Ornstein in Equestria

by TheLordSiffer

Rating: teen
Tags: Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Human, Adventure, Crossover
Length: 6406

What happens when you insert an element from one world into another? What happens when said element comes from a world shaped by bloodshed, and is placed in one ruled by harmony? Worse yet, what if it's not just one element?

Ser Ornstein, Captain of the Four Knights, Proud Dragonslayer in the service of Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight. Or so it was, once. No more, however. Endless cycle after endless cycle of Chosen Undead have led Ornstein to death after death. Now the cycle is broken, and everything is reborn as it were, however. . . why is the cycle over? And what happens now?

Equestria, a peaceful land of harmony and coexistence, where friendship is a study endorsed by the crown and dragons are defeated with a stern talking-to. But how long can the citizens of Equestria and its governers keep the peace when the fabric of another universe starts to seep into their world?

Published 2014-04-02 20:00:04 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-19 19:36:04 UTC

Ashes

Each step of my armored boots on the hard-packed earth was confidence, crushing undergrowth beneath me. Each sway of my long, dragonslayer spear—grasped in my right gauntlet—was competence, deftly cutting low-hanging obstructions from my path, movements sinuous as a snake. As I walked, the plates of my golden armor, shaped to cover every inch of my upper body, moved together in a ceaseless, deadly dance. Though I walked with grace, I walked with caution; and though I walked with silence, all could hear me and fear. The sound of the metal coverings draped over my legs in layers, swishing through the air with a lethal intent. The rumblings of my armor as each step forced it to settle, and resettle. Doubtful be it that this forest had ever seen as dangerous a predator as I. And a predator I was, as my lion helmet and crimson plume denoted me.

I had been walking in this dark forest for hours, always in one direction. No creature had accosted me, for they heard my majesty, saw my lethality. I had been walking for hours, and now I was out.

Free, green plains spread before me as I exited the dense woodlands. A look about, and I observed that the forest itself stopped rather abruptly, as if a great line had been drawn, and I had just crossed it. Peculiar, but not noteworthy. No, what was truly noteworthy was a small village, which I could see lying a small distance away. The structures appeared simple, thatched roofing and wooden housing, primitive and undeveloped. Nothing of the greatness held by My Lord’s Treasure, but a place of civilization nonetheless.

I resumed my slow walk, gazing into the sky as I covered the trek calmly. The heavens were such a magnificent shade of blue, filled with the life of summer, and the Sun’s brilliant rays were like the soft touch of a lover, happy to see me again, warming my heart. Looking down, the grass was as healthy a green as I had ever imagined, luscious and fecund, spreading outwards in the gap between the forest and the village. Sometimes, a cooling breeze undulated down from the heavens, causing large waves in the green sea around me. It was an idyllic picture, far removed from the chaotic battlefield, or the lifeless marble halls of the palace.

As I entered the village limits, I was tranquil in my heart. Long had it been since I was truly at peace. Long since the passing of my closest, my family, my blood. I was ready to unleash murder, as always. No mortal enemy faced me, though, no knights or peasants come to face their death at the end of my spear. Instead, as I walked the cobbled streets of the village, I saw none. Not a face, not a hair, not a hand. While the day was bright and the houses were cheery, albeit oddly constructed, not a single villager was here to breathe life into them. I felt watched, though, things glancing at me from the shadows of the windows, held breaths in the air, waiting, fearing me. As they should.

After minutes of walking in the hushed silence, the road opened up into a market, filled with stalls which were in turn filled with produce and products. All were abandoned as if in haste, coins lying upon counters, items fallen haphazardly on the plaza. At first glance, this place of convening would have appeared to be as barren as every other part of the town. That is, were it any other than I who glanced. Nay, my expert eyes instantly spotted an odd, purple figure standing further in the centre of the market. Even from this distance, every tiny detail sprang forth, allowing me to see exactly what creature was waiting for me here. Despite this, however, I saw nothing truly familiar. The creature was small—head going to just above my waist—quadrupedal, and unnaturally colored. A main hue of purple covered its body, a form of coat. Straight, combed hair grew from its head, a dull, dark blue with a single streak of magenta and purple running through it, a design mirrored in its voluminous tail. On thought, I realized that it resembled some form of tiny horse, although not superficially. Rather, the opposite.

