A Rare Respite

[Eileen the Crow]

After a full day and a half of travel with his new companions, the Chosen Undead had to admit, things had improved for him significantly. Gilnor had rather swiftly brought the Chosen up to speed, after explaining several basic things about the Omniverse. Oh yes, the Chosen Undead knew what the Omniverse was now! He also knew that this particular ‘verse’ was called the Frozen Fields, and was one of eight different ‘verses’ not counting the Nexus, which was where he had started. He knew that these fine little men were in fact, fine dwarves, he knew a bit more about the trolls, and most importantly, he knew the difference between Primes, and Secondaries...and what a difference. To think he was one of the few individuals, well few compared to how many secondaries there were, to be able to tap into the full, complete useage of Omnillium, to be able to summon, create, extract and more! It gave him quite an important role within the workings of the Omniverse. It was impressive, and intimidating. The Chosen did greatly hope that the sacrifice he had made at the Kiln of the First Flame had still gone through, that the First Flame still burned and kept the sun of his world lit...but ultimately he did not know. As of yet, there was no known way to escape the Omniverse, and if anyone from his world had had the power to defy Omni then well...the Chosen had killed them. So he was stuck here, and he was just going to have to make the most of it!

Right now a good start was assisting and helping the dwarves of the Frozen Fields, which according to Gilnor, all paid allegiance to King Bruenor Battlehammer, who ruled from the Mithril Hall in Dwarfholm. However, King Battlehammer could not afford to meet with just anyone who came by to meet him. The Chosen Undead, known simply as “The Chosen” to Gilnor and his other traveling companions, would need to undertake a task to gain access to the Mithril Hall and meet the king. Other than that though, Gilnor wouldn’t tell him anymore. He said it wasn’t his place to tell the Chosen what he needed to do. No, that was the place of the various mayors of the dwarven settlements, and a few military officers, who could assign this task as they pleased. It was also to ensure that the individuals who accepted the rewards would know what the quest taker looked like. Since those officials could then get a description of the Chosen sent to Dwarfholm for when he arrived with the proper materials, if he ever arrived with the proper materials. Before that though, Gilnor wanted to get the Chosen a drink, and hear something of his story! To that end, they were marching through the tunnels, stone pressing down above them. They had passed through a gate guarded by no less than six armed and armored dwarves, but Gilnor and his pals had easily gotten the Chosen through with little more than a cursory examination. It turned out that arriving after having rescued several dwarves gave one a bit of credit for this kind of thing.

Still, what the Chosen was most worried about, was how they’d react to learning he was an Undead. He had not quite had the heart to tell them, part of him was wondering if he should even mention it. As for keeping it hidden, he could do that. Last night, while the dwarves slept, with one on watch, he had put some of the knowledge Gilnor had provided to good use. Using the Omnillium within him, the Chosen Undead had altered his form, shifting his withered, corpse like body back to his human state. It worked surprisingly well, much like restoring one's humanity back in Lordran, he had skin again, and it could actually feel, just like before. He was still...well, undead, he still did not need to breathe or worry of cold, it was just that now he looked human, rather than like a musty, wizened old corpse. Should he tell them, that was the question, he supposed he should try approaching it in a more...subtle, roundabout way. Gilnor had said he wanted to learn something of his tale, and according to him, Primes always had the best stories due to being Primes. So perhaps if he explained what the Undead curse was, and what it did to someone….but he did not even know how they responded to undead in their world, if their original worlds even HAD them. So, he supposed he would just have to try and feel it out, and gods it had been so long since he’d actually said anything, his voice sounded strange even to him, and he’d only said a handful of words since ‘shifting’ his vocal chords into a functioning state.

Once they got into this ‘tavern’ as Gilnor called it, the Chosen would have to do a lot more speaking it seemed, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle that. Of course he likely could refuse, the dwarf would likely understand given he had been mute before now. That might be nice actually, just share a few ‘pints’ whatever that meant, with the dwarves, get this mission from the settlement leader, and then head out on to do some good for the dwarves of the Frozen Fields. First though, it was time to socialize with more people than he had ever seen in one place that weren't trying to murder him. As Gilnor led him to a low, stone building called ‘The Boiled Mushroom’ according to the sign, the Chosen Undead took a deep breath, and ducked inside. For some reason, the thought of facing over a dozen people who weren’t hollowed corpses out to murder him filled him with an odd sense of dread. Ah well, just had to get through this...shouldn't be that hard, right?

