Noel type: Adaptive Scout
World: Dark Souls
In the Age of Ancients the world was unformed, shrouded by fog. A land of gray crags, Archtrees and Everlasting Dragons.
In the Ancient Age, the world was still undistinguished, covered in fog, and there were only gray rocks, great trees, and everlasting ancient dragons.
But then there was Fire and with fire came disparity. Heat and cold, life and death, and of course, light and dark.
But at some point the First Fire appeared, and with fire came difference. Heat and cold, life and death, light and dark.
Then from the dark, They came, and found the Souls of Lords within the flame.
And then, some small animals born from the darkness were attracted by fire and they discovered the Souls of the Kings.
Nito, the First of the Dead, The Witch of Izalith and her Daughters of Chaos, Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight, and his faithful knights. And the Furtive Pygmy, so easily forgotten. With the strength of Lords, they challenged the Dragons.
Gwyn's mighty bolts peeled apart their stone scales. The Witches weaved great firestorms. Nito unleashed a miasma of death and disease. And Seath the Scaleless betrayed his own, and the Dragons were no more. Thus began the Age of Fire.
Gwyn's lightning pierced the rock scales. The witch's flame became storms. A miasma of death was released by Nito. And because of the betrayal of the scaleless white dragon Seath, the ancient dragons were finally defeated. It was the beginning of the Age of Fire.
But soon the flames will fade and only Dark will remain. Even now there are only embers, and man sees not light, but only endless nights. And amongst the living are seen, carriers of the accursed Darksign.
But eventually the fire will fade and only darkness will remain. Now the fire is about to fade and doesn't reach the human world, and the night continues. And a Dark Ring has begun to appear among humans...
Yes, indeed. The Darksign brands the Undead. And in this land, the Undead are corralled and led to the north, where they are locked away, to await the end of the world... This is your fate.
Yes, indeed. The Dark Ring is the mark of a cursed Immortal. And in this land, all Immortals are captured and sent north. Sent into prison until the end of the world. And the same will happen to you.
Something was up that was clear as day to Noel, that he was in not here he should be was also clear but he still had no idea why he was here. No tentacles were present on his behind but still he felt as if parts of his limbs were missing. Arms check, legs check, head still decoration, and yet all that blocks his way out of this prison cell is a single almost rotten door, and yet he still fails.
He has no idea for how long he has been here sitting idle by as time passes, neither day nor night seem to pass, it was eternal sunshine for all, and it was driving him crazy, no option to measure time something that used to come naturally for him, he innately believes for some reason.
Everything he can see from his bares ifs filled and stuffed with zombie looking asses, hardly a single functioning brain cell between them all, and he had to wonder if he wouldn't really be safer outside.
Why was his mission scouting and what was that supposed to mean. "Come on this isn't some System cultivation novel or fic, let me out", he blares as he tries to rip at the rods, only for a System panel to appear before him.
"Should have tried that sooner.", he sobs to himself the pain of failure and falling violently on his back rattling what little sanity someone who starts talking with himself after staying awake for extended periods does.
The panel said level six and that was all the insight he got from it, besides the eleven points in every stat. He was damned and domed, by whatever monster forsake him here.
It took ages from his perception until, something shock the prison, loud shout of pain fill the distance, and running and rattling the shacking of metal was getting clearer. It was coming from overheads.
"Hello anybody sane over there", the rattling held inn for but a second after it had already overshoot him. He didn't know what spurred him to this leap of faith , to putting trust and promise into others, but the time here must have already whittled him down, the hunger that nagged at him, if his own flesh wasn't regrowing from time to time, he would have to off him.
With that came the painful realization that he had been eating himself to combat the pricing hunger pangs of his stomach, what was the red around his lips if not his own blood.
"Somebody else here?", it came back a lady dressed fully in armor, her voice pained and failing.
"Yes there is still little old me here!", the desperation bleed into his cracking dry voice, what had he been drinking, he never saw anybody delivering food or drinks or patrolling, they were just locked away, imprisoned and the key thrown away.
He wished to scream his despair away but that might scare away his possible helper, no she was approaching gods be thanked.
"What do you know, somebody not quite hollow here, maybe not all that sane but still something in the head!", oh how those simple words pleased the cannibal. "But I am sorry I already gave the keys away, maybe she will come and open the doors for you?"