As I moved closer to the creature with slow, tranquil steps, my spear held closely at my side—cocked and ready to be thrust with the right twist of my body—I was further assured in this comparison. The general design seemed to be like that of a horse, in a way, the four legs ending in stumps, the tail and the the haunches. But to say that this creature was a horse would be a mockery. No horse had eyes that large, or of that color, of such was I sure. No horse had a tiny, dull horn upon their head, colored like their coat, nor wings that looked too small to carry themselves. No horse carried such a human, serious frown upon their face, nor would any horse ever have looked so utterly ridiculous doing so.

Finally, we faced off against each other. The horse attempted to stand with authority, but it was simply a mockery of true power. I stood with grace. The horse stood with bunched muscles and controlled breathing. I stood with relaxed limbs and even breath. The horse was no threat, so ridiculous did it look to me, standing there, attempting to impress me. It was an immobile rock, too high-strung to react properly. I was relaxed. I was a spring, tensed and ready unleash death.It, nay, she cleared her throat. Her voice was decidedly feminine in nature, an odd overlap. “Please state your business in Ponyville, uh…” She faltered, eyes scanning my figure with her large, darting eyes. It was mesmerizing, in a way, to observe how her pupils retracted and expanded, to gaze into the eternal abyss of those large, black dots, ringed by brilliant purple, darker than her coat. “Uh, your business… Sir?”

Ser Ornstein.

Silence was my answer, though. I had not spoken since Gough returned to me with the news of Oolacile. Had not spoken since two of my family had disappeared off the face of the earth, both dead in the same place, one below the ground, the other above. The thought bled my heart, old wounds never healed. My retort seemed not to please the horse, though, as her frown turned to a scowl.

“Sir, I know you didn’t do it on purpose, but your armor and—” she seemed to halt, looking for the right word as she glanced at my dragonslayer spear “—your equipment, scared a lot of the ponies of Ponyville. But! I’m sure that if we just sit down somewhere and talk about it, we can be great friends, and everybody can see you’re not a danger at all, and that I was right and they’re just overreacting! So…?” she smiled hopefully at me.

Friends? With this diminutive creature? I had called dozens of great soldiers my friend, Silver Knights, Dragonslayer Greatarchers and The Lord’s Blades, giants and humans alike of worth, of honor and valor. This creature obviously had not one single iota of their greatness, but despite that, it expected to garner my respect? My admiration? My love? No.

My spear rose and fell, the butt end striking the ground with enough force to make the ground—and my armor—tremor, destabilizing the horse. My legs were spread and my stance firm. The creature was obviously not a priority, a fact which I was quickly learning as the now-unfamiliar feeling of a needy stomach assailed me. Odd, that. It had been… long since I had last hungered for food, long since I had last lain down to sleep. Long since I had removed my armor. It had been a long time of standing vigil, protecting the paltry illusion which kept Anor Londo going, kept the subjects at ease.

I scanned the marketplace, the horse never leaving my periphery. Off to the side was a stall filled with ripe apples. Green apples, red apples, all shiny and juicy. I could feel my mouth salivating, my stomach, after so long, informing me that I should to eat something. I wasn’t about to ignore this—especially since I hadn’t enjoyed the pleasures of food in ages—so I turned and strode to the stall, spear tapping the ground as I walked, ignoring the horse’s curious calls.

As I looked down on those tempting apples, the horse’s clopping of hooves and confused murmuring dismissed as inconsequential, it struck me that I’d need to remove my helmet in order to sate my hunger. Not a problem, of course, I’d just take it with me. Not a half-second later and I’d found a brown cloth bag, awkwardly beginning to fill it with the best of the crop, unwilling to relinquish hold of my spear. Halfway through filling it up, the female behind me raised her voice.

“Excuse me, Sir, are you going to pay for those? I’m afraid that if you don’t it’ll legally be stealing, and I’ll be have to arrest you!”

I even let a small chuckle go at that. The very notion of I, Ser Ornstein, being arrested for theft was laughable. In the olden times, back when the Dragon War was still raging, peasants had fallen upon their knees to offer me the fruits of their labor. Why, I even remembered an occasion where a young girl had given Ciaran a sour, old apple, thinking herself helpful. The face Lord Gwyn made when we convinced him to eat it would stay with me forev—

I tensed; time at once becoming both an eternity and the shortest moment I had ever experienced. Battle haze had settled over my mind, spurred on by the tell-tale sound of sorcery from behind me. I whirled around in a clockwise half-circle, my spear turning with me in a large, backhanded arch, hitting the side of the sorcerer horse’s face with the flat of the blade—emphasized by the crack of broken teeth—and sending her flying like a purple, blurred missile. Her trajectory ended in the window of one of the surrounding houses, an acceptable distance courtesy of my good footing. Curiously, a short glimpse I’d gotten of her had shown that, besides being very surprised, her catalyst had been the tiny, dull horn on her forehead.

