01. Awakening.

The Northern Undead Asylum was peaceful, in its own way.

One could easily be lulled to sleep by the tread of whatever jailer had been placed over charge of the place. One of the many demons roaming the land—it thought it had seen it, once, but now that memory was all too faded.

Peace is, of course, dull. Imprisonment without end, for those who cannot end themselves, is even duller. One could not re-sharpen the edge without a millennia to work and the gods’ greatest hammerwork.

…It had begun to think back to what remained of memory of the time before, of life outside this prison, and even that was proving dull.

Time chips away at your edge, your sanity. Your history. Your legend, your self.

And so it thought, what can one do with infinite time and infinite nothingness? Perhaps burrow out of this prison, but to where? There is naught but cliffs and a world full of hate outside.

Would it be so bad to continue this solitude until the end of the world?

A body lands in the cell.

It takes it a moment to understand that a change has occurred. Another to remember how to move, to adjust it eyes to focusing again.

Someone looks down at it, as it stirs and rises. They wave, and then scamper off across the roof without another word.

Incomprehensible.

Its skin and muscles are still taught and thin, but it takes little effort to move as one always has. It investigates this mysterious present.

Hollowed, just the same as itself. Barely anything to it—but ‘barely’ places this newcomer (or its remains) as one of the guards, not a prisoner. Its fingers quickly seek out a key from the body—one thing that never changes is where those keys tend to be kept, no matter how much time passes.

Its hand closes around the key, and, adjusting its armor, it rises.

Very well, it thinks. Let’s see what the point of all this is.

It’s sent flying through a wall by some inane trap of a sphere set up on one of the stairs. Though it does not vocalize, it curses all the same the architect of this place and its keepers. Demons on the rooftops, boulders on the stairs. What’s next, spikes!? And if your traps will break the cells in, what’s the blazing point of—

That figure from earlier sits slumped in the corner.

Looking up, there is clearly another hole of violence. The only thing that comes to mind is that the demon from earlier got them, somehow, before jumping down. It thanks the gods that it doesn’t seem it can fly, but what was it up there for in the first place? This prison is so much older than it ought to be. There’s not a single chance this will last until the end of the world.

“Oh, you…”

They’d (he’d?) noticed it, standing there.

“You’re no Hollow, eh?”

Debatable, but certainly not as far gone as it had thought. The gormless dregs that litter the halls are another sort entirely.

The person awaits an answer, perhaps, so it…shrugs. It gestures to the roof with its sword.

“Ah, thank goodness. I’m done for, I’m afraid…”

That’s not much of an answer… Though, once can only ask so much from someone on death’s door, in a way.

“I’ll die soon, then lose my sanity.”

That seems needlessly pessimistic. Is that why all these other fellows went so Hollow? No sense for doing anything with failure besides wallowing in it? Take up a hammer or plow and see if you still feel the same when your field goes under.

“I wish to ask something of you.”

Bah. So be it.

It tries to speak again, but failed. Perhaps from time, or the mental state, it is not able to turn these thoughts into sounds. Gestures still remain, but that would be the limit.

“You and I, we’re both Undead… Hear me out, will you?”

It nods, and sheathes its weapon.

”…Regrettably, I have failed in my mission.”

…How so? Just pick yourself up off the ground and keep going. There’s a bonfire just down the stairs, even.

But with no way to express that and no wish to make him doubt his earlier decision, it just stands there, listening to him regale his history and prophecy, as a courtesy to the dying.

Perhaps old habits die harder than the living do.

As he puts it, he hails from Astora originally, with an old saying motivating him in his family. ‘Thou who art Undead, art chosen’. It knows not where he would have originally escaped to the roof from, or even away to after his exit, but perhaps he had spent all he had contending with that large demon pacing the main room now.

Oscar hands it his Estus flask and a key to one of the other doors. None to the main one, so the jailer would still need to fall, but perhaps there is something that can be done with the balcony…

”…Now, I must bid farewell. I would hate to harm you after death… So, go, now. And thank you…”

It clasps its fist over its chest in a crude salute, and slowly steps to leave.

A right confusing one, but…

It pauses in the door.

I can’t say I hate the hero type.

It offers him a wave, and starts moving.

May we meet again, Oscar.

As the sword sinks into the demon’s head—Dimwitted. Slow. Weakened. And still a threat to my life.—it thinks about names, about weapons, about quests.

As the demon’s great-hammer crashes into another of the room’s pillars, into the floor, it thinks about what it is. Who it is, who it was, for the first time in a long time.

There is no answer, not in the usual sense.

The lingering Humanity in her quivers in response to the fight, in response to the taste of the soul and its dregs slathered across the walls. Something momentary, something violent,

and then its sword finds a place firmly in the demon’s throat, while the jailer struggled to wrench the tool from the wall again.

It still cannot speak, but it screams.

A weak vengeance this is, but vengeance nonetheless. Depart from here, you demon.

It is a paltry amount of soul that it captures from the demon, considering its size, but enough to galvanize the spirit to push open the massive doors leading toward the cliff face.

Perhaps…that shall be my quest.

The demons of the world, the foes of stature too great for a hapless hero, of resilience too deep for even the stout-hearted.

The Hollows and Undead will remain, until the end of time. But there are some creatures that can still be killed, and there is some sort of hero out there, for sure. ‘The fate of the Undead’ is too great to rest on the shoulders of one.

It looks up toward where Oscar likely still rests, and then steps out, feeling the world again, feeling the isolation anew as it approaches the precipice.

Then, what shall my name be? What was it ever before?

It feels the call of the hammer, the roar of the fire. Things that may have meant something to its past.

It stands on the precipice itself, a world away from the land of the decrepit gods.

It thinks of the coiled sword embedded in every bonfire. Perhaps it made one itself, or perhaps it did not, but it feels an attachment.

It formulates a name, but one that can never be spoken unless it reclaims its tongue.

—!!

A massive bird rushes up from the cliff face below, grasping it in its talons. Before it can react, it is taken, and whisked away somewhere. Somewhere far, far beyond this land, somewhere that is another one.

02. Lordran.

It is thrown down roughly on another cliffside, not even given the time in flight to understand where it was taken.

The only thing that calms its panic is the fire blazing, as tall as a body, from a bonfire in the center of a small… It seems to be a gathering place.

“Well, what do we have here? You must be a new arrival.”

Its head turns toward the source of the thin voice, though it keeps the bonfire in periphery. A chain-clad man of dour appearance sits against one of the crumbling walls of this place, no more interested than a corpse with time to kill.

“Let me guess. Fate of the Undead, right? Well, you’re not the first.”

It stands with a start. Not the first? Then, Oscar… Did he not know, or did he try anyway? But no… No, of course he wasn’t the first. Not after all this time. Then, how many…?

“But there’s no salvation here. You’d have done better to rot in the Undead Asylum… But, too late now.”

It was a pleasant rot, I’ll give you that.

Its face settles into placidity or thought as it moves to sit at the bonfire. The man says nothing for a moment, and it sinks into the feeling of something so large, so warm, so—

There is a shift. The Humanity resurfacing within her finds that its body begins to fill out again, at some cost unclear. Perhaps the fragment of the demon that she had stolen with its life and soul, but…

Curious.

She feels her throat, now remade, as her vessel grows slightly, the loose soul slotting into place inside her. It seems that the pieces are all there, but still, there is no way to speak besides to grunt or groan. Has she just truly forgotten? She looks at the man again from under her helmet, and shrugs.

Would that I could say one word at a time, even. Ask what any of this is about.

The man sneers at her.

“Well, since you’re here… Let me help you out. There are actually two Bells of Awakening. One’s up above, in the Undead Church.” He gestures up past the trees overhead. She cannot make out where, but curiously, she can hear the echoes of bells ringing anyway. “The other is far, far below, in the ruins at the base of Blighttown.” This gesture is just in a vague direction outward. She stands and looks, but all there is is the ringed repetition of walls far below, defense against who-knows-what.

She turns back to him.

“Ring them both, and something happens… Brilliant, right? Not much to go on, but I have a feeling that won’t stop you. So, off you go. It is why you came, isn’t it? To this accursed land of the Undead? Hah hah hah hah…”

That’s… Well, I suppose it would not be incorrect, in a sense.

She has no delusions that she is the one Chosen by whatever legend or prophecy—an ill-written one considering it seemed it could fit any Undead out there—but she finds herself at least interested in seeing what this business of Fate is about.

She steps down the stairs cautiously around the edge, looking for another view out on the land of Lordran, this one that she heard tell of for so long.

It looks… Well this is just the blighted Asylum again, is it not!?

Her grip tightens on the stones, thinking how ironic it is that this land seems as quiet and Hollowed as the place she had been residing in for so long.

…Why does this bring me so much anger? I thought I had lost that capacity.

She turns around, confused, ready to ponder it, and is stunned to see another woman, behind her.

In a cell, underneath the bonfire.

She stares and is stared back at. None exchange any words or gestures, just the gaze.

Is she… No, what is this? Is this what it means to Keep the fire?

The vestiges of some memory, some lore of the land she had used to know, poke out from the emptiness, but fail to coalesce. The term, and nothing more, is what she can recall.

She takes a step toward the Keeper, and then pauses.

Would. That. I. Could. Speak.

The frustration with herself mounts again, and she nods at the Keeper, and walks back up.

If that is the way to Blighttown, then I shall go there once I can speak to her at all. There must be a way.

Walking past the despondent fellow, she scouts the outer shell of this place of rest, and comes up with a few scraps of Humanity and a few incendiaries. A curious mix, but beyond that…

The question is a difficult one: Up? Or in? Up leads to the first of the Bells of Awakening mentioned, but with them ringing already, and the other way…oddly distasteful, she is left with only the option to go past the graveyard opposite this bonfire. There are other weapons left there that she can see from the grounds, as well as a large number of stray bones. It’s enough to make anyone wonder what goes on in these parts, but she has heard tell of some necromancy. Perhaps someone has been pilfering…

03. A chasm of death.

Flames and lightning take you allll!

She is in far too deep.

It had started with a simple exploration. The skeletons were tougher than she expected, and what would that bode for the ones with flesh still on them? So she poked around the shrine to find some other gear, and started looking for who might be leaving all those messages around (she really wanted to see if she could borrow or buy off whatever they were using), and then in a blur of bones, bludgeoning, and blood, she suddenly had realized she was two bonfires down (if that’s even a proper yardstick) in whatever catacombic construction lay beneath the…

Well, it was no church. No bell, no place to gather. Perhaps a shrine? Past tense? She would have to ask, if she was ever able to communicate again. The one man she passed at one of the large mechanisms was curious if she was a cleric, but all she could do was shake her head, and he seemed to lose interest.

