“Bearer of the Curse, seek souls. Larger and more powerful souls. Seek the King, that is the only way, lest this land swallow you whole as it has so many others.”
The words rung in The Wanderer’s head, crisp and in sharp contrast to his own muggy memory. He stood before the fog-gate, contemplating, stoically realizing that, indeed, he would die, time and time again, just as he had every other time he entered such an area. Same as always, truthfully, ever since he had been cursed with the Darksign. Whenever that had happened; his homeland, his age, even his family’s faces, all were things he had long since forgotten, but while the others were something he was aware he had forgotten, the why and how for his branding was a memory he never had to lose in the first place. At least, he thought he never had that memory . . .
He tapped his empty Estus flask in consternation for a moment, utterly certain that he had missed a bonfire on the journey here. As a matter of fact . . . he was certain he had missed a great deal more than just a bonfire. There were no hollows, no ancient knights, no attacking dragons or sharp-eyed archers. As a matter of fact, he was relatively certain he hadn’t been attacked on his entire journey to this location, which had never happened before; always, at least once in every new location, something would try to kill him. If it were unexpected, it would oftentimes succeed.
But here . . . everything seemed so vibrant. So . . . full of life. This, The Wanderer knew, was most certainly not an ashen kingdom in the final stages of death; if anything, this place was more akin to a roaring flame.
Besides the drop to get here, nothing was even remotely dangerous about this place.
The thoughts came slowly, however, and The Wanderer gripped his mottled, rotting forehead, before finally caving in to desperation and crushing a Human Effigy. Like a reignited flame, his thoughts cleared and everything made sense again.
After all, experience had taught him quite a bit; a dangerous kingdom with powerful guards oftentimes protected a weaker ruler. If that was true, it would naturally follow the inverse might just be plausible as well . . . and if the ruler happened to possess a particularly powerful soul, they might even have the strength to temporarily reverse the decay of their land. Possibly.
The Cursed Undead nervously glanced about for a summon sign or two before finally sighing in surrender to his fate. He gave a half-hearted fist-pump, ensured his twin Cestuses were equipped and in reasonable condition, inclined his head, and walked into the fog wall.
And promptly rolled to the side; he may have grown so old and Hallowed that his own name was beginning to grow hazy in his mind, but there was no way, The Wanderer knew, that he would fall for the old ‘Charge forward and impale with weapon’ trick again; six times had been quite enough, thank you . . .
It was only as he glanced about that he the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place and he realized how wrong everything was. No sudden rush of oncoming metallic death, no Pyromancy detonating in his face, not even a bluish hued spell was hurtling at him. For the first time in a very long time, nothing was trying to kill him.
Sweat began to percolate on The Wanderer’s brow; there had to be an angle somewhere, some death-trap, or perhaps that red-eyed bastard was following him. There was no way nothing was trying to kill him. The thought of it simply didn’t work in his battle hardened mind.
For the first time in a very long existence, the Cursed Undead felt very small and very afraid.
The irony that such fear was born from being utterly safe was not lost on him.
The Wanderer looked around the throne room cautiously; he may have not been attacked thus far, but his trip through the courtyard of petrified animals was proof enough that something quite dangerous lived here. And yet, the only thing of notice in the entire room was a throne, and the winged horse sitting upon it.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Celestia asked, calmly.
The Wanderer froze for a moment, fists raised in anticipation of battle, before slowly relaxing. Most of his foes, after all, hardly tried to speak with him; this might just be a friendly . . .
“Oh, you must be another visitor from Drangleic. Allow me to guess . . . you read one of those ‘Jump Here’ signs and followed through with it?”
The Wanderer scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.
Celestia sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid your story is not unique, though I’m quite sorry that happened to you. It all started a little while ago, and now every once in a while one of your kind manages to endure the trip and end up . . . well, here.”
Then, in something that might’ve passed for a grumble if Princesses were anything short of regal, “We had to move the guards around so there wouldn’t be any more complications. It really was quite inconvenient, you must know.”
The Undead let out a sigh, before cautiously reaching for his Homeward bones . . . only to find he had completely forgotten to bring any with him. He looked at Celestia pleadingly.
“You do know you’re more than welcome to stay here, if you wish?” she said.
The Undead shook his head.
“You wish to return to that land of conflict, death, and destruction?” she asked, eyes widening slightly in amazement, yet tempered by the fact that this had occurred many, many times in the past.
The Undead nodded.
“Why?” It was a question she had wanted to ask many times before, yet had managed to reign in with centuries of practiced politeness. “Is there something wrong with my lands?”
The Undead shook his head.
“Then why would you go back there? I’ve seen the state of your fellows as they've arrived; scoured armor, dented helms, some sort of necrosis . . . what waits for you back there?”
The Undead shrugged, not quite certain himself.
“Well . . . I suppose that’s fair. How do you want me to- . . . I already know the answer, why in the Equestria am I asking? If you could stand in that scorched corner right over there . . .”
The Undead obediently followed her directions.
Celestia’s horn began to glow, and within an instant flames began licking at the Undead’s body. “I’m quite sorry about this. I wish there was a better way, really . . .”
The Undead stood straight, his arms splayed upwards, praising the sun as the flames devoured him. For a moment, Celestia’s lips quirk upwards into a smile.
It only took a moment for him to finally crumble into ash, and Celestia, brow beginning to sweat from constant magic use, slumped in her throne . . . and promptly sat back up, as yet another Undead walked through the gate.
“This is beginning to get tiresome,” she muttered, as the new Undead advanced towards her cautiously. Then, more loudly, she asked, “Is there something I can help you with . . . ?”
***
“These people just don’t break!” Discord exclaimed happily, as he twiddled the Orange Sign Soapstone in his grasp. It was like lemmings; one after another, they would mindlessly run off the cliff only to suddenly burst back into existence by the fire. “A world of danger? Ha! A word of danger, more like; remove the ‘l’ and put down a message and humans will do the silliest things . . .”
Then, as yet another Undead ran off the cliff, Discord muttered cheerfully, “Number one hundred, twenty three thousand, four hundred and fifty six . . . let’s try for a million, shall we?”
Author's Note
I felt compelled to write this.
Seek misery, my fellow Darksouls bros; we'll find an simpler way to kick Smelter Demon's ass one day . . .