Neither meeting face to face, she was one floor above and still bothered shouting down to inform him.
Those words were worse than swords impaling him, and yet a ray of hope for the despairing. He couldn't be hurt or relieved more, his sanity must be partially gone. "Thank you!", was all he could say as the knightess ran off, possible getting back into whatever fight she fled.
Reflecting back on his cell without pleasantries, no windows besides the bars of the door, showing him just the corridor, and behind it the possible inner yard, who knew how big this hellhole was. His cell stone left and right, a little corner he shit and peed into, and a tiny pile of hay for the bare minimums of comfort when exhaustion came and he fell asleep, not like it ever gets dark here.
Hammering and punching the door did nothing besides hurting him, but he had hope somebody might now be free with keys to his doors, with pity and pleading they might free him, oh what would he do to be out of this cell.
He started beating on it kicking against, at first for minutes, possibly for hours or not even one maybe? His knuckles were bloody his knees scraped, blood splattered even to the single dirty loin cloth he had to keep a bit off a modicum decorum.
The prison once more rumbled, followed by a scream of agony, it was unmistakable the voice of the knightess, oh well she didn't have the keys anymore, could have informed the other one about me.
It came to him, wormed itself into his thoughts, that he was forsaken here for time eternal, his last ray of hope possibly nought but a bloodstain, he stopped beating onto the door it was made out of sterner stuff than him, but one day he either it or he would break, he came to fear that it was him who would collapse in that battle first.
Braking down at the door sobbing, tears that robbed him of his final energies, all he could do was lick his wounds, heal in time and try again another day, or hope it would all be finally over. How little his tears were, how dry his body was. When would he reach his breaking point and snap or was it past it.
He had little recollection off his time here, yet satins of his presence could be seen everywhere, from the journals of the walls written in shit and blood depending on which corner you viewed. It was unmistakable his doing, but the memories where lacking, had he started drinking his urine out of thirst, if only he knew.
And reflecting on it wasn't helping, but make him feel that he would stay here forever.
Self-defeating he rested, his head between his knees, the little salt in his tears and blood from his scrapes would be all the meal he would get today. His stomach rumbled, as if to remind his of better times, only for his addled mind to fail at grasping at those too.
The inward spiral of despair was just getting started as his own brain and mind started hacking into what little self-worth he had left, the conclusion the cloth wasn't plenty enough to serve as a noose and keep his modesty so one or the other had to go.
He decided for the noose to go, naked thrown into a mass grave, wasn't quite there yet.
Snapping him out of more self-pity, were steps, nowhere near in intensity and strength as those of the knightess but definitely some from his actual floor, oh tears of happiness as his over imaginative mind, thought of whatever terrible world lay behind these walls, and shutting itself off as nothing it came up with was better than the cell it came to know.
He once more started banging on the door and shouting as if his live depended on it, the speed of the approaching party never wavering.
"Oh thank goodness somebody came; the knightess said you have the keys!", tears welled up and streamed down his face no matter what a waste of water it was, he was saved, his voice falling over itself when it wasn't breaking he barely stammered it out.
His opposite wasn't answering or saying anything, she was silent as a log. "Would you please open the door?", he couldn't tell if whoever was on the other side even heard him or his own voice was just an imagination, were the steps just imaginations too.
Wiping snoot and tears from his face he saw who on the other side was, a mouth-watering appearance of culinary beauty for somebody who hasn't eaten in ages past or maybe ever.
A women that much was clear by the lumps on her chest, he shouldn't stare, he skin red if bronze wasn't a more fitting description, she wore one helmet, and besides it just bundles of loin clothes, one over her chest the other over her pelvis.
Her appearance was rotten to the core beef jerky was a most fitting description of her, dry sprung, dead, and maybe already rotting, it needed a special kind of person to see her as beautiful. One arrow embedded in between her helmets opening, one in her shoulder, the other in her chest, none seemed to face or hinder the women.
She needed a few moments, then a nod, she fiddled on her loin cloth for the keys, and opened the door, Noel would have worshipped the ground she walked upon if she asked for it, but she didn't.
"Thank you, oh thank you!", was all he could get out even with the overwhelming emotions he wished to express and failed to.
The door open the path to freedom open, finally he could get out of her but not one word from his saviour.