I had no time to think further, though, as a rope lasso flew in from behind me, looping around my left arm and cinching tight. A pitiful attempt to immobilize me, but an attempt nonetheless. The sudden sound of an object whistling through the air behind me spoke of their tactics: pinning me down and killing with artillery. My reaction was instantaneous. I turned around, my right arm swinging around in a backhand to deflect whatever arrow they had fired at me. To my surprise, the “arrow” was another horse-creature, this one skye-blue and with wings. However, this did not stop me from repeating my performance with the purple creature: I smashed the winged horse with the flat of my blade, deflecting it into a stall with the strength of a dragonslayer. Needless to say, the wooden construct was obliterated.

I was reminded that the battle was far from over by the rope tugging on my left arm. Clearly, whatever assailant on the other end was trying their hardest to pull me towards them. Such a shame that it was failing. Deciding to make quick work of this, I grabbed the rope and, with a sharp motion, pulled the horse on the other end towards me. As it flew through the air and smacked into my armored hip, I noted that this one had neither horn nor wings, made memorable only by an appealing hat, which was worn over its blonde hair. I also noted that it still hadn’t let go of the rope, which it held in its mouth. While the creature got its sense about it and started glaring at me balefully, I was stuck in ponderings of hunger. Those apples were starting to sound better and better, as evinced by the grumblings of my stomach, so I decided to make short work of it and get going.

In an almost bored fashion—for I was bored, these equines proving unexciting adversaries—I started throwing the creature at the end around, smashing it into walls, the ground, a few stalls, all the while listening to its yells and the not-so-subtle sounds of breaking limbs. Eventually, the “game” was over, and the rope was released mid-swing, the creature making a lazy arc through the air and landing a short distance away.

Satisfied, I walked over and grabbed the apple sack. One last equine tried to stop me, screaming something about “harming my friends”, but I didn’t pay her much attention, opting instead to kick it in its countenance. 'Twas yet another note in the day’s symphony of cracking bones.

Obviously, I would find neither humans nor giants here, so I set out once more, walking away from the forest and further into the village. Eventually, I’d be have to come out on the other side. From there I would find my nation, my people and my duty, and may Lord Gwyn bestow mercy upon those who stood in my way, for I would grant none.

The apples turned out to be worth the maiming. Simply exquisite.

Author's Note

Greetings! If you're reading this, it means that you've glanced at the pure ugliness of the story tags, yet have decided to give the story a shot in the vain hopes of seeing Ornstein being badass (or so I surmise). In case 'tis not clear, this is indeed a crossover with Dark Souls the game—so far, at least. If you feel like there's room for improvements within my mad scribblings—the mere notion is heresy!—then do say so in the comments section, constructive criticism and all that wankery. We can discuss it, and stuff.

Stuff.

As for anybody's who's interested, the title itself may seem asinine and cliché, but that's simply because it's... asinine and cliché. I simply couldn't come up with anything else on the spot. Don't judge me, I was on sale.

Smoke

Author's Note

Ey, so, it's been a while, so I decided to throw you this.

Whatever. [/Tsundere]

Anyway, there'll be even more vaguely lore-related names thrown around in this chapter, so if you're reading without being familiar with Dark Souls, here's my advice to you: just google what they look like. You don't have to know the lore very well, because I'm mostly just interpreting. And don't over-assume, as I said, it's mostly interpretation.
In other news, I was originally just gonna throw out a 1.5k word chapter first, that is until the scene change (spoilurs?), but then somebody commented and I had to make it longer or something. Funny how it went from "Yeah, you can have another chapter in a few days" to "I'll just write another 2k in some two weeks and then give up." Simmer in your own misery, commenter. Simmer!
Wuv u.

Smoke

The viridian sea of grass surrounding me had, with the fall of the Sun, become an ocean of midnight blue. Upon the canvas of the night sky, amidst the sprawling stars, hung the Moon. The silent behemoth attempted to cast me into its cool light. It could not, however, for the crackling bonfire before me illumined me, warding me from Gwyndolin’s rays.

