izalith, hopefully to seek out the remaining daughters of the Witch.”
“They still survive?” The gruffness hadn’t gone from his voice, but the impatience had. He lay the head of the pickaxe against the ground, leaning on it as he fixed me with his full attention. “I had thought them all gone to corruption, or killed by Gwynn and his like.”
“I’ve felt threads of power wafting from Blighttown, from the edge of Izalith. Pyromancy, with a hint of Chaos. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t, but… we may need someone to speak with them. I came following a hint of the power of Chaos, hoping that it would lead me to one who could do so, on my behalf.”
“Me? I lack the talent.” He held up his bony hand, and I started as I realized that there, on his ring finger and displayed prominently, was an Old Witch’s Ring. “Talent or no, though, doesn’t matter to this trinket.”
“Could you make more?” I struggled to contain my excitement. An in with the Daughters, and a way to speak to them on my own terms, was valuable indeed. Vamos lowered his hand, lifting his chin and gazing at the dim crack above us.
“Perhaps. Been a long time, but I could do it.” He lowered his head. “I’ll make one, then pack my smithy. You’ll help me carry it.”
Before I could respond to that blindside, he was gone, walking heavily back into the dark and towards the faint red light of his makeshift forge. I stood there, in the opening, until Vamos’ tools began ringing against the anvil again.
“That was unexpected.” I mused. You’d think I’d be used to people in this world acting counter to my expectations, but it appeared that I wasn’t ever going to be fully acclimated to it.
----------------------------------------
“So, ah, let me get this straight. The skeleton smith who used to work with the Witches way back before the Chaos Flame decided people looked tasty is going to smith you a magic ring to talk to a giant spider-”
“Two giant spiders.”
“Oh, yes, silly old me, I forgot- two giant spiders. Yes, much better. And all of this is because you… feel bad for them.”
I shuffled as I walked, looking uncomfortably at the walls of the passage.
“I wouldn’t put it like that, per say. I feel bad for the Fair Lady, of course, but it’s not a matter of feeling bad for them. They’re wielders of primeval power, flame sorcery, the precursor to Pyromancy.” I lifted my head slightly, back on more firm metaphorical ground. “They’re powerful, and we’ll need every scrap of power we can get. Petrus will no doubt be relaying the changing nature of Lordran to the Way of White, and they’ll be moving against us soon. And where the Way of White goes, the gods aren’t far behind. Put simply, we’re running out of time, and we need every scrap of power in Lordran to be behind us when the storm finally comes.”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t trust them, though. Monsters are as monsters do, in my experience.”
I gave him a flat look. Funny he should be the one saying that. He, of course, didn’t even have the decency to blush, merely moving forwards and through the fog wall. I followed him, shivering as the silvery almost-fluid caressed my fur, the passage widening into a true cavern. This was the entrance to Pinwheel’s lair, the lid of the gigantic coffin askew, leaving a crack easily wide enough for fifteen to slip through together. He whistled.
“Some coffin! I wonder if the jewelry matches the drapes…”
“Oi. Focus.” He gave me an aggrieved look, but relented, turning towards me. “Down there, is a being named Pinwheel. He was a necromancer once, lost his wife and child.”
“Oh, let me guess, he’s trying to bring them back through dark rituals?”
“No, he brought them back. Specifically, he brought them back fused with himself, making them an amalgamation of all three, six arms and three heads in one combined body.”
Patches was silent, for a long moment. Then, in a low voice, “You know, I’d really thought I’d escaped abominations of magic and flesh after the fog rolled over the world.”
I grimaced. “If you really think that, don’t go looking at the Duke’s Archives too closely.” I shook my head. “In any case, Pinwheel is… not a particularly threatening adversary. It’s relatively fragile, relying on ranged spellcasting to fight its opponents. It's only trick is summoning copies of itself to hide amongst, but I believe I can sniff out the true one easily enough. Keep your wits about you, don’t get hit, and this should be an easy fight.”
Patches cleaned one of his ears with a finger, grimacing. “Dodge the magic and hit the guy. Not exactly high sorcery, is it?”
“Then let’s go.”
We walked together to the edge of the coffin, peering down into the candlelit interior of the huge stone sarcophagus. If you positioned yourself right, you could see clear to the other side, where a figure in black was hunched over a table covered in books, flipped pages and occasionally searching out another from various piles. Patches leaned over the edge.
“So, what, we just jump?”
“I could give you a push, if that would make you feel better.”
He gave me a look, then sighed, gathering his shield and spear close and leaping down into the gap. I rolled my shoulders, which was a rather weird motion for something with four legs, then coiled like a spring, leaping down into the coffin.
I easily landed at the bottom, where Patches was already moving into a standing position, his shield held out in front of him and his spear ready at his side. I drew my sword, staring across the pool of water that filled the center of the coffin, at the dark-robed figure on the far side.
Pinwheel’s lanterns twitched as it straightened up to its full height. It turned, candlelight glinting off the three masks, the skeleton on the table behind it casting ominous shadows over the walls behind it. It regarded us, and the three masks turned towards each other, seeming to quickly deliberate, before all three snapped back to the both of us and it screeched.
“Be ready!” I shouted past the hilt of the blade in my mouth. Patches didn’t deign to answer, merely tightening his grip on his shield.