Sigh.

A wordless breath escapes her, as she looks at her options.

One. Fight back to the shrine. Two. Keep going down.

Neither seem great, mostly because there’s far too many skeletons around, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’s been taken down (fully or nearly) by a swarm of them. At least their usual habits seem to be fully static, baked into their bones and what soul still clings to them, but sprint all the way back topside is quite dicey because of the ones she’d already run past.

The necromancers seem to lack Undeath themselves, which is one consolation in this darkness (especially as she had to use all of those incendiaries to take one out across a gap). Another is that she is slowly adjusting more to her body. Spare soul is few and far between with the reanimation and the thin bones (Seriously, how do those hit so hard!?), but it gives her some comfort to release some of her bre..theren..? from some of their forced Undeath?

Sistheren? Sib… Sibtheren. No.

The words elude her. Perhaps it is just ‘bretheren’. Perhaps she’s forgotten her own tongue, in more ways than one.

She sits back against the walls of the cave for another hour, thinking over that, before something seems to call to her ears.

Something rhythmic, quiet. But unmistakably metal-on-metal.

She makes a fist and holds her weapon up, in the faint firelight. Compared to the shrine, this one is all-too-feeble, and barely fills her Estus. But it’s enough to gleam by, and she knows that this sound is of someone smithing, or at least repairing.

It’s a thought that has been sticking with her more, as she thinks on her name and her history.

She’s quite sure she was a smith, at one point. Perhaps before the Curse, perhaps after. What did she make? And would she be able to pick that up again?

A smith needs fire, metal, and a place to work. The bonfire is decent enough for repairs, perhaps a small modification, but she has no tools, and she has no spare metal. The few weapons she’s picked up (a morningstar, a winged spear, and a lucerne—I suppose it makes sense I know these names) seem valuable for handling the creatures that dot the caves and hills, but they too will need some repair eventually.

Perhaps she can find who that is down there, and by then, be strong enough to risk the run back up in the dark.

Perhaps the bones will find better rest, then.

“Be gone with you. You’ll spoil my focus.”

…Well, it’s a smith of a sort, at least.

It was a laughable series of events, honestly. One of the necromancers had lurched backward seeing her emerge from the wrong direction (Fair enough, I would have too. I thought I was heading back up to the bridge!), and then a pair of skeletons missed their steps on the way down to challenge her. She looked down, and saw a slightly dangerous drop, but a passage open below near where they had fallen, and with a bit of luck she got herself down safely.

Which brings her to where this blacksmith is, and thankfully, out the other side of the wall.

She sits for a while at the bonfire, letting her Humanity sift back through her, after so much had left her frame.

Hollowing, in the physical sense, she is familiar with. Spiritually, she thinks she understands it, but for whatever reason, it never came for her either on route to nor during her stay at the northern Asylum.

I wonder what does it, then. Why Oscar seemed to fall so quickly.

The hammer strikes continue. She wonders, what was this one in life? Or was it born into bone, somehow? There are any number of oddities in the different lands, after all.

But again, I cannot even ask.

The hammer strikes pause.

”…Normally I’d say, ‘your presence disturbs me’, and push you back off into these Catacombs.”

The smith turns to look at her, just with its head.

“But you seem familiar with this work, somehow.”

She nods. Then, she gestures to her tongue and makes a cross over it, indicating she can’t speak. It seems to understand.

“Bah. A shame, then. Neither warrior nor cleric, and yet somehow fallen through my roof.”

It swivels back and brandishes some tools.

“For a fellow smith, I’d be willing to part with a few of these. But only for soul. Stuff’s hard to find in these walls.”

She makes the motion of a chuckle, and fishes out a few handfuls of soul to part with. All she’s collected that hasn’t entered her own. The other smith seems to find it plenty when she offers, and she is given a suite of tools with which to finally upkeep her own gear again.

Ahh, how I have missed this. To think this even outlasts my memory.

“Now then.”

She wipes the smile from her face as best she can. Surely it means to tell her to leave it to focus, which she will soon.

“Undead, are you?”

Oh, that’s not where I thought this was going. But she nods anyway.

“Bah. Come to the wrong place, my friend. The bells aren’t here.”

Oh. Wait, really? Then what’s the point of…

“Ahh, there’s still the bastard in his coffin, if you have any more bones to pick with the necromancers. But go no further. Find your way back above, unless you have reason to return. Plenty of smiths aboveground, unless they’ve all gone Hollow.”

It spoke with a grave seriousness, the humor of which description was not lost on her. But she nods.

“Alright. Now! Off you go! I’ve prattled enough for months.”

She tips helm and, after packing up at the bonfire, steps out into the catacombs once more.

04. The echo of the quest.

It slumps, staggers, back into the shrine. Barely still human in appearance, thanks to a rest on the way back up, but existentially exhausted and drained.

The skeletons turned out fine. Most of them. With some tuning and bolstering together with the smith down in the walls, the morningstar was crushing through what could not be avoided, and it had started working on the lucerne.

The black-clad knight, too. It seemed draped in titanite itself, in a way, but its senses were dulled in the dark just as the explorer’s were, and it went down without much of a fight.

Even the necromancer, the grand orchestrant of the entire catacombs by the sounds of it, was of no concern. A passing paladin, or the specter of one, happened to enter at the same time, and it was dispatched without more than a minute of trouble. It sort of reflexively clutched at the enchanted bones in its pocket after picking up a rite it had left, seeing everything else in the area, and from there…

The problem was the bone-wheels. Or whatever the people here call those.

It picks out the last remaining bits of spikes, bone, stone and blade from its armor. Again. Who knows how many times this makes it.

No one seemed to comment on its delay in returning—not the looter, not the crestfallen, obviously not the fire-keeper. That was some comfort in itself.

More connected to the keeper jailed beneath the fire than anyone else it had known so far. Something rather tragic to that.

It plants itself face-first into the dirt next the bonfire, feeling the warmth, and sleeps.

“Thank you kindly. Nee hee hee hee hee!”

The laughter echoes behind it as it steps back toward the burg’s bonfire (the only one, from the looks of it). It clutches a pair of orange soapstones, and soon pockets one in its belongings, properly catalogued. The other, it places in a pocket for easy access.

Finally.

Through luck and circumstance, the merchant lurking on the balconies of the burg had collected these from some hapless sorts before it, and after some gesturing and trial-and-error, was convinced to sell them over. It then enabled the purchase of some repairing powder, which both parties were happy about.

It picks the stone back out and draws a line in the air.

Elation.

The words are carved in the air, and linger for a time, before it erases them.

It does not really understand the mechanic of these stones or how their messages appear, but several of them have been helpful through the catacombs and up here, already. With a bolstered weapon and frame, the inhabitants of this burg are no trouble to push past or put down for a time, but that isn’t to say that it isn’t still slipping up.

Oh well. Not a warrior, in the first place.

It finds a place in the corner to take a rest.

“Ah, hello! You don’t look Hollow, far from it! I am Solaire of Astora, an adherent of the Lord of Sunlight. Now that I am Undead, I have come to this great land, the birthplace of Lord Gwyn, to seek my very own sun!”

Well if that isn’t the most peculiar fellow yet.

It happens upon a different sort, just past another of the large demons. With a properly kept weapon, and compared against the horrors of the catacombs, it felt almost… easy. Enough to make it wonder, was it really just a blacksmith, before? Is this what that life gives you? Or is there more at play, here?

It smiles at Solaire, of Astora. The name reminds it of Oscar.

”…Do you find that strange? Well, you should! No need to hide your reaction. I get that look all the time! Hah hah hah!”

Ah, I see.

Charmer. The words float out for a moment, before it erases them again.

“Oh, ah hah! So, I didn’t scare you? I have a proposition, if you have a moment.”

Sure. It nods.

“The way I see it, our fates appear to be intertwined. In a land brimming with Hollows, could that really be mere chance? So, what do you say? Why not help one another on this lonely journey?”

It tilts its head. Intertwined?

It nods, again.

“This pleases me greatly! Well then, take this. We are amidst strange beings, in a strange land. The flow of time itself is convoluted, with heroes centuries old phasing in and out. The very fabric wavers, and relations shift and obscure. There’s no telling how much longer your world and mine will remain in contact.”

Ah. That would explain the paladin, then, and the other messages. There’s no telling how long ago, or perhaps in the future, those were written.

Solaire passes it a different kind of soapstone, in white, and continues.

“But, use this, to summon one another as spirits, cross the gaps between the worlds, and engage in jolly co-operation! Of course, we are not the only ones engaged in this. But I am a warrior of the sun! Spot my summon signature easily by its brilliant aura. If you miss it, you must be blind! Hah hah hah!”

It lets out a voiceless chuckle, and writes: Saint? Happiness. Comfort. The words that the orange soapstone can express are fairly limited, as if passing words through someone else’s perception of the world to borrow their descriptions, but it feels that with practice, it can learn to wield them better. For example: Bell, Intertwined? Perhaps it is imprinting its own vocabulary over that of the old owner’s.

“Hm? Ah, the ringing, is it? I’m not sure! Hah hah hah. Perhaps so, though.” Solaire does not avert their eyes from the sun. “That is not my quest, but it is a fascinating one. I wish you luck.”

Comfort. It waves Solaire farewell, and steps on to the bridge.

The thought scatters before it can find its end, thanks to an incoming blast of fire, but it would have thought: What then does it mean, that so many Undead ring their own bell?

Ringing the bells, at least, seems like it is a straightforward task. It will have to see what happens after that.

“Well, you must be a new arrival. I’m Andre, of Astora. If you require smithing… Well now, that’s a well-kept weapon you have there.”

Appreciation. It gestures to the tools. Gorgeous view.

Andre cracks a grin. “The nice thing about weapons… they never betray you. Plenty of reason to rely on them in this time.”

It nods, rolling a shoulder to indicate past wounds. Danger zone?

“Ah, not here. This is the old church. It was abandoned in favour of the church that you passed through getting here, which is the worse one these days. There are paths leading from here to two forbidden planes: Sen’s Fortress, and the Darkroot Garden. They attract all sorts of lunatics, no-one as cultured as yourself. It’s fine to be Undead, but keep a level head, eh? Hah hah hah!”

Gratitude. It takes a moment to think, to put the words to the stones. Fortress, Garden, forbidden?

Andre sets down his hammer and rests his chin on his hands on it. “Sen’s Fortress is an old proving grounds built by the ancients gods. It is the only route leading to the great Anor Londo. Of course, most fools can’t even find their way into that fortified deathtrap. The Darkroot Garden I know little of, although I’ve heard rumours of a divine blacksmith who resides there. Those who get stumped in the Catacombs seek him for divine weapons.”