My legs were crossed in front of me, a nigh-empty bag of apples placed on my metallic lap, one of the red orbs in my right hand. I had eaten them sparsely over the last few days, savoring them while possible. I had covered a large distance since the village, but hadn’t seen another settlement yet. However, Now was not a time of consumption, but one of ponderance. The wild, merciless fire reflected itself in the fruit ensconced in my palm. I dared not look upon the hissing flames.

The creatures had been odd, alien to me. I had never heard of their like before, not that it mattered much to me. The land of Lordran held many odd and fantastical things, and I had no intention of presuming upon the oddities found outside of my home. The firewood popped. To think that I, Ser Ornstein, had been reduced to brawling a bunch of peasants for some apples. I simply had to smirk at that. I, who had once felled dragons and demons by the score, beating up the salt of the earth for their produce. Surely, such a sorry sight hadn’t been seen since…

Should I have taken the apples?

What a whimsical thought. It went without saying that I’d committed theft, by the horses’ law: the purple sorcerer stated as such. However, whether what I did was right or wrong, should I truly care? Here there was no royal treasury to pay back with, but doubtful be it that stealing a bag of apples would crash the horse economy. In the grand scheme of things, who had my actions hurt?

Besides those whom I hurt, that is.

I had to chuckle a bit at that; it was a short, deep laugh, laden with listless humor. A laugh for the sake of a laugh. Still more than I had laughed in… a long, long time. The cool, crimson surface of the apple met my lips, a crunch making itself known over the roar of the fire as I bit into it. The sweet juice ran down my chin, and I thought of better things: the lavish feasts of Anor Londo, where the food was as good as it was unending; the glorious martial tournaments, where we Knights of Anor Londo would teach the young and the eager of combat and honor; but most importantly, of my family, my comrades-in-arms. The apple crunched once more. I thought of Gough, the gigantesque—yet placid—great-archer, who stood as my equal from day one despite my rank, overseeing us like an uncle. Or a father. Crunch. Memories of noble Knight Artorias rolling in the great halls with his puppy, Sif, came to me. On days we would brawl and wrestle, rough-and-tumble play where fair was foul and foul was fair, and a good-humored taunt was met with a tackle. Crunch. My thoughts strayed to Ciaran, who would sit with Pharis and the children, keeping them well in hand with a serene face and kind words, hiding an edge of steel. She would look over us as we sparred, giving harsh encouragement and insightful critique, but always supporting us, especially Artorias. Oh, how those two would squabble all day and become better friends for it at the end, laughing together. Crunch.

I thought of happier days, where Lord Gwyn would encourage and place bets on the brawls Artorias and I had. Then, Gough would reprimand His Lordship for his behavior, only for Gwyn to laugh it off. Pharis would get drunk and challenge Gough to an arm wrestling competition, and Gough would be too afraid of hurting him to compete seriously. Few sights were such a joy to behold as that of a slight, human man planting his boots on the helmet of a “defeated” giant general, proclaiming his superiority to all. Artorias would go to Ciaran with a jolly laugh, hug her tightly and tell her of something he found amusing the other day, and soon his happiness would spread to her. I would go to the end of the hall, to watch the numerous Silver Knights as they played simple games, sang songs and entertained the children orphaned by wars, disasters and crimes. Tall tales would be told, mock deaths would occur at the hands of an exuberant little girl, single-handedly felling a dozen of the greatest knights in the land. It was a paradise. I would never forget the face of Lord Gwyn as we convinced him to eat the old, sour apple.

I looked into the flames of the cruel, heartless bonfire. A small toss, and it set out to consume the apple core, which I’d fed it. I would never forget.

I would never forget the face of Lord Gwyn as we returned to the little girl’s village a week later. Never would the image of his despondent face, hard as if chiseled from titanite, leave me. Nor would I forget the flames of the burning town casting its dreadful light upon his visage. No decades, no centuries and no millennia would scrub from my eyes the image of Ciaran crying over the mutilated corpse of the village girl whom she for such a short time had held ever so dear. There had been much sorrow amongst my family. But I, and the Knights—we were furious. Livid. Never before in the War of the Dragons had we reacted with such brutality, nor with such ferocity. It proved to be one of the first hammer strikes to the metal of our hatred, heated in the forge of war, one case of a dozen. Soon enough, our hate was a weapon.