The creature raised its lanterns high, then surrounded itself with a ribbon of light as it jumped into the air and spun, creating a corkscrew effect with its lanterns that was surprisingly pretty to look at. Clouds of motes appeared throughout the coffin, clearing to reveal exact copies of the figure in black, each of which raised their lanterns as the light from them intensified.
Patches turned sharply to his right, taking a step forwards and thrusting with his spear, impaling one that had appeared nearly directly behind us and causing it to burst in a cloud of glowing specks. I could feel the magic snap back across the room- in fact, I could feel the strings of power linking every copy back to the original, who was drifting towards the back corner of the room, attempting to hide behind a wall of its copies. Tracing the gossamer threads that linked them together in a weak web of power, it occurred to me that it felt, in a very vague sense, like what I’d done to create my avatar, though much less powerful and less… solid, perhaps, was the word? My avatar was a solid physical presence, durable and enduring, but I could feel the power hemorrhaging from these copies and returning to their originator, their presence not strong enough to anchor the power they’d been given for more than a bare few minutes. Still, the idea flashed through my head of a pack of copies of myself- weaker, yes, but making up for their individual weakness with overwhelming numbers.
Hum. I hadn’t thought I’d be getting anything other than the Rite of Kindling out of this fight, but I supposed that I was going to have to go through Pinwheel’s research notes and try to figure out how he’d cast this particular spell. I jumped to the side, avoiding a fireball, and refocused on the figure that was the hub for the network of power. Enough woolgathering, it was time to deal with the current threat.
I dashed through the shallow pool, causing two Pinwheel copies to recoil as the water soaked their fronts and put out their lanterns. I dodged around a third, then slashed at the original Pinwheel. To my shock, it met my sword with one of the long sticks that served as arms, holding its lanterns. Another lantern raised above its head, brightening as it charged a spell, while a third swung down in an attempt to club me with the hot metal. I ducked out of the way, making another slash, only to have it leap out of the way, my sword catching nothing but robe.
Behind me, I could hear Patches engaging the clones, swearing the entire time. I quickly sidestepped a fireball, which sizzled against the water before going out. This was proving altogether more difficult than the boss battle in the game already, most likely due to the fact that Pinwheel here was an actual person under that mask. I dodged, ducked, and darted, avoiding assault after assault as the copies came after me, dispelling one with the lightning damage of my sword every once in a while as the quarters got too close.
My thick fur prevented burns, but I was taking a number of them- too many copies, too many lanterns. I couldn’t track it all, and even though Patches was taking the heat off of me, I had no doubt that the infernal undead monster under that dark cloak could keep this up pretty much indefinitely, whereas we could not. Still, however, Pinwheel’s cloak was slowly shredding itself under the contact of my blade, its arms twitching and writhing involuntarily every time I scored a hit. It's almost-black blood mixed with the water we were splashing through, and I could tell that its jumps were slower, weaker, less high with every stroke I landed.
Finally, the moment of truth came. Pinwheel landed, preparing another spell, and then slipped slightly. It wasn’t much, a momentary little movement, but it was more than enough to dispose of the copy that had been harrying me at that moment with a swing of my sword and close with all the speed I could muster. Its masks snapped to me, but before it could push itself off the ground again or summon another copy to buy itself time, I flicked my head to the side and sank my blade into where I guessed its leg to be.
Pinwheel screamed, an inhuman and deafening noise, as it jerked and writhed, electrical discharge from my blade arcing through it. I withdrew the blade, and before Pinwheel could even collapse, I drew the edge across its entire front before plunging my blade’s tip directly below where the masks were. There was a soft gurgle, black blood dripping down my blade, and I withdrew it, leaving the cloaked figure to crumple to the wet stone floor. As I watched, the cloak folded in on itself, emptying out of whatever horrifying amalgamation of flesh and metal was underneath it and leaving merely the three masks and the ragged fabric.
I glanced to the side, where Patches was panting, but grinning, inhaling his share of the necromancer’s Souls. He saw me staring out of the corner of his eye, turning his gaze on me.
“Well, now, wasn’t that fun? Shall we agree to never do that again?”
I huffed. “No promises. I may need your assistance in the future. For the moment, however, I’d like a look at this creature’s books…” I narrowed my eyes as some part of Pinwheel’s essence came unfixed, something that felt… “Ah. The Rite, I’d forgotten.”
I sheathed my sword at my side, then walked to Pinwheel’s workbench, where a number of glass alchemy supplies joined the modified bones of what appeared to be a human. I selected a vial from the mess, placing it in a wooden holder onto the stone floor, then grasping a cork in my teeth.
I reached out, metaphysically, coaxing the scrap of power. I was not a viable host for it, lacking a connection to the bonfires. In a twist that I really should’ve guessed, Patches seemed to lack the same connection, which meant that with the perishing of Pinwheel, the Rite was left without a host to latch onto. However, my experience creating my avatar had given me some idea of what I could do, here.
Gently, I massaged it into a more physical form, slightly rebraiding a bit of the power. Red and black liquid slowly began filling the vial, gently swirling in the glass container. I pushed the cork in the moment I was sure it was done, then sat back, staring with some fascination at the gently moving and pulsating fluid within. It almost seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. So beautiful was it, that I was distracted from the faint sense that I’d forgotten something.
“Ah, hope you have a plan to get out of here, your wolfishness, because it just looks like the only way out’s a ladder.”
I uttered the foulest swear word I could think of.