It falls to its knees in despair, quickly writing out Divine... Tears. Needed Divine.

“Hah hah! Contended with the Catacombs, did you? Whatever for?”

...Chance. Detour. Dashed through, too far. Amazing trap.

“And yet you made it out… A fine piece of work, then.”

Blacksmith, appreciation.

Andre’s brows rise. “What, there’s one lunatic down there, still? I thought those rumors were fake, myself. You’re a lucky one.”

It nods, and slowly rises. Detour, Divine, Bell. Appreciation.

Andre nods back, and returns to work on his items.

“‘ll be seeing you, then. Be careful out there. Don’t get yourself killed. Neither of us want to see you go Hollow.”

It waves him off and returns to the bonfire.

As it sits there, letting the Humanity course back through her after finding a true point of rest in this aimless journey, she wonders.

Is being killed what makes one Hollow, then? It had happened to her several times by now, thanks to the absolute depravity of the bottom of the catacombs and a few different poor choices. Her Humanity certainly slipped away each time, but she had never truly lost it, or the capacity for it. But why? It’s not having a goal, or Oscar would not have been worried over it. And she doesn’t consider herself particularly resilient, especially next to a born warrior or hero.

The fire climbs, courtesy of the rite she had claimed.

And is there a keeper within each of these, or just the one? Is this a good thing to do?

The question cannot be spoken, and so remains unanswered.

05. Phantoms in the garden.

“…many of the giant trees here in Lordran are still descendants of those earliest archtrees. Though I could not say how many remain. But that is where yours comes from, most certainly.”

The witch Beatrice finishes her explanation, and peers from under her hat at the wanderer sitting next to her. They had started discussing the stone golems that lay moss-covered in the garden and the magic they casted (which nearly had gotten her killed twice), and eventually the topic had gone toward gear.

”…Something bothers you.”

...Yes. She bears in her hands a suit of armor that looks one-to-one with the one Oscar wore. The possibilities are as follows: This is not his, but one of a similar cloth, with a similar fate. This is his, and he has somehow already managed to die in a completely different place, without even the chance to go Hollow. This is his, and he is out there somewhere, gone Hollow without his armor.

She places the helm on the ground, and taps it once. Saint. Savior, more like, but that one persists much longer than the rest. North. Mimicry? ...Despair? She shakes her head, and sorts through her box to access her other shield. It is rare to use it this far from a bonfire, but there is no danger left in this portion of the garden.

“I see… I cannot offer you an answer, but I can at least walk with you for a time.” She raises herself to her feet, and awaits the wanderer, shimmering in the pale bioluminescence of the plants. ”…I said I could not say how many of the trees remain. But should you seek more of them, for any reason, I have heard rumor of something below even the swamps of Blighttown. Between this land of Lordran and the Abyss beneath it, there is something lingering of old.” She begins walking up the stairs of the tower they stand in. “That is not my path, but perhaps there is some truth to it.”

Appreciated. The wanderer follows her up. ...Path? She gestures at the witch, to fill the words that still resist her wrist.

Beatrice shakes her head. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps if I find it, ours may cross again. For now, let us see what remains of this smith you seek.”

The Butterfly is almost not worth a sentence, but they both know that it would have proved near impossible if not for Beatrice’s sorceries.

It is almost not worth more, if not for the question that it leaves.

Who killed you, my man? Was it that creature?

The wanderer leans down and gently wrests the Ember from the dead smith’s grasp. Nothing remains to defend him, but it is entirely unclear what might have done this. Besides…

She looks up at Beatrice, who shakes her head. “I am…not familiar with this creature. It’s possible that it is what did this one in, but at the same time, how many years have passed in this place since he last did his work?” She hands over the lingering core of the butterfly, the coalescence of soul. “Perhaps one of the orthodox sorcerers might know.”

She nods, and carefully lifts and stores the ember. At least this, I can pass on to Andre. She then bows to express her thanks to the witch. I wonder how many other embers have been lost like this, across Lordran?

Beatrice tips her hat. “What shall I call you, then? I have the sense that thinking of each other may help us encounter each other again, after we have gone our separate ways.”

She places the tip of her soapstone down, and pauses. It still rejects newer words, it still rejects names. She thinks of what she knows, what she remembers, what she is, what she has lost. Setting the stone aside, she draws out ‘Lynne’ with the tip of a finger.

“Lynne.” The name seems foreign, coming from another, but it also lands with the impact of a hammer, engraving it as a name that now walks this land. “I shall think of this day fondly. Thank you for bothering to call on a witch such as I.”

As Beatrice’s world finally drifts again from Lynne’s, the witch strides behind her and leaves her with a shimmering hug. No other words, besides the momentary companionship.

Hey! Lynne tries to reach for her hands, to return any of it, but Beatrice is already gone.

…We’d best meet again, or… Or… I’ll… I’ll have some strong words for you.

Lynne returns to Andre, wearing the fallen knight’s armor and bearing the ember she had reclaimed from the tower. Treasure. Grief.

The hammerfall stops, in shock, as he registers the item. “My, that’s… It’s the ember of a divine blacksmith. The same I told you about?”

Lynne nods. Would that I could tell you what it was like, or bring back his tools with me. But they are cleaved to the ground, and… Ah, what’s the point in telling just myself this again? She places it on the anvil, gently. Safe zone.

Andre sighs. “Well, I suppose it’ll be happier in this old church than out there. And happier in use than not.” He begins shifting his workspace around to make room for it. “Let me think… The Divine doesn’t use your normal titanite, is the thing. What else have you?”

Lynne rummages through her belongings, and produces a large chunk of white, a large chunk of blue, a few that sparkle in the light, and one piece of green.

“Ahhh, that’d do it.” Andre picks up the green. “The twinkling is for enchanted weapons, if ever you happen on one, and the others… I believe the white is for the Divine as well, but this ember couldn’t smelt it.”

Well, if ever I happen one another ember, you’ll be the first to know. She offers her morningstar. Divine?

“Aye, if you’re decided. Just give me some time to work, and I’ll have that for you.”

The rest of the time at the Parish passed strangely, as time does in this land. A dead fire-keeper lay in the church (or her soul), which Andre suggested bringing back to the shrine (he called it Firelink). Lynne found herself ambushed in the large church by not just a mass of hollows, but a different kind of phantom, who stole away her loose Humanity. She walked through more of the Garden to see what it held, and sprinted back seeing a Hydra in a small lake down near its lowest point. She found Solaire’s sign inscribed just before the roof of the church (Why would you place the bell tower up like this, instead of a stairway or ladder to it? Was this placed with the challenge in mind?), and together, they carved apart the two gargoyles that descended to keep them at bay.

And then, one Bell was rung.

And that was about it.

06. A half-way point.

She sits down next to the fire-keeper’s cell, and begins to think. What if she doesn’t want to use it?

The other soapstone had always been meant for the fire-keeper, to form some conversation, to just… Was it some sort of shared commiseration, that they were both mute, for different reasons? She had tried to ask once, after discovering the lift from the parish, but ultimately turned back.

And now, too, there sits another newcomer to the shrine. Lautrec, of Carim, on this lower level ledge. The church seems to have some association with Carim, but why was he up in there? He seems a tad more amicable than the crestfallen, but has nothing more to say about himself than he’s just stopping here for a rest. Though he did at least mention that the stairs down lead to nothing but a locked gate. The route to the other Bell of Awakening would have to come elsewhere. Maybe one of these other keys would be the solution.

She sighs, internally.

She sits, and frets, and thinks, and waits, and stresses.

Beatrice comes to mind.

Beatrice would probably have done this already.

Blast it all. Fine.

Lynne places the second soapstone just within the bars, and hesitantly writes out a message. Lynne. That’s the easy part. ...Name? ...Prisoner?

A silence hangs in the air for a long time.

Eventually, the fire-keeper moves forward, slowly, and picks up the other soapstone. She struggles with it for a few moments, and then produces her own message. Keeper.

Lynne tilts her head, and replies. Name? Path?

The other woman just nods, and gives a wry smile.

Gods, I wish I could just ask her what it means to be a keeper of the fire. These messages are so ill-suited for it.

“You’re rather attached to that one, eh?” The knight Lautrec makes something between a jeer and an observation. “Whatever for?”

Oh, piss off. What would you know. Despite that thought, she still puts together a message. Resemblance.

“What, you a blasphemer too?”

Oh, for the love of. No. A long pause, finding the words. Asylum... Lost? Need time? A terrible summary of events, but the knight seems to get the gist.

“Ah. A strange sort, you are. Hope you find it again, or… something. Terribly hard to make it by in this land without your speech! Keh heh heh.”

Would that I could steal yours.

She blinked, and slept, and Lautrec was gone.

A hand on her shoulder had drawn her awake again.

The keeper beside her had engraved a message of surprising length on the ground inside her cell. My name is Anastacia. I am impure, and am hesitant to even use this gifted stone in lieu of the tongue that I gave away. I do not expect to use this much, but, I will at least offer my thanks.

Lynne found herself smiling despite the contents. She nods, vigorously. Understanding.

Anastacia holds up a finger for a pause, and produces another message. I have heard you were at the Undead Parish above. Tell me, is the keeper there still well? The Bell rings, but I know not how long it has been.

The keeper…? Quickly, Lynne writes: Blacksmith? There’s no sign that the fire in the old church had anything bricked over it. The only other option is…

...Blacksmith? She looks quite puzzled. That is not the role of a keeper of the fire. Was she missing? That bodes ill...

Oh. Oh dear. Suddenly, Lynne realizes what it is she had found in the church. Death. Item. Tough knight. ...Exchange? She produces the writing soul she had found in the church, that Andre had suggested she bring back with her.

Anastacia’s face falls, seeing it, but only for a moment. Ah... It is as I had feared, then. I... I shan't speak more. Wanderer, Lynne, if it would be of benefit to you, I can place this one's history within your flask, to aid you on your journey.

…I’m not sure how to feel about that.

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Anastacia continues. Naught else can be done if there is no flame for her to return to. That is no longer a keeper, but just a mass of Humanity. ...It makes an ill keepsake.

…Well. When you put it that way.

Lynne slowly produces her Estus flask, and offers it and the soul to Anastacia. The keeper nods, and does something that is difficult to describe to imbue the flask with the soul. It does not take long, but when the flask is returned, it feels ever so slightly heavier.

...I hear you plan to travel more. Should you encounter any others that have lost their fire to keep, I would ask you bring their souls back to me as well, that I might give their memory a final rest.