[Eileen the Crow]

The tavern was dimly lit...and a bit smoky, two heavy stone fireplaces casting a flickering light over the long, low ceilinged room. There was a bar off to one side that came roughly up to just below the Chosen’s waist, but was perfectly placed for a dwarf. The tables were also a good couple of feet shorter than the Chosen’s preference, as well as the chairs, sitting here would be uncomfortable, although he didn’t quite have to stoop. However, the roof was literally brushing right against his steely helmet, scraping slightly with every step he took inside. Several of the dwarves looked up when he entered with Gilnor, but most stayed in their own conversations, dice games, and mugs, at least, they did until the barkeep rang out a call, a big, stout dwarf with a gray streaked yellow beard. “Gilnor! Is that yeh, we all thought yeh were giant bait by now!” Roared out the bartender, which did get some more looks, as the name went about. While not everyone knew everyone, in smaller communities if someone went missing people quickly knew, and Gilnor and his comrades had apparently been missing just long enough. However, Gilnor was still quick to reply.

“Bah, it’ll take more than giants or trolls to do in ol’ Gilnor Hoarfrost! Still, it helps when yeh have a bit of unexpected help.” He says with a gesture to the Chosen, who just quickly ducked his head in a nod. “Now, c’mon yeh drunk sod. Get out that human sized chair I know yeh keep around and a pint for the Chosen here!” A few more dwarves were looking attentive now, an unexpected return, combined with the company of what must be a fully armored human, possibly a knight of some sort, could often mean a tale, possibly an entertaining one as well. Meanwhile, the barkeep gestured to one of the servers, and slowly a heavy wooden chair was dragged out, that actually looked built for human standards. At Gilnor’s gesturing, the Chosen sat down within it..and slowly brought his hands up to his helmet, pulling on it slowly. It lifted slowly but surely, coming off his altered, re-humanized face. For the first time in what was perhaps months, the Chosen’s face was revealed, he was not sure he had ever even exposed it in Lordran itself, except when changing armors. His face was, a strong, Andoran face. He had a strong jaw, that spread across his face, rising up with high cheekbones. His eyes were a deep brown, like Earth after a fresh rain, with strong, black hair crowning his head, messy and tousled from so long in his helmet. He also had a tall strong nose, like the end of a hatchet sticking out of his face, perhaps a touch too strong for the rest of his features.

It wasn’t an overly handsome face, but not ugly either, perhaps a few steps above your average look. Still the dwarves weren’t really concerned with his looks, and soon he had a mug of ale shoved into his hands, while Gilnor strode up onto a table. “Now, me friend here, don’t remember his name, and only recently learned ta speak! I know it’s a strange ting, but he’s knew to the Omniverse, didn’t know up from down! Supposedly he’s got some great tales ta tell, but first, I figure that if he’s never spoken, he’s never told a tale, and I’m sure all of ya are frothin’ at the mouth, to know what happened ta ol’ Gilnor an’ his crew. Sad ta say tho, that three lives were lost afore we made our valiant escape, an’ I can only hope they found their way ta Moradin’s halls.” As Gilnor spoke, the Chosen slowly tasted the mug of liquid he had been given, while noticing that that meant the group had originally been six, two dead during capture and then one more when the Chosen had rescued them. He sipped at his drink, and almost choked, such flavor! He hadn’t truly tasted, well...anything since long before his trip to Lordran, food was not provided in the Undead Asylum, why feed corpses after all? He had tasted nothing but Estus, green herbs, and purple moss for so long, having something as strong of taste as famous dwarven ale was just...absolutely astounding!