My own thoughts were traitorous, so I resolved to banish them. In one smooth movement I was on my feet, spear in one hand and helmet in the other. My Face settled itself over my head like the softest embrace and the tightest cell. The darkness of the grasslands welcomed me as I walked out into its caress and took my position. Here, underneath the Moon, I would perform my Dance of Death.

The Dance was a thing of beauty and a thing of terror. I moved sluggishly at first, my every moment slow and considered. A slow, firm step and a stretch of my arm, a thrust of my spear. Another step, and the reflecting blade made a slow arc in the cool air. Slow downstrokes, flowing upstrokes, I moved with grace and precision. Integral to any movement and any dance was the footwork. Light feet lead the waltz, carefully rooting, uprooting and re-rooting, always keeping balance in the body. Every thrust was preceded by a forward stomp, every horizontal slash made possible by a widening of my stance. Balance lead to poise, and poise lead to survival. My movements became more brisk, yet without ever losing their flowing quality. A right step, a forward thrust, balance transferred to my right foot. From there I hopped to my left, landing on my foot and centering my balance yet again, another thrust followed. With trained footing, one could move from stance to stance. Thrust begat stab begat slash, and the feet moved from position to position. My movements hit the balancing point where grace became ferocious.

I stopped, and the world held its breath with me. Cool sweat ran down my body, and I looked to the skies. Was that the glorious Sun rising in the horizon? I breathed once more, gazing upon the light in the distance. In my ears reverberated the sounds of beautiful choirs, of bells and flying doves, of festive people and the proud march of silvern boots upon the stone foundations of great Anor Londo. The fair Moon was still high in the sky, so it was not the Sun rising to proclaim its day. The light was like a tiny dot in the distance, fighting to dent the darkness subsuming the world. But, no progress was made, simply an unending, hopeless fight to stave off the Abyss that was the night sky, with nothing to show for it but the smoke flying heavenwards.

I could see smoke. The fire was so far away that I couldn’t even see what fueled it, yet the red glow outlined smoke. What great blaze could produce such, from such a distance? It was larger than the funeral pyre of a giant. About as large as… about as large as a burning village which had once been the home of a sweet, young girl and one sour apple.

The midnight blue grass rustled beneath my armored boots as I walked towards the conflagration. My every step was power and confidence. Every swish of my Dragonslayer Spear was deadly grace. For every movement my armor ground together in a harmony of menace, and the metal coverings draped over my legs cut through the air like blades. Though I walked with grace, I walked with force, and though I walked wreathed in silence, all could hear me and fear. Eventually, my movements hit the balancing point where grace became ferocity, and I ran the plains like a lion.

Ω

It was an inferno. The stone and wood buildings had become blackened by fire and soot, the world shaded in red and crimson. Everywhere I looked the streets were lit up by the flames of chaos, or shaded in the blackness of smoke. The town had long since been engulfed in its entirety, vast columns of smoke choking the air above the houses. This was yet another equine village, as I had gathered from its inhabitants. Or from what remains I’d seen, as I was already far into the village’s streets, having carved my way through—

A Capra Demon burst from the burning house to my left, its humanoid shape tearing through the door, torso glistening with sweat. Its heavy blade—swung in right hand—flew towards me, but the lugs of my spear intercepted the sword, and I threw its armament far. A jab of my left hand cracked its skull-face and landed it on the ground, where a savage slash severed its head from its body. These infernal creatures were the origin of this town’s downfall. A casual glance betrayed the fresh blood on the demon’s other sword. I had learned many things about the horses since I’d entered this town. I’d now seen what I assumed were the males of their species, as well as their children. I’d also found out that, in the most unseen of ways, they and I weren’t so different on the inside.

The haze of battle had long since fallen over me, allowing me to fight optimally. My heart thumped in my chest like a fleshy drum, blood thundering through my veins as I breathed in the smoke-ridden air with aching lungs. Once again I advanced through the street, buildings crumbling around me, their integrity sapped by the destructive power of the chaotic flames. My progress was framed by debris and corpses, varied bodies lying around, mutilated or otherwise crushed by the demonic weaponry.

Just as I was stepping over some equine intestines, I heard an awful noise: a scream much like the howling banshees of the drowned, shrieking out—with terror and desperation—a single “no!”. I burst into action, sprinting towards a side-street from which the cry had come. I rounded the corner just in time to see another Capra Demon further down the street bringing his machetes together in front of him, brutally tearing off the head of a female equine and sending it flying through the air in my direction. The dull thud of a hard object hitting metal, combined with the wet smack of flesh and blood, made itself known as the head impacted my breastplate. With a savage growl the demon turned its attention to a wagon standing next to a burning house, completely unaware of my presence; it would not remain so ignorant for long.