Terrible luck, if that’s all you can wish for. But… I suppose it’s a better quest for me than the Fate of the Undead, or whatever that was. Embers and souls, and things that people leave behind.

Understanding.

07. Descent, descent, descent.

Another ember?

Lynne looks around the place. Dark, drab, moist, grimy. That part’s about expected. But it’s also sort of a kitchen. The large butcher knife would have given it away if the pots and meat hadn’t already. But the weirdest part about it all was just that the ember was going completely un-used. Not even thrown in with the other cooking.

Did they not know what it was? And how did it end up down here, there’s no sign of a smith—

She suddenly remembered the words of the pyromancer she had just come across moments earlier: You must help me… or… she’ll have me for lunch!

She finds herself faint for a moment, overcome with the sudden thought, and steadies her lucerne against something solid. Harder to find than you’d expect.

…I should. Take this back to Andre. And spend some time out of here.

The second dive into the Depths later goes slightly better, bearing an abundance of Humanity and familiarity with the darkness—ze entirely avoids the room of mystery meat, leaving it to the dogs to hopefully clear out, or rot together with.

I see the half of why they carry flame, but I wish I could set this entire drain alight, for one glorious moment.

Another slime dissipates back into the muck—or maybe it’s the same one as the last time ze passed through this room?—for a while, preparing to reform itself from the dregs that gather down here.

For some reason, ze finds herself thinking of Firelink. That place, as well, is reforming itself from the scattered dregs of Humanity still wandering these lands. In hir world.

Is it the same in other worlds? Are those worlds copies of my own, or do they… No, the Bell is being rung incessantly. Why would there be bells outside of Lordran? Unless Lordran itself appears differently. But then maybe the world is less one of location and more of time?

Flesh cleaves and bone smashes. Blood melts into the grime. Rats, rats, and some accursed creatures ze knows not the name of.

All to avoid thinking on what ze saw earlier, and so ze descends into thinking on things that have little to do with hir.

What does it mean that time flows strangely? Both for my travels, my purpose, and that of the Undead that challenge for the Bells? Clearly, what I do has some effect on my own, but what does it mean to the gods? And what do they—or whoever has made this prophecy—even want of the Undead who is chosen, at the end of it all?

A trident appears with a peculiar head, piercing hir thoughts.

It hasn’t noticed me yet. Swiftly.

Ze discards hir previous musings, picks up a resin from hir pouch, stabs the bundle to the end of her weapon, and casts the entire thing forward.

The figure starts as it finishes mounting the stairs, but it isn’t able to react fast enough to avoid the flaming lucerne impacting its face, nor the wanderer-and-smith following after to hammer the blow home with hir shield.

It’s a bit messy, this time, but Lynne had learned the hard way to not let this sort act freely. Both from hir own time in the Parish, and from a helpful hint by one Griggs of Vinheim while bringing back the ember.

A summary of the conversation, could it be called such. (...Really it's more of an excerpt.)

“Ah! You have questions about moonlight!”

Yes. The enthusiasm had to be conveyed through gesture, but she had finally succeeded in asking a Vinheim sorcerer about the creature from the garden.

“Well, to speak on that, I would first give you some background in sorcery itself. Fear not, this will only take a short while—there is unfortunately much to cover even without making myself into some sort of hack mentor of my own, and I don’t sense any interest in the arts from yourself.”

From there, he had launched into an overview of the lineage of sorcery in Vinheim, whence he hailed from. To make that very long summary even shorter, ze had learned that both the butterfly and the ones called Channelers have ties to one of the four Lords, Seath the Scaleless. Perhaps the one in the Parish had some association with the deceased fire-keeper, or perhaps not—Griggs also knows little about their purposes, just that they are known to be dangerous.

Maybe it was even what kept other Undead away from the top of the church, but what reason would the last living dragon have to keep the Undead from a measly prophecy?

…Well, that’s one more down, either way.

As one consolation, they seem to remain dead when killed. Possibly the only thing in these sewers that does.

“Aye, siwmae. And good day to you.”

Come again?

The head tilt is enough to serve as a continuation for the individual ze finds sitting aside the main sewer exit (the door unfortunately locked, and if past coincidences are anything to go by, somehow held by a large foe).

“I’m Domhnall of Zena. I’m just, well, a peddler, of sorts. I adore trinkets and oddities, so I trade for them.”

Trinkets, huh?

Lynne fishes around in hir belongings, coming up with a few bits of gear and keepsakes. Domhnall refuses the rings—ze almost asks why, but realizes he likely can’t fit any more on him—and makes trade for a few things.

...Crystal. Gorgeous view, trap? In other words, the construction is fascinating, but it doesn’t strike her as something worth relying on.

“Hmm… Well, they’re quite good in a pinch, for a punch. You’ve a discerning eye for weapons, but as I’ve said, these are ultimately trinkets.”

Fair enough. Ze takes one. Crystal, where?

“Hm? Oh, I wouldn’t know. I got these second-hand as well!”

…Well, I suppose I’ll believe that.

The crystal rings of the rest of the conversation she had with Griggs. And while it certainly prompts the thought of who that Channeler might have been searching for down here, Lynne finds hirself both unwilling and unable to pry.

Gods take them all! I should have bought more resin, and more moss, and more… Ah, blast it. Why am I even this far in!?

A memory responds that it’s for the fire-keeper, if nothing else, but that’s a rather poor motivation down in Blighttown.

Aptly named, this one is! Blight and suffering!

She falls again, from the rickety ladders and scaffolding, and gives thanks that it is at least robust enough to not all come crashing down from the movement despite its looks. Her one saving grace was upgrading her gear before coming down here, because she could only hope that the other route she’d heard about back to the shrine was easier to ascend than this was to descend.

Hostile phantoms, accursed architecture, and a darkness that is so difficult to adjust to with the light filtering in just outside.

Perhaps I should ask that Laurentius to teach me some of his pyromancies, just to have a flame of mine own.

And then her foot slips again, and down she goes.

08. Ascent, return, ascent.

Rude. Rude. Blasted place. Blasted woman. Creature.

It trudges slowly up the stairs to Firelink from below, having finally found its way up in a different location. It’s exhausted, and tired, and ready for rest, and ready for familiarity.

Blasted dogs. Unholy dart spewers. Never going down there again in this entire Unlife.

Aside from the ready-to-collapse “town” (or was the town the part in the swamp? There didn’t seem to be anyone living there), and the poison, and the phantom butcher, and the infinite flying bugs, and the flying boulders, and the toxic darts, and the fire-breathing dogs, and the swamp even without the poison, and the infestation, and the other things that are breathing fire that are hard to categorize but also seem like bugs or spiders, Blighttown isn’t so bad!

‘Fate of the Undead’ my ass. This is just cleaning house for the gods, I swear.

And honestly! It wouldn’t have been fine with that, but the lady/spider/??? that walked out of the end of the swamp and in the infested area and from the place that looks like it’s drowning in lava blew it up on sight when it was trying to start a conversation. And there went the Humanity, and its sense of social ability in front of two other visitors at the time, and its motivation, and—

Hey! At least it wasn’t something that blasted dragon is involved with, this time!

So cheering itself up, it mounts the final steps to the grass-covered lower level of Firelink, and looks expectantly toward Anastacia. The fire-keeper within the stone-carved drains and bars had perished, but at least they could enjoy each other’s company—

It’s as if its remaining soul leaves its body, fleeing to where the Humanity had gone before.

It rushes forward to the bars, desperate for what seems there to not be real, for her just to be reclining oddly, to—

“Oh, hello, there. I am… er. Pleased to see you, safe, but I take it this shrine was not always as it is?”

Where did she go what happened how could you kill a keeper the why is perhaps understandable but the how and the possibility of it and who around here would even do this

“Are you, uh, are you alright? We didn’t get a chance to speak, much. Down below.”

Not Laurentius. The crestfallen is practically glued to his place. Not the random cleric, the Way would never stand for that. Who else was here.

“Hey!”

A hand rests on its shoulder, and the warmth in that hand allows it to take a moment and process. It grasps for its soapstone, and doesn’t even register that the words appear immediately for once.

Have you any sense of who might have done this? She was fine when I departed for the Depths.

“Ah. I can’t say for sure, but um.” Laurentius gestures to the pile. “There’s something in there that gave me pause when I arrived.”

It reaches to the outfit, and carefully searches through it. Its hands soon grasp a small black orb with a singular eye, that looks…

Its direction seems fixed. What is this?

“The cleric isn’t fond of my sort, but I was able to eke out from another one that arrived. Domhnall. Over, uhh. Hm. Not sure where that one’s at right now. But I was told that it looks to the city of the gods itself. Anor Londo. Whoever took the keeper, they’re far above now. But the gods care enough about their keepers to leave a trail for vengeance.”

…Unsure how to feel about that.

Lynne pauses for a moment, and then exchanges the orb into its pouch with the pyromancy it had picked up. My thanks. I take it you may make better use of this than I.

“Why, what old pyromancy.” Laurentius takes it and studies it briefly. “Wherever was this hiding? I don’t believe my teacher would have made himself known to you, so this must have been tucked away somewhere else.”

Teacher, huh? Lynne finds itself still considering the path of fire for familiarity, but wielding a flame in vengeance put a poor taste in the mouth of a smith.

“Well. One thing that might help you on your travels,” Laurentius continues, “or two? The large crow there looks ready to take someone somewhere, is what I and the sorcerer came to after some discussion. Otherwise, there seems to be another trial of sorts, meant for the Chosen Undead, leading to the city of the gods, should you want to take the sure route.”

What, the crow? Wouldn’t that just take me back to… It remembers Oscar, again. ...I think I will try both. I have business if that bird returns me to whence it brought me, regardless.

“Well, suit yourself. Sorry I can’t be of more help, but I’m no warrior, nor one to travel much.”

Would have said the same thing, at the start of all this! And probably still now! Ah, whatever. A direction is good enough, for now. Whoever has done this is strong enough to stand in Anor Londo themself.

It pains it a bit to think of leaving Anastacia to some unknown fate longer, but at the same time, Lynne is not a warrior. The only thing that has kept it going is promises and gear, and it needs to see one thread to its end, if indeed it has ended.

It sets the keeper’s outfit neatly in the corner of her abode before leaving.

It sits in its old cell, cradling a doll someone had left since its last visit.

It sits in its cell, next to the armor and gear of Gwyn’s knights.

It sits in its cell, hearing the second demon tread around, again, and again.

It stands up, and returns methodically to where Oscar had fallen the first time, where Oscar still is.

Fine, then.

It has put away its lucerne and shield, and bears only the Divine-infused morningstar.