It got him a few amused looks from the dwarves, but he recovered and soon took another sip...and then another. Absolutely remarkable, at least his taste buds weren’t dead! Gilnor meanwhile continued his tale, speaking of he and his crew daring the frozen, blizzards to look for veins of ores, gems and other things of great value to the dwarves,when they were beset upon by trolls. They put up a valiant fight, but in the end two of them were slain and the others beaten and captured, dragged off through the snowy slopes. The trolls it seemed, had planned to take them to the Dark Tunnels, a network of caves in the Northern area of the mountains that had only recently gained that name, and a rather worrisome reputation, although no one knew exactly what was going on there. Either way, Gilnor and his remaining crew did not have to find out! “We were trussed up, an’ by now we’d be over halfway to the Dark Tunnels, if Chosen there didn’t show up. I don’ know how he found tha camp, but I saw the results. He waited until nightfall, and suddenly trolls started droppin’. I was fortunate enough to be positioned in just the right spot, and saw one of them go down, a short spear sticking out of him, blade driven deep into his body. For a moment, I thought a rival band of trolls were attackin’ but that just didn’t add up when the trolls went whooping and hollering off into the canyons, an’ yet there were no sounds of combat after that. Three trolls stayed ta guard us, and for minutes there was no sound but their own foul speak, and the cold, bitin’ winds. Then, suddenly there was a clang from off in the darkness! Our guards went rushin’ off ta check, and we could hear nothin’ but a few clangs and then...silence. Out o’ the darkness, strode our first glimpse of this fine knight, his blade stained with the black ichor the trolls call blood. He freed us straight away and sent us off to recover our gear, while he prepared to face down the trolls rushing back out of the canyons.” The Chosen stopped listening now, draining the last of his mug as Gilnor finished the part of the tale the Chosen had actually been there for.

However, a few moments after he’d finished, Gilnor turned to the Chosen. “Now, surely, a man like him, who can just walk straight into a group of trolls without even a sign o’ fear, when he don’ know up from down about the Omniverse, must have a tale to tell. So, who wants ta hear it? C’mon up Chosen, tell us where ya been, where ya come from, an’ where yer goin’!” Oh dear.

[Eileen the Crow]

The armored figure sipped his ale again, his helmet set down right next to his chair as he contemplated how to start this...and well, he might as well just tell it like it is. A bit of background on his world, and watching to see just what there thoughts were on some of the things he had to say. He did not exactly want to reveal that he was an undead, if such would go over poorly in such a crowd..and so he began to speak. “I come from a world that is….not exactly safe. Gilnor touched on it, but not in great detail. There are multiple nations in my world, and I hailed from one called, Astora. A proud nation of devotion to the gods, to the Lords, and strong knighthood and combat.” He remembered that much at least. “Our world was...is...full of monstrosities, great demons and twisted abominations, and mad, feral tribes of beasts that would pull us all down and break us at the slightest opportunity. Threats were numerous and varied….but one of the worst threats came...from within, with the curse of the Undead...and the Dark Sign.” He stopped to take a drink...and listen as dwarves traded disgruntled mutters, not at him...but at ‘cursed necromancers.’ It seemed they didn’t quite understand what he meant. “This Dark Sign...did not seem to be manufactured by anyone in particular. Rather, it just...appeared on people’s bodies...anyone who was so marked, was destined to repeat life. When someone marked with the Dark Sign dies...they come back, reappearing at their home, or at the last Bonfire they visited. This process continues indefinitely...until eventually, the unfortunate undead loses their mind, and goes hollow. A hollow has no sanity, no thought, they just became desperate to devour the souls of anyone who comes near them. As such, those marked by the Dark Sign, from the poorest baker, to the noblest of knights, were reviled the moment the mark appeared on them. It was treated like a plague...and it might as well have been.”