I surged forwards just as the beast raised its cruel weaponry above its head. My world turned into a narrow corridor of rushing wind, the walls consisting of blackness and flame and blurred buildings, and at the end of the corridor was the demon. My adversary only had the time necessary to turn towards me before I was upon it. With nary even a step, I exited the corridor and thrust my spear straight through its ribs and into the torso, visibly concaving its chest and breaking bones. The beast roared and swung its right sword at me, but I caught its wrist and clenched until the Capra released it. The great machete didn’t fall with a harsh sound, but instead with a muted thud.

I looked down to investigate, and was met with the sight of the decapitated female’s body, a large pool of blood spreading from the mangled neck. I clenched my arms and pulled my left towards my body, pulling the Capra’s right arm with me. The golden lugs of my spear served as a wall as I instead pushed the spear away from me, pulling the demon’s arm taut. I pulled harder, and its arm started creaking; I pulled harder again, and its arm started elongating with a sound like a fleshy canvas being torn in two. The force of the other machete hit me in the side repeatedly, heralded by grunts and moans of agony, but it hardly dented my armor. I increased my effort and was rewarded by the sight of the dry skin at the shoulder tearing and ripping, showcasing the red, bloody muscles underneath the surface as they, too, gave out. The demon had released its last sword in agony and I resolved to end it: with one final heave the arm stretched as I pulled and pulled. The Capra Demon screamed like a thousand wailing infants as the arm finally gave way, breaking from the shoulder in a spray of blood, bone and cartilage, and before it could recover I kicked out its knees and forced it down with my spear where I used its own arm to beat it to death, hitting it again and again and again until its face was nothing but a black-blooded pulp.

I breathed out a relaxed sigh. That was fun. A tranquil peace settled over the street now that the demon was gone, the silence punctuated by the sounds of the buildings’ fiery decay. Others of its ilk had undoubtedly heard its screams of agony, but whether that would draw more of them towards me or encourage them avoid me depended upon their inclinations. I was about to make my way further into this fiery pandemonium when a sound caught my ears; the hushed sobs of shock and terror. I turned my attention to the wagon, spying into the deep shadows underneath it. As I stepped towards it with quiet movements, a peculiar atmosphere fell over the street; it was one of held breaths, of thundering hearts and quavering muscles. I breathed deep through my nostrils, smelling the air, noticing the rancid odor of urine. Suddenly, a half-heard sob came from beneath the wagon, followed by a shush that was just a little too sharp, reeking of terror. I breathed deeply into my lungs, then breathed out. Another breath, a swallow.

It’s been a while.

“Equines,” I intoned hoarsely, my voice radiating with self-confidence, “abandon your shadows and follow me if you wish not to forfeit your souls.”

Not a peep came from underneath the wagon, so I waited. Flames smoldered around us, but I neither saw nor heard more from the hiding creatures, so I waited. Time stretched and warped as I cast my gaze around the street, idly scratching at the jawline of my Face. It had been a while since I’d last spoken. Memories of a campfire reflected in my eye, and of brave warriors in reflecting armors. One of them was weaving tall tales of battle, I remembered a joke of his: "Why does Gough always hit? All he has to do is listen for the sound of his own voice, and he'll know where they are!" The image of Gough flying around in the air, arms replaced with dragons wings, tugged at my lips.

Enough waiting.

I stepped forward, gripped the right-hand edge of the wagon, and lifted it so I could look down upon the horses underneath. What greeted me was a sad sight, one juvenile, green-coated and black-maned female gazing up at me with gargantuan, aquamarine eyes, the very breath caught in her throat. In her front legs she held a small, limp child, its head buried in her chest. The tiny, pink blob hardly even moved as the light of the fires reached them, seemingly oblivious to my moving the wagon except for the soft sounds of its whimpers. A closer look betrayed that this one, too, appeared female, although there was a rather sizeable age gap between them.

“Children, I gave ye a command,” I helpfully informed them, my voice returning fully to me. “If ye wish not to regret the rest of your miserably short existence, then I would suggest ye follow it.” There. That should square things out.

To my slight annoyance, nothing changed, at least not at first. The green one continued to stare at me, sucking in a breath through her nostrils. Slowly, her tongue came out to wet her lips, the mouth forming odd and varied shapes as her voice slowly came back to her.