She didn't care to acknowledge any of it, and started to continue to wander, sword in hand helmet on her head, arrows still impaling, bodies definitely undead, mind in questionable places and even then she saved him, he stood in her depth.
Slowly walking over to her next fight bare foot upon the cold stone floor, numb to just about all around her, he followed ready to be called upon, pretending not too have broken down just hours, minutes ago? Oh well time was all over the place here, wherever here was.
His presence not noteworthy to her or anyone else really, or so he thought until the first thing rushed them from around a corner, hitting her with all it had in it feeble frame, almost throwing her to the ground, continuously striking at her with a broken sword. She dodged and blocked what she could but the gashes upon her continued to mark her body.
He tried to tackle the aggressor, but it accomplished little besides drawing the ire of the attacker, not even getting him of her. Yet the undead turned to him, in its limited mental capacity that what struck him was the newest biggest threat forget that which moved, it must have moved faster than anticipated and even struck at him, it forgot all about the women just a few feet away he was just trying to slice into ribbons.
Getting ready to attack an undead with a frame so meagre it could have been mistaken for a starved corpse, which it very well could be, taking a traditional bare knuckles stance for boxing, one arm further away for weaving one close for stronger strikes, he didn't wish upon witnessing its power to lose both limbs in a single strike.
Yet as the undead repositioned and thought of how to attack, it was continuously struck from behind by the women, until all might left both bodies. Taking a single breather the women was good to go , neither blood nor grime nor open wounds bothering her, and all Noel could do upon witnessing two streams of white flow into both of them, was call them souls, not knowing why their suddenly was counter for it. 10 souls was it a lot or nothing their existed no comparison.
The women already well on her way, forced Noel to make haste with his thought process and hurry it up, without ever saying a word. He didn't know how to address her or if even to ever bother her, he would follow and learn and escape this place, and whatever came after was for later.
The only real difference between the long dirty corridors, and its inhabitants was the view of the surreal grass covered inner yard shifting with each corner.
Two fights later and he too knew how to use a broken blade, the same one he took from the first he assisted in killing, their souls taken whatever they were worth. Both attacked at the same time, came from inside a room, explaining why she hesitated so long to free him, after all this one also locked, but it was just a ruse.
How more sentient and less instinctual creatures behave and what light they shed on his behaviour was no something he liked to think about.
The woman's behaviour gave nothing price, no teasing, no mockery, no tips, or reminders of odd behaviour. So all he could do was follow the undead lady, and hope she had a way out of here.
The options that the zombies they encountered and the women in front of him, were in some way closely related or tied together was also an option, but considering their feral behaviour he hoped she wasn't quite that far gone yet, and if that some parts still dictate her behaviour.
And she did seem to have one, even if it was in its entirety to run into enemies and wander around until they reached a sword stuck into a smouldering pile of bones and bone ash, in the midst of an inner yard with actual grass, talk about unkempt.
Raising her hand over it a bonfire was made, she sat down to rest and he rested his tired body opposite her and the warmth of the fire did feel oh so pleasant, even as it threatened to singe him.
Staring into the dancing tongues of fire escaping the bones of what used to be immortal undead, well they were still undead it was why they could be used as indefinite sources of fuel for those bonfires. Existing in that state must be agony if one had kept a working mind, which was highly unlikely, no brain matter no thought, but maybe those bones were still bleeding, trying too push out what darkness their souls still had in order to rebuild their bodies and sometime past the end of time, the process of regenerating might be finished, what their bodies would look like then nobody could tell and nobody sane would be around to observe and document.
A bonfire and Noel once more did not want to admit the obvious, those all had to be just funny coincidences, even if the women sat down at the fire in an all so familiar position.
Don't let the possible despair set in was all he told himself, because if he was panicking already here it would get so much worse down the line. Deflecting and not reflecting on the situation were the obvious choices when faced with the soul crushing coming agony.
The gates were open practically inviting them in, he didn't want to enter, and even if, he had to be fast and keep to the left.
"Ladies first!", her head turned to him, nodded and carried on regardless, even as he practically hugged the gates, she opened them, while he using them to prop up his trembling legs.
Nothing happened, even as both entered unknown to the one in the front they were being watched, even as under their very feet a much larger threat patrolled around.