Another pause for another drink, and he heard a dwarf mutter some curse. They did not seem angry at the afflicted...but more at the thought of what was being done to people. “Those afflicted were herded off, where depended on just where you were when you were found out. Members of the church who were afflicted were sent on ‘holy missions’ to redeem themselves...or die and go hollow where none could see.” He paused for a moment, looking down at his right hand. “I...was one of those afflicted, and was herded north, to a place called the Undead Asylum.” He looked around nervously...but the dwarves were still looking, none were attacking, no one was running out of the tavern, no one was drawing forth weapons to slay the monster. It was...not a bad sign at least, and so he continued. “I do not know how much time I spent, locked away in a cell, my armor still with me because...no one wanted armor touched by a cursed undead. I felt like I would surely go hollow, for purpose is the only thing proven to keep an undead’s sanity for any length of time...but then, purpose was granted to me.” He took another swig of ale. “A man, a knight of Astora, perhaps a fellow knight, the curse ate away at some of my memories, dropped a key into my cell from the roof, giving me a chance to leave and seek...I’m not even sure. After maneuvering my way through the halls of hollows, and avoiding the great, terrible demon that served as the warden of this place..I found Oscar near death.”

He found his mug empty as he remembered, remembered the man who had given him purpose, who had given him hope! “He gave me, an Estus flask, a key...and a purpose. He spoke of a legend from Astora, perhaps I’d known it before, but had forgotten it in undeath. He told me that the undead were cursed...but chosen, that in the land of the gods there was something that only an undead could do, something that an undead must do...and sent me on my way. I can only hope he got out of that place when he revived...but I could not waste time with the warden prowling the asylum.” He set his mug aside, and focused on the tale. “I managed to slay the demon, and made my way out. I was able to find and arrive in Lordran, home of the Old Lords...the old gods.” In the grip of a raven, but that he did not mention. “It was as full of monsters and terrible creatures as everywhere else, but perhaps even moreso than others, for here, in the great magma filled chambers beneath Lordran, was the Bed of Chaos, the source of all demons, and so much more.” He sighed, as he looked up. “I was informed by another undead who had made their way here that my task was hopeless. That I was to ring two bells, that I might enter Anor Londo, city of Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight himself, but that I would perish many times with never a chance at success.” That poor man...he had gone hollow...in the end. “I went forward anyways, and met friend and foe...I found my way to the top of the first belltower, and rang it...and wound my way to the depths of a poison filled swamp, and there found and rang the second.”

He was moving quicker now, not giving details...for details were painful. Siegmeyer, Solaire, Tarkus, people who had helped him, people who he hadn’t been able to save. “I met Gwyn’s daughter, Gwynevere, one of the few Lords still inhabiting this ancient city.” He had killed any others...with the exception of Gwyndolin. “She told me, that I needed to fetch the lord souls, the soul of Nito, first of the dead, the soul of the twisted Witch of Izalith, trapped in the Bed of Chaos. Seath the Scaleless up in his castle, and the fragment Gwyn gave to the Four Kings, corrupted by the Abyss.” The Abyss...something he did not want to think about. “I tracked them all down, all had gone mad.” Nito hadn’t, the Chosen had even managed to find his way to him in a non-hostile environment while hiding in an open coffin...but he had slain the lord anyways. “I brought their souls and placed them in the Lord Vessel, and it opened the way...to the Kiln, the Kiln of the First flame. This flame, was the source of everything, if it went out, sun and moon would vanish, darkness would sweep over the land and corrupt and destroy everything humanity had. With the power of the lord souls infusing me with strength to rival Gwyn, I could give myself to the fire, use myself as fuel to keep our world going...and so I went in.” Gwyn had been there, reduced to a hollow lord of Cinders, gone mad, and at but a fragment of his former strength. “That...right as the fire began to consume me for the continuation of my world...that is when Omni plucked me forth, and tossed me into this Omniverse.”

He sighed as he finished, “And that...is my tale. A summary of it at least.” The tavern was quiet, as dwarves stared at him. Gilnor finally broke the silence, moving up to him.

“Ye left out quite a bit of detail there Chosen...but hey, it wasn’ bad for a first time! Now c’mon, let’s go get ya yer task.” The Chosen just nodded, picking up his helmet. He had a feeling Gilnor was just getting him moving, it might not have been a secret that the things the Chosen glossed over were anything but pleasant. Ah well, it was done with...and speaking had not been half so hard as he’d thought...not compared to the memories.

“Yes...yes let’s do that Gilnor. Your people are interesting, and worthy of help. I will enjoy doing what I can.” He said, following him outside. Soon he would be back to what he was good at, hopefully. That was a thought to cheer any soul!