I shall put you to rest.

And the hammer strikes sword.

I shall bear your name with me.

And the hammer strikes shield. And sparks fly.

Chosen I am not, but this world insists on carving away anyone else who might be.

And the hammer strikes armor. And the forging begins.

Chosen I shall never be, but I shall carry those who have fallen to a resting place, before I Hollow myself.

And the hammer strikes—

“Mm? No luck, then?”

Lynne Oscar shakes its head. Not Anastasia. Met with... An old friend.

“I see.”

It stands for a moment next to Laurentius. The thought strikes it to rest for a moment, here, but it also knows it would just find it harder to move later.

Your pyromancies...

“Oh. Interested, are you? I did have that feeling you might be.”

Teach me, sometime.

“I’ll do my best! Oh, you know what.” He digs around in his belongings and produces some scrawled notes. “Give me your hand.”

Lynne reaches out its hand. The pyromancer presses the notes into it, and under them, a meager flame.

This… It is warm.

Laurentius pushes Lynne toward the lift back to the Parish. “Off you go, then! Now you’ll have to come back to bolster that thing.”

…

Appreciation.

“Don’t just appreciate it!”

The words I’ll be waiting linger unsaid, as do its response of I’ll return.

Nothing in this land is certain enough for either to commit further to promises.

“Off to the fortress, are you?”

Andre’s voice is a comfort to hear, as is his hammer.

Loath I am to challenge the city of the gods, but the shrine's keeper was stolen. It presents the orb, and Andre inspects the item for a moment.

“Hmph. An ill turn of events, that. Anything I can do for your gear, in that case?”

It very hesitantly produces the words that it has been sitting on. ...Should it come to pass that I must contend with the Lords myself, know you of any other ways to forge a weapon?

Andre’s hammer pauses, and he sits back with his arms cross, brows furrowed.

“That’s… A dangerous line of questioning, but I understand a perhaps necessary one. But to my knowledge, no.”

I see…

“That said, perhaps an embodied weapon might serve you, if nothing else,” he continues. “Common forging with an ember has its uses, and then there are the enchanted ones, as I’ve mentioned before. But with the unique souls of those you’ve come across, I hear that they can be fused with a weapon strong enough to support them.”

Lynne frowns within the helmet. That… Hm. I’m not sure how I feel about turning them into weapons, but it would at least be better than carrying them around. In that sense, it’s like how Ana—

“I’m sorry to say, I don’t have the forge or the skills for that. But if you’re visiting Anor Londo itself, then… I’ve heard that they have smiths of their own. It’s anyone’s guess if any of them are still around, but they’d be familiar with shaping the soul.”

Appreciation.

“Oi, where—Be careful in that death house, you hear!”

Finally, something to keep my mind busy.

09. Anor Londo, the city of the old gods.

“Well, you are a rare visitor. Welcome to the lost city of Anor Londo, chosen Und… What?” The voice that greets it is calm and practiced, but gives way to surprise.

The flamelight dances over a brass figure.

”…You are already a follower. That is a surprise.”

...What?

The brass helm tilts slightly. “That ring you bear. Did you just come across it by chance, then?” Her voice drops slightly. “If it was spoils of murder, I’d ask you to step away from my fire.”

What in all the lands have I gotten myself wrapped up in now? It quickly writes out a reply and displays the ring it thinks she speaks of. By ring, mean you the pale one? I came across it in the catacombs near Firelink. I couldn't say if it fell off one of the reanimated skeletons, or where I might have found it. I lost a lot escaping that place after entering.

The keeper (or so she seems to be) eyes Lynne for a short moment before seeming to accept that answer. “Very well. You, at the very least, bear no indictment. What come you here for, then? While I could be mistaken, you don’t appear to carry the air of the Chosen Undead, and yet… here you stand, so you must be.”

The wanderer carefully deposits itself at the fire, and begins to finally feel a sense of body return to her as the Humanity comforts itself. I seek... I know not what or who I seek, but they are in this city. She produces the orb. The keeper of the shrine was slain, and this was left behind.

Seeing that, the keeper here steps off the wall with a start. ”…An evil, for sure. Indeed, you are one of us, if only for a time.”

...What do you recognize me as?

The keeper sits down across the fire from her. “A Blade of the Darkmoon. Those who enact vengeance upon sin. Faithless though you may be, with that ring you have, I would ask you seek out first the Darkmoon himself, underneath the old keep of Lord Gwyn across from here. The Undead’s fate can come after, for I imagine you have a firm purpose.”

Lynne nods. I would not call myself Chosen, but I have made a promise to see the quest through as much as I am able. Once this vengeance is done, I will seek out the Lordvessel.

“I see. Well, it is not my place to comment further; I am gatekeeper and guide, but not counsel beyond our shared occupation. We may speak again once you return.”

She returns to her position on the wall, and soon enough, Lynne also sets out into the city proper.

Stupid, godforsaken— Wait. She stops on her way down a spiral staircase. The gods are here. Hm. She resumes walking. Well, the rafters are still stupid, gods or no.

Whoever they had posted up as guards, together with more gargoyles in the area, really bodes well for the rest of her time in this city. And, she also finds herself sort of sympathetic to at least this defense, if this is normal for the gods that live here. She’d also rather hate it if someone random decided to show up!

Then again, there’s the prophecy and all, so I shouldn’t be too sympathetic. They’re really determined to make this an ordeal, start to finish.

At the bottom of the lowest position of the mechanism, there is a singular bonfire, and a statue shimmering of one even Lynne knows. Gwyn. The greatest of the Lords.

Past this, then.

With no voice to call out a name, even if she knew it, she walks forward, and pushes through the illusion of the statue.

It dissipates, leading down yet another staircase to a small fogway (or so she has taken to calling the coalescence of fog that sometimes halts passage.)

She steps on the carpet there, and a voice rings out.

“Halt!”

So she stops.

“This is the tomb of the Great Lord Gwyn. Tarnished, it shall not be, by the feet of men. If thou art a true disciple of the Dark Sun, cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me.”

Gwyndolin. A vague memory of the name surfaces, but this is not one Lynne has ever had reason to know, let alone believe in. Still, since I can’t speak…

She kneels, and places the dark orb before her. I come on the direction of the city's fire-keeper, and following the trail of one who killed the keeper the Firelink shrine.

The voice beyond the fog is silent, for a time.

Eventually, it continues: “I know not what to do with thee.”

Lynne rolls her eyes inside the helmet. At least you’re honest.

“Faith, thou hast little. While it is mine wont to offer the protection of the Darkmoon to those who would serve as its blade, even once, that would do little for one who is only here by circumstance.” It pauses, again. “To foster devotion, hast thou any plan in the future?”

Lynne shakes her head. Even should it anger you, the only thing I trust in is the tools of the smithy.

“Very well.”

There is the sound of clothes arranging, and metal.

“I shalt make the one exception.”

A frail hand places itself on the frame, and an ornate mask peers out at Lynne from a dissipating fog. Before she can react, a force on the carpet pulls her toward the mask and its bearer, and the other hand clasps her helm firmly despite its appearance.

“But first, what is it that keeps thee from speech?”

A bundle of something writhing keeps her pinned to her place, as the Dark Sun stands over her and removes her helmet, contemplatively. Her helm is tossed away, and the two hands grasp her face. “It seems thou hast still thine tongue.” Her tongue, which she indeed still has, is pulled out and prodded. Her mouth held open for inspection, and briefly poked around in with both at once, too stunned and confused to even form a coherent thought. “Odd. I had thought it somehow Velka’s doing, or one who stole her tools, but I sense neither her marking nor even something else lingering.” The hands briefly feel her throat up and down. “And no physical blockage, either…”

Lynne’s arm bearing the pale ring is let go by what seems to be snakes, though at the same time the armor itself is ripped off and her flesh is grabbed again by the god in front of her. “This is indeed one of mine adherents. I see.” She is released, fully, and pushed back beyond the threshold.

??????

The Dark Sun reclines on his (so said the keeper) figure and snakes, somehow, cheek-on-fist. “Thou art the Chosen Undead of this age, and yet it seems thou hast arrived here entirely uncaring for that. What to do, indeed.”

Lynne scrambles to write out I am not Chosen, though I plan to see through as much as I can. In honor of—

“No, no, no.” His hand waves her sentences away entirely. “Thou dost not understand, it seems. In the Undead manner of speaking, thou art the Chosen of thine own world. Chosen thou hast become, by reaching this city alone. The Lordvessel lies unclaimed for an age. It is not mine to spur on that fate, yet the one thou seekest I see to be hiding in mine father’s keep, in his own world. Thus, the fate continues on.”

But, that… What if I were to fail? Or to give up?

“Then another would come, anon. Either in this, or another world. The gods, few as we are here, can wait forever, if not for my father’s time nearing its end. And though soon that may be in our years as divine and Undead, it could easily last another age.”

But then… What, so there’s no Choosing at all? I just happened to end up here, and it’s mine, now?

She finds herself overwhelmed by the sudden revelations, and simply sits there, stunned.

“Ah, this is why I speak not to your kind so much,” Gwyndolin mumbles. “And yet, it comforts me knowing that there are those who follow me even unawares.”

He hands something to one of his snakes, which reaches out to Lynne. Three arrows, each glistening with moonlight. “Kill thine target, claim thine token. Shouldst thou claim the Lordvessel from mine sister after, I shalt grant thee another audience.”

The fog reforms itself, and then there is just Lynne, and the vague complaint from behind it that now I’ll have to move the carpet back, lovely.

She stands, shakily, bows, and makes her way upward again. Stiffly.

I. Suppose. I’ll start by finding this murderer.

“Well, look at you. I thought you were wiser, but I thought wrong!”

You.

It gauges the distance to its foes. Three of them. Lautrec, a sorcerer of sorts, and one with a spear.

“Tis a terrible pity. Like a moth flittering towards a flame. You fellows? No? Don’t you agree?”

Shut your mouth. And I’ll shut it for you, forever.

It steps forward, mounting a charge through and despite the weight of its armor. Estimating what they are capable of. The spear is a weapon it’s seen so many times before, and through its own use, it knows those reaches like a dance. The sorcerer, it is harder to guess at, but most are slow and easy to react to. Lautrec himself is the problem, with strange weaponry and armor both.

A soul arrow darts from the sorcerer, as they take up their stances to meet the charge.

One of Gwyndolin’s arrow’s snaps in the small quiver. Lynne finds itself smiling despite itself, as the three all pause in shock, the arrow twisting awry and sending into the nearest pillar instead.

The spearman is the first to step up. He braces for the charge.