“P-please,” she sputtered out. Although her voice was thick with emotions, it sounded beautiful to my ears. “Please d-don’t hurt us.” Her gaze flickered to a point behind and under me. I looked back, and traced her gaze to the headless corpse. Of course. ‘Tis so easy to forget I’m not dealing with weathered knights here. Perhaps a delicate hand would be more fitting?

I gazed around the still-burning houses lining the street, glanced at the corpse of the Capra Demon, and then back to the two before me. Perhaps not. The wagon went flying as I pushed it away and before the black-haired girl could run—an action that would be impeded by the young in her grasp—my left hand snaked out and grabbed her by the neck. With excellent precision and a bit of shuffling, I quickly had the two children cradled against my chest with my left arm. I was cradling a horse cradling a horse; amusing. Looking down at their wide eyes and shocked expressions, I could now see that the pink girl possessed a magenta sprawl of hair, as well as striking green eyes. I could also tell—observing the expansion of her chest and tensing of her body—that she was about to scream, so I poked her on the nose. The sheer randomness of the act mollified both of them, thus proving my superior skills at handling children. Never let it be said that Ser Ornstein, dragonslayer and demon killer, was poor with children.

Safely removing the peasantry from the battlefield was always a priority, so I decided to head further down the streets of the village, hoping to come out on the other side. With the equines quietly in my grasp, I passed by street after street. The multitude of burning houses surrounded me, smoke oozing like liquid darkness from their windows and tiny cinders passing through the air like fireflies as the buildings slowly collapsed. My progress was a melody of metal boots on stone, the roar of collapsing buildings, the breaths of the little ones in my grasp and, sometimes, the far-off screams of the dying.

“E-excuse me, sir?” came tremulous voice of the green-furred girl. It was a fresh voice, laced with beauty, and I stopped my trek to heed her. A quick glance around showed a large plaza, which I had just entered from one of the many streets leading into this place of communion. The apparent lack of danger satisfied me, so I turned my attention to the horse.

“What ails thee, child?” At my words, she blinked her aquamarine eyes and raised her hoof questioningly.

“Erhh…” While she pondered her words, chewing at her lower lip, I looked to the plaza’s exits. Which one, I wondered, would be fastest? “Where are we g- uh, going?”

“Out.” A sound caught my attention. It was the crackle and pop of fire, this one oddly significant to my senses amidst this ocean of flame. “I intend to leave the village limits, removing ye from the dangers that are abound here, little one,” I clarified, gauging her reactions. She seemed to breathe easier at my words. Perhaps she would be of help to me in helping herself. “Little one, dost thou know which of these streets will most swiftly lead us to safety?”

Her ears sprang up, though sluggishly. It would appear that fatigue was beginning to overtake her, now that she lay within the boundaries of my protection. Still, the child gazed at our surroundings, doing her best to answer my question. “That way, over there, that leads to a road going out of town. It’s the fastest way.” One hoof lifted from the tiny one’s back to gesticulate to a streetway on my left.

“My thanks, girl. Ye will be safe, soon.”

Something ominous awaits.

My gait was cautious as I walked towards the street, a tightened grip on my spear. I could hear it, clear as the bells of Anor Londo: fire, sizzling and smoldering. It seemed to grow in the back of my head, vibrating in my chest like the roar of a dragon. Another step, I had covered half the distance, and then I stopped. Out from the very street I was headed for walked a figure, standing upright like myself. The feminine contour was covered from head to ankle in an ash-black, hooded cloak. A single, golden circlet ran around the figure’s waist, its individual pieces stringing together to form a belt strongly contrasting the rest of the garments. My eyes peered deep into the hood, but I saw naught but the faint outline of a face, the only evidence of flesh being her unprotected feet—dainty yet dirty—and two hands. As the delicate fingers danced and her hand moved to guard her body, I saw the flames licking her skin, fanning forth from her palms and travelling up to her fingertips.

A thump in my chest heralded heat, liquid warmth spreading from my heart and into my right arm. At first came a single spark, but then came two. Streaks of light surged up and down my spear, lightning coiled within its metal confines. I could feel a searching gaze from the blackness of the hood, and two frightened, aquamarine eyes staring at my countenance. I was ready to drop my passengers, ready to unleash death. Not quite yet, however; first, I would observe.

And then, the battle might commence.