It makes a slight shift to one side in one step, and lurches the other in the step after.

The spear deviates to match the feint.

The lucerne stabs forward, catching his shoulder and more. Lynne plants its feet after the charge and, from the momentum lifting the spearman up on the tip of its weapon, swings him round with the hook over at the sorcerer.

In the crash, it wonders how many arrows still remain.

A soul arrow thuds into its armor, and the sorcerer yells something.

All spent, then.

Lautrec steps in, strange curves dancing in the darkness. One, two, twenty. Blade and shield and armor trade blows in a flurry, the two of them too close for sorcery if the sorcerer is even still up.

Thirty-two, and Lynne drops the lucerne to grab his wrist.

Thirty-three, and it has his other pinned under its shield arm.

It steps in and rams his helm with its own, then kicks off.

A soul arrow streaks by ineffectively.

It takes the morningstar off its belt, and swings.

The hammer strikes gauntlet, and sparks fly.

The hammer strikes magic, and sparks fly.

The hammer strikes chest, and sparks fly.

Finally, a voice breaks through the din.

”…Curses…How could I…”

Lautrec falls.

The others scatter.

Lynne takes a throwing knife from its stash, and, removing his helm, claims its token.

A soul writhes from his possessions, as the words split apart again, as if it has lost its ties to his.

This… Anastacia. I see.

Lynne knows not why Lautrec still had the soul on him, but finds itself with some small consolation, at the end of it all.

She places it with the other.

“Well done, Chosen Undead.”

A calm voice speaks from the side of Gwynevere’s chamber, and Lynne looks for a moment before spying a pale girl around her own height. Chains trail from her anklets across the tile behind her as she approaches, and a gold mask covers her face.

Though this is a different appearance entirely, Lynne knows almost instinctively that this is Gwyndolin. While still on on knee to Gwynevere in front, she produces the token claimed from Lautrec and holds it out toward the girl.

Gwyndolin takes it calmly, and pockets it. “Thou meanest to continue with the quest, then?”

Yes. There is more she could say, but she chooses not to.

“Very well. Then, I ask you. Wouldst thou continue the Age of Fire, or end it?”

The words fall chilling, and Lynne can’t find the words to respond for a moment. What would it mean, to...end it?

The girl pickpockets the meager flame from Lynne’s belongings. “Not the end of flame such as this. Only the age of Cinders. While mine father is dear to me, I have heard the whispers that this world begs for a time without him. And with a heretical Chosen Undead who has not wished for that role, I take that as a sign that perhaps it all must draw to a close.”

But to end the Age, that would mean...

“Ending also mine father, yes.” Gwyndolin returns the flame, and rests against Lynne’s armor as the two of them stand there. “But he has been gone ever-so-long, already. The memory of Gwyn is more of worth to me than the one thou wouldst find at the end of thine road.”

…

“The Lords must be unmade regardless,” she continues, “and their souls reclaimed.” “But shouldst thou think fondly on thy short time here, I ask thee consider.”

She vanishes, leaving only a whisper behind, and a darkmoon ring. “There are those of us who cannot walk under the sunlight, no matter how softly it hangs above us.”

“A revelation, and a success?” The Darkmoon keeper greets her return to the city’s beacon. “Very auspicious. I hope for the best.”

I must return to Firelink to place the Lordvessel, and yet...

“And yet no fire.” She stares, unflinching. “Does the bonfire itself still stand?”

It...should. There are none who would disturb one, that I know of.

“Then perhaps she can be placed where she once was.”

Lynne stands with a start.

What!?

“I make no promises, but remember this: we keepers are our fires. And with the lore that shrine holds, that I have heard tell of, I believe that there is a real chance she will relight.”

I. Thank you.

“What did I do? This is all your own work. Now, go. I’ve felt her fire stand cold for far too long.”

10. Izalith, the melting city.

“Th, thank you…”

The keeper breathes again—calling her living would be questionable, like so many in these lands and beyond.

It's. Good to see you again.

Anastacia nods, and fumbles for her own soapstone, still left in her garments. Indeed! I shall not speak on what transpired, but it is good that I can continue my duty.

Ah, fair enough. From their previous discussions and some talk around the shrine in the meantime, Lynne had some guess as to why Anastacia would be holding her tongue about the city of the gods, and she also had no particular reason to push for more talk about that golden knight, nor the violent city.

Off again, soon, she writes in front of the bars. The keeper furrows her brow in confusion, and she continues: It seems the mission of the Undead falls to me regardless. And I wish to clear my head for a while, in the other direction.

The woman’s eyes light up anew, with recognition. Oh! You mean to link the Fire!

A memory of the Dark Sun passes through Lynne’s mind, but she writes nothing.

I thank you, sincerely. Finally, the curse of the Undead will be lifted, and I can die human.

…Oh.

I am powerless, but I will do all that I can.

All she can find in response is a firm and practiced gesture, a thumb pointed up.

What to do? she asks herself, descending to the swamp again, past bugs and poison and the mound of eggs. Why make this my decision?

Really, what have I gotten myself into?! she screams, internally, running from a massive creature of molten fire. This is no job for any Undead!!

She sits over an open tunnel, just before the sea of flowing fire resumes, sinking back into her usual stillness, her usual nothingness.

The only way she’s ever known to relax.

A time passes, before quiet, hesitant footfalls echo from behind.

She turns to look, and as the figure starts, she recognizes the same garb as was lain atop the stone a ways above, guarded by that monstrosity.

Normally I’d bemoan my lack of words, but this is no place to yell in. She makes a weak gesture of greeting, and begins scratching out her words.

The figure approaches, slowly. Not cautiously, but frightened, as if each step could be their last. Not something you’d expect in these lands, but I’ve not spent much time here.

Greetings. My name is Lynne Oscar, a smith of sorts.

The figure stares at those words for a moment. “A smith. Fascinating. I suppose that explains why you are closer to the flame than most Undead.”

The flame? Another pyromancer… She doesn’t seem to be Laurentius’ teacher, though.

“I am.” The sentence catches in her throat. “Quelana. Of Izalith, the city just past here.” Another pause. “I would ask…” Another pause. “The creatures above.” Another pause. “Was it your doing, on your way?” Another pause, and then almost too rushed, a second question. “Or did you arrive from some other path?”

Lynne can’t make up her mind which way to swing her head. My doing, yes. I have been... Chosen, you could say, so I seek the Lords. While Quelana reads, she adds on: I also needed time separate from the surface, to think some things over.

“I. See. Yes, that is… That is how it has been for me, as well.” The robes shift as she sits down as well, still stiffly and hesitant.

A silence sits as their third companion down here.

“Given you already seek her out,” she finally says again, “asking this favor is meaningless. But given you bear a flame of your own, and the strength and will to go where I cannot… I would ask it of you anyway.”

I will do what I can. Her, mean you the Witch of Izalith?

The robe dips, in a nod. “My mother.”

Oh. Well that’s an unfortunate coincidence.

“Her power came from the soul that she found near the First Flame. She focused this power to light a flame of her own, but she failed to control it. The Flame of Chaos engulfed Mother and my sisters, and molded them into deformed creatures. Only I escaped, and now I am here. But my mother and sisters have been in anguish since.”

Hm. A heavy tale behind the current Lord, or what sits as one, then.

“I beseech you. Free Mother and my sisters from the Flame of Chaos.”

The orange soapstone floats for a second in thought. As I said, I will do what I can. The soul I mean to reclaim—is there more that would need be done to free them?

The robe quivers, in a shake of the head. “If you can make away with the soul, then either they will be free, or at least free of torment and tormenting.”

It strikes Lynne that this will be the second witch she meets in these lands, and she finds herself wondering what Beatrice has been up to, in her own world.

Then consider it done. Or me Hollowed, but death to the Flame is one that I imagine would not be so bad, as far as they go.

“Thank. Thank you.” She stands up, still stiff with her movements. “My pyromancies would be of no help further in, I fear. It is time the weaker flame finds its way to snuff out the stronger.”

Is it now? Again, the Dark Sun comes to mind. Do these lands truly wish to be put out after so long burning?

“Finally… After a thousand years…”

…Perhaps they ought to be, then.

Solaire sits beyond the cave of the demon with more legs than steps in the ruins.

Solaire sits there, far from the bonfire.

Solaire sits there, downcast.

Solaire.

“Why? …Why?”

He repeats the question as if it is a part of his breathing.

The sight is almost too much to bear, and Lynne recognizes it. The signs of the madness, of Hollowing. Not taken hold, but setting in.

She sits beside him a while. The radiance that he bears is dimmed in the endless red and yellow of the lava and ruins.

“After all this searching, I still… cannot find it…”

His sun.

His very own sun.

Faith is something that is entirely foreign to Lynne, and yet seems to make the entirety of Solaire’s being.

Again, the Dark Sun comes to mind.

Lynne removes the pale ring she has worn for so long now, and offers it to Solaire. Perhaps, if not a real sun, then one made of illusions would be enough for him to retain his self to keep searching? Perhaps…

He does not notice it.

She lays it on the ground in front of him, swapping it for one the demon left behind.

I believe you will find it, Solaire. It can't be far now. The baseless claim hurts as much as seeing him like this.

I hope we meet again.

Lynne grasps the Lord Soul, fresh from the maggot of Chaos in its bed. Or perhaps, that was the heart of Chaos.

Whatever the case, the ruins fall quiet, and Lynne looks down at the pit of roots and crumbling stone, that it had been knocked into time after time. Armor rent and seared, but without a cohesive mind behind it.

It’s dark. Ever so dark. And soon shall this place be.

It peers into the bonfire sparking with the remnants of the Soul, and finds the call of the Lordvessel.

…I hope, we meet again.

11. The Tomb of the Giants, and those that live in Death.

“What? What do I have against clerics?” Patches eyes Lynne in the darkness. “‘s like asking what I’ve got against Blighttown. Rotten, the lot of them.” His eyes narrow. “Why, you getting sympathetic to ‘em?”

No, I've not talked to any since before my time in the Asylum.

“Oh, well why the sudden interest, then?”

Well, I heard another one is down here. They keep going down here, and for what?

“Oh, hell if I know.”

Well, that makes two of us.

“Bit of a waste for the treasure on them to stay buried when they eventually lose their minds though, eh?”

Well, that makes one of us.

I wish treasure was enough for more people to stay sane. She thinks on Oscar, on Solaire. She thinks on the two Undead merchants, clinging to their sanity.

“Awh, a shame. Trinkets not your thing?”

She shakes her head. Not trinkets, not faith. Just what I can make with my own hands.

“A strange fellow you are.” He stands up, and turns to leave. “Tell you what. Saw a few of those charlatans fall in a pit just a few paces over. You so curious, you can go ask ‘er yourself.”

A strange fellow you are, indeed.

“Oh… You’re no Hollow, are you?”

Why do they bother asking—well, I suppose a Hollow wouldn’t respond. It’s a mercy nobody’s jumped to their weapons with how I can’t talk. Just a passing smith, with a question for a lost cleric.

”…?”

What brings you all down here, in the dark? As far as I know, this place is where Death resides, in Nito. Is he one that your Way worships?

“N-no. We seek the Rites lost down here, as part of our pilgrimage.” She seems rather frightened, still, but there’s any number of reasons for that. Including two others that have come around the corner.

“Vince, Nico! Sir knight, please, take care. Those two have gone Hollow.”

First time I’ve been called ‘sir’, I think. Lynne lifts her weapon, and within moments, dispatches the other two. …Not sure how to feel that I’ve gotten good at fighting my own kind, either.

”…” And the one remaining cleric sits there, motionless.

Rites of what?

“Pardon?”

Lynne sighs, and produces the Rite of Kindling that the large necromancer from so long ago had dropped. These things, or something else?

“O-oh! Yes, that’s one of the Rites, indeed. I’d given up hope on it, with not even a lone bonfire down here to be seen…”

No, you walked past it. Some bastard put it in a really annoying corner. Perhaps that bastard was Patches, perhaps not. Pointless to ask at this juncture. Here. I've learned it well enough. Back you go, before you this becomes your tomb as well.

“I—”

Go on.

The cleric’s face scrunches, mildly. “With…no escort?”

What? There's nothing left that should challenge you today, between your entourage and my path down. I've a Lord to slay, so I'll trouble you to go on your own.

“I— Wha—”

“Any luck then there, chap?” Patches appears from around another corner shortly after Lynne leaves the pit.

If I had any luck at all, it’s long since been burnt. I got my answer, as good as I ever will, I think.

“Well, good for you. I think. Say. I’ve no mind to go any further myself, but if you find yourself wanting trinkets after all, I’ll be staying for a spell up at the shrine above.”

We'll see. I'm not too keen on anything else in these caverns, to be honest.

“No? That’s a shame. Still, the offer’s open!” And he vanishes into the dark.

The tomb is not quite empty, but the only breaths that remain are Lynne’s own and the faint echoes of the others leaving.

Down below, a paladin falls. The same that helped her through in her earliest days in this land.

Down below, archtrees are rooted. The same that make up one of her shields. The same that she sat discussing with Beatrice, before she could use her words well.

It is in moments like these that it is finally possible to remember the world below Lordran, below the sea of clouds and mist.

What does it matter, to Link the Fire, to walk away from it?

That sort of responsibility is so far beyond the weight for one Undead to bear.

Would that make me a god? How could it?

And at the same time, there is the sense that perhaps the difference is not all that great. One of the Lords already lies slain, to persistence yes, but also in testament to how much soul Lynne has amassed in her journeys.

This all seems very ill-thought-out.

12. New Londo, and those that stand against it.

It is finally in the drowned-and-drained city of old New Londo that Lynne and Beatrice find each other again.

“And you are…?”

Lynne stands stunned for a moment, before remembering that she was wearing different armor last time. Lynne. It's been... a long time.

“Oh! As you say.” She looks out over the city. “It truly is an odd sight, seeing this place in a different time. Most don’t change all that much.”

What do you mean?

“Well… There’s a lot of water.” She pokes at the remaining pools with her staff. “It’s by no means a happy place, hence why I challenge them myself, but what has happened between my time and yours?”

Oh. It struck her that, despite the differences encountered so far, she had never really considered just how far the flow of time could stray from her own world. It was... flooded, I was told. To seal away the Darkwraiths. Considering the fogway before them to the Abyss below, it seemed odd that all the water was retained up here… especially when the seal was physical. They awaited the Chosen Undead to drain the waters again.

“Chosen? That’s you, then?”

Lynne cringes slightly in her helmet. Would that I were not... But I was told that it falls to me as the first to reach Anor Londo in my age.

“From the old to the new… Well, congratulations.” The witch pats her on the shoulderplate a couple times. “It doesn’t sound like an easy job for your age.”

Lynne bites back the question, Does it render your own quest pointless to know that the Lords still stand in my time? Or are the worlds so disparate that it matters not?

Beatrice’s staff taps the stones. “Shall we see what these Lords of Men have at their disposal, then?”

Surely it can't be worse than the Lord of Death.

“Aha! Well-traveled, you are.”

“Well, that wasn’t quite so frightful. I imagined they’d be taller.”

If they were any taller, I'd not be able to strike them anywhere!

In the Abyss, the conversation arises again. It is shorter than they’d like, as they both know the worlds drift apart again soon.

“What is the end that the Chosen Undead heads to, slaying the Lords?”

Lynne hesitates, for a moment. The First Flame... To relieve Lord Gwyn and Link the Fire.

“Huh.” She looks unimpressed. “That doesn’t really become you, from what I know.”

Well, the alternative is to simply leave the Flame as is after killing him.

“You speak so matter-of-factly about killing Lord Gwyn, it almost seems laughable.” But she does not laugh. The power of a witch is one thing, but this smith standing with her has reached a level where even the Kings of New Londo were no real match. Dessicated and wasted away, perhaps, but even still.

“Which one do you think you’ll pick?”

I don't know. The keeper at Firelink—

Beatrice grabs her helm lightly and points it up toward her, breaking the line of words. “You haven’t realized it yet, I suppose.”

“Every now and then, there’s a person who is good at just getting to somewhere. You’ve stumbled from your home and, somehow, amassed the strength to kill the gods yourself.” The gaze that bores into Lynne is not cold, but sad somehow in its warmth. “You will make a choice, because you will get there. And should this be the last time we meet, I wish to know what it is you want.”

Lynne holds her gaze, and wishes she could speak the answer directly. I cannot Link the Fire.

She does not elaborate, and she is not asked to.

The witch pulls her up, as she starts to shimmer even more loosely. “I thank you for telling me.” She gives her fellow wanderer another gentle hug. “I doubt I shall live to see your time.”

I really wish you hadn’t said that outright. Lynne returns the hug, light as she can through her armor.

The last words spoken in this Abyss are, “Wherever death claims me, it will not be here.”

Lynne does not search.

Lynne Oscar Beatrice simply bears the memory with her.

13. The Duke’s Archives, the crystal stronghold.

The library opens up in massive shelves, lined top to bottom in every story with books.

Magic and arrows, crystal and steel, fly and clash back and forth across the shelves, across the floors.

Lynne hooks hir lucerne to one pillar, sending hirself out over the edge for one infinite moment as another bolt of magic tears past, and back in before ze can worry too much about what is scrambling about below hir. The Channeler fades out as ze approaches, teleporting to somewhere else in this labyrinthine library, and Lynne steps into one of the very few crevices between the shelves that doesn’t also open up into a pit or shaft.

Items, items, items. Spoils of research and murder and kidnapping. The floor is covered in shards of golems and the crystal weapons (both of the ones already here and the one Lynne had bought from Domhnall), some useless, some priceless, all a sickening and almost-sterile blue.

The amount of Humanity swirling in this place, as well, feels like a sickness. Where Hollowing is emptiness and starvation, this is drunkenness and voracity at its peak.

The staircase winds upward in that haze of soul and magic, guarded by someone lost to the crystals long ago (or perhaps more recently, who can say).

At its peak sits a dragon.

The dragon looks somehow small.

The tips of the lucerne are raised in challenge.

The response is—

It wakes, she sits up, ze feels even in this cell the oppression of so many.

Prison of body, curse upon the soul, isolation for the mind.

A repetition of the beginning, and so easily dealt with now, in the haze.

Steal the key, impart the curse to a token, and embrace the isolation.

Let the drone ring to an empty hall.

The library suddenly opens to a field.

The field suddenly drops to a cavern, radiant with that same blue, glittering green also with more of those butterflies of moonlight nesting all around.

For one singular moment, in the open air and infinite depth, the madness lifts, and in its place is wonder for what sort of place this could be, if not filled with mindless violence and depravity.

And with that wonder comes a renewed resolve to manifest that future somehow.

Ze falls.

Ze climbs.

She slips.

She climbs.

At the end of the cavern’s invisible pathways shines one brilliant crystal. As it approaches the room that houses that relic, it can hear something tearing through the air and crystal growth behind.

Without turning, it knows that the ruler of this place is incoming.

So, it sprints.

Normally, one could never outrun a dragon. But Seath the Scaleless is late to arrive, and swerves to avoid crushing the crystal himself, and that hesitation is his undoing.

A morningstar shatters the star of immortality with one determined swing, and the crack reverberates throughout the entire cavern, the entire dragon.

Lynne grips that weapon, and turns to face Seath. Magic and divine as he is, this is arguably one of the worst weapons that could ever be brought to bear against him… And yet.

And yet.

It raises the hammer in remembrance of the divine smith. Even if this assumption is wrong, this dragon has spread his touch and curse far too far across Lordran.

And so.

Out of disrespect to everything Seath stands for,

The hammer strikes flesh.

14. The Lord of Cinder, and what lies beyond.

“Chosen Undead, I appreciate the gesture, but thou really need not keep bringing me—What is this one?”

The Dark Sun pokes herself (in regalia as always) out through the fog early this time, letting the chastisement fade into the rest of the tomb.

For each of the Lords so far, Lynne had brought one memento of sorts to the tomb. The rings of protection from lava of Izalith and the Abyss under New Londo, and the massive, miasmic sword that Nito wielded in battle.

Mementos are just a natural thing to her, and Gwyndolin is the only one she can think to gift these to.

The Dark Sun takes the physical moonlight off her hands, and holds it up to the brass light of Anor Londo. ”…Well, this is certainly closer to my domain than the others.” With perhaps a slight air of wistfulness, it is brought next to the others just inside the tomb proper. “Art thou sure there is no need of these?” she asks, referring to the upcoming encounter with Gwyn.

Lynne affirms with a gesture, as usual. None of the powers the Lords wielded are ones that I rely on. And... It would feel disrespectful, to turn them on him.

The Dark Sun sighs. “Very well. It would not be my place to argue against such claim. Art thou away to the Kiln immediate, then?”

Lynne could swear that there is another question in that gaze, even masked, but she cannot make it out. It is not the question of the Fire, but something else, something that she has not and likely will not encounter. Yes. The longer I put it off, the harder it will be to do, and... Beatrice comes to mind, again. I wonder if she would have hit it off with her, at all. I've already made the decision.

The expected question is asked, silently.

The fire is not for me.

The answer is accepted, silently.

It would not be proper for the Dark Sun to openly approve of the Sun going Dark, after all.

The Kiln is the driest of the areas.

Where the Archives made it hard to be without the swell of Humanity and magic, the Kiln rejects that with Fire, ash, and steel.

It is a dead area, traversed by one only slightly less dead than it.

The Black Knights stand guard over the structure of the Kiln itself, warping and twisting in winds that no longer blow.

It strikes Lynne that this is the most otherworldly place within Lordran that she has found, that this is the legacy that Gwyn will leave after the Fire.

It strikes Lynne again, the weight of this decision. Heavier than the armor, heavier than the weight of an age of separation.

She thinks of Anastacia, of Solaire, of the wishes of the devout.

She thinks of Oscar, of Beatrice, of the quests of those long dead.

Gwyn’s Soul burns bright even as his body collapses.

Lynne reaches for it, and lifts it up, even as it sears.

It could be imbibed now, it could be crushed.

Instead, she places it on the ground, and gets out her tools.

To Astora are left a longsword and crested shield that gleam like the sun, Gwyn’s greatest legend encased .

To the witches are left a flame that burns with the fires of Chaos, and a shield of moonlight and darkness.

To the gods are left the hammer Grant, and Gwyndolin’s covenant ring. All of the embodied weapons collected, borne to the end of the world as witness.

To the Undead is left a mass of spare Humanity.

At the end of it all, she stands up, and looks out into the fading world.

Perhaps, I will still come to regret this choice.

As the light burns itself out, she lingers on the threshold of the Kiln, watching Dark descend.

But even so.

She bends down to write one last message. And this one, she leaves for anyone else who might see.

I did it!

E1. An epilogue, of sorts.

Hello again.

We were recently set upon by several lines of thought, in the wake of a few conversations about and depictions of Dark Souls series avatars.

All of us have always had issues with the concept of the “OC”, but at the same time, issues with the concept of the “insert-avatar”. This will be investigated as a tangent within the up-and-coming essay on existence and thought, but suffice to say that the vibe of “making an OC” has almost never worked for us and there is very little reason or way for any of us to ever end up in a game for several limitations.

So, then, where does that leave us?

Lynne Oscar Beatrice, Interloper of the Darkmoon and wandering smith, is an attempt instead to work the muscles of engaging with the world on a different level than simply placing someone external within it. It comes from translation, the want-need to obtain the entire context before making a later pass with greater understanding, but it also comes with a long time meandering in thought about what it means to make a character within these games, and what it means to engage with these games at all.

This is also touched on in the essay, but we take a lot of issue with wiki-brain and lore-first ways of thinking about series. Cults of information, cults of personality, cults of thought, Vaati will just make a video about it so why bother asking further questions. When was the last time that you, dear reader, sat down to ask what a game or piece of media might be saying, outside the context of what is already written on a wiki? (Knowing the ones we talk to most often, and which read these, it’s very likely to be closer than the average, but let me have the rhetorism.) It’s so easy to fall into thinking about things in ways they’ve already been said, but…

This journey and its record both are an attempt to view the world not as a Souls Gamer, but as a wanderer through Lordran and a game designer (both of which we are). Why was this enemy placed here? What does it say, textually, and what does it leave out? What can the player take from this, and what would the played take from it that is different? How does the world understand its mechanical representations, what does it mean to fall to your death and respawn at the bonfire? What do the characters say, and what do you as a character say? What is there underneath the explicit surface, implied but unstated?

And above all, what does it mean, to go Hollow?

To emphasize a point, one of the earliest decisions (made even before deciding on Lynne’s name) was that the pronouns that describe her change as her state and status do. What does it mean to be Human, to be not Human but also not Hollow? What does it mean when you have a glut of Humanity on you? How does that relate to Hollowing, and to exploring, and to the intersections of the worlds?

It’s possible that Lynne, in some form, will return for the other games in the series, and then maybe Elden Ring. It’s quite the undertaking, though I have some ideas.

Even if she doesn’t, I do plan to take a similar spirit and ethos into the other games, and think about them in ways that are slightly off the beaten path.

But, for now, I need to take a long break before attempting one of these again. Most certainly overreached with the scope of this (don’t run a word count on this, please, it’s going to be longer than the essay we’re working on), and I think that might be evident around the end of Anor Londo. Kind of just like the game’s development! (I mean, it’s mostly that I don’t want to turn this into something that feels like an obligation, and a lot is happening this month on top of some poor sleep.)

E2. An elaboration, of sorts.

I will make both an aside and further explanation on Gwyndolin and Anor Londo, because I think the Darkmoon plotline is one of the most interesting ones in this journey, and I also just want to write these thoughts down.

Gwyndolin, I am sure it is no surprise to hear, is a rather “controversial” figure within the wider online fandom. More specifically, how the fans treat her and her identity.

Moonlight Robe

Robe of the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, protector of the forsaken city of Anor Londo.

The power of the moon was strong in Gwyndolin, and thus he was raised as a daughter. His magic garb is silk-thin, and hardly provides any physical defense.

This line is one that I’ve seen a lot of readings on, but one thing that stands out to me is that it’s taken at face value that moonlight is equivalent to femininity within the pantheon of Lordran, and that is the entire reasoning.

Overall, while I agree that she/her are the true terms to refer to Gwyndolin with, I disagree with that default of framing. There are certainly clear echoes of the Yin and Yang sort of dichotomy with the Sun and Moon here on a surface-level thought through it, but there is a lot more going on here than the wikis would admit because the land of Lordran is more complicated than that.

I will first point to Seath, the Scaleless. The power of moonlight is a core part of him, and through his research, power, and the fragment of a Lord Soul he bears (also implied to be from Gwyn’s as the one the Four Kings have is, from Gwyn’s own soul’s description), he is able to wield powers grandfathering sorcery, a curse and madness that is inherited by those that follow in his footsteps, and the ability to create life. This connection is furthered in DS3 with Gwyndolin wielding the Lifehunt Scythe as a miracle, Aldrich dreaming of Priscilla, and existing reasons to believe Priscilla is either a direct child of Seath or otherwise related to his work.

Next, to the dichotomy. There is Sun and Moon within faith, but Moon also has access to sorcery through faith (and there are ways to access miracle through knowledge, though rare). But to treat that as everything leaves out both Dark and Fire, as well as Death and Undeath. Sorcery and pyromancy additionally are said to share a source in faith before intelligence, and Dark can affect both of them, as well as miracles (not just showing up in the name of the Dark Sun and the Dark Moon, but implied to be related to Velka’s miracles).

Additionally, what of Gwynevere? She is a princess of the sun, and at least in her capacity as an illusion and the “ruler” of Anor Londo in her father’s absence, a successor. There is a clear example of the nurturing and sustaining aspects of the feminine archetype in Gwynevere as both a reflection of her father’s sunlight and the miracles she shares to her followers. So what is it about the moonlight that caused Gwyn to raise Gwyndolin as a daughter?

Interestingly, it might be more to do with Gwynevere herself. The only other named child of Gwyn in the series is Filianore, and Gwynevere is recognized enough to take Gwyn’s place (through the illusions, at least) as the ruler of the city of the gods. She is the sunlight to Gwyndolin’s moonlight. It seems to me that the two of them and their abilities are paired, rather than being a relation to Gwyn’s Cinder (more in play together with the Dark, as seen by the Undead Curse and the Darksign). Additionally, there is a sentiment I see around that daughterhood was forced upon Gwyndolin, but Gwyndolin herself is close to her sister Gwynevere enough to play as her, to Priscilla enough for Aldrich to dream of her through Gwyndolin, and to Velka in their endeavors to punish the guilty (Velka overseeing the sins, and the Darkmoon reprising for them). And then Velka, as another mirror of Gwyndolin in casting with the “wrong” tool, crossing boundaries, is another interesting relationship to look at, especially with her own relationship to the Painted World and Priscilla.

Also, like, nobody seems to bat an eye at Gwyndolin’s snakes much? What’s up with those. How is this compulsory femininity. Girls when they…when they what. What are they they-ing? They’re also another aspect she shares with Priscilla, I think, though the apparent or real lack of a cohesive lower body is unique in the series, at least by my recollection. The only other snakes like that in the game are in Darkroot, but I haven’t been able to find a further connection to anything there, and beyond this game…? Nothing at all? Who was her mother?

Anyway, gender. There’s actually a lot happening with gender within Anor Londo. Ornstein and Smough, two forms of masculine archetypes (the noble warrior and the cruel executioner) are illusions, with the only remaining one being the giant smith off to the side (steady, silent, forgotten caretaker and handyman). On both sides of the city are feminine archetypes, in the Fire Keeper (beacon for the wanderers and a point of rest) and the illusion of Gwynevere (warmth and reward), with the monstrous and despised (Priscilla) locked away much as Gwyndolin is, and also as the Brass Set describes the form of the Fire Keeper hidden under the brass that shares the color of the city (which is itself mirrored by Gwyndolin being the true face of sorts behind the illusion of her sister). Gwyn, the Great Man fallacy himself and a heroic male archetype, is symbolicly entombed together with the only one of his family who explicitly sided with the dragons as a final archetype (the traitorous son) in the same room where Gwyndolin resides. And on either side of the entrance is a path from and to constructed life (the Iron Golem as the soul reforged, and the Duke’s Archives as the soul distorted).

Basically, what I’m saying is that Gwyndolin is a non-binary trans woman and an Empty Spaces girlsnakegodthing (this is why her counterpart in moonlight in Elden Ring is a plural dollgirl who is really into death and knifeplay and hangs out with wolves) who isn’t out to the world at large but chills with her girl friends while they all struggle with identity and self-perception issues in a land that the gods have long abandoned, landlocked by the knowledge of how the world perceives artificial changes to life and anything either strange or related to their designated enemy of the dragons and draconic (especially since her family kills and locks those away) and still choosing to bear the responsibility of taking care of the other girls around her.

And that also makes Aldrich a chaser? I think?

???

Interstice - Lordran

01. Awakening.

02. Lordran.

03. A chasm of death.

04. The echo of the quest.

05. Phantoms in the garden.

06. A half-way point.

07. Descent, descent, descent.

08. Ascent, return, ascent.

09. Anor Londo, the city of the old gods.

10. Izalith, the melting city.

11. The Tomb of the Giants, and those that live in Death.

12. New Londo, and those that stand against it.

13. The Duke’s Archives, the crystal stronghold.

14. The Lord of Cinder, and what lies beyond.

E1. An epilogue, of sorts.

E2. An elaboration, of sorts.

Constellations

Table of Contents