The Knight and Princess of the Sun

Knight Solaire lay in the comfortable bed he had been given. It wasn't anything too lavish, just some polished spruce wood, with a mattress stuffed with Pegasus feathers, and light blue sheets. His faithful, newly cleaned and shined, Sunlight Sword leaned against the nightstand next to the bed, alongside his shield. Both were within arm's reach, incase something tryed to slay the Astoran Knight while he slumbered. Many had tried to fell him while he was awake, and few had succeded. His trusty helmet was on the stand, for it was, as he had found in Lordran and Astora, very hard to sleep in. This revealed his face, handsome and chiseled, befitting most Astorans, but also, it had numerous small, nearly invisible scars running along it. He did not recall from where he got them, but they marked him as a warrior. His hair, once a dark brown, mahogny in color, was not stained a pale silver, after an incident involving a crystalline beast's blood staining his hair forevermore, was short, and neatly cut. A thin beard, moreso stubble, hugged his chin tightly. His eyes, if they were open, would be as grey as cold iron. A dark, circular brand was carved into his right shoulder, The Dark Sign, the sign of those cursed to be Undead.

He rarely dreamed, and when he did, they were very lucid. This dream found the Knight of Sunlight overlooking a field. His shoulders were more broad, his body more muscular, his stature a fair bit taller than his waking self. He felt the glorious heat of the incandescent sun burning from within his very soul. He felt powerful, his miracles, gifts from the Warriors of Sunlight, passed on from the Firstborn of Gwyne, felt stronger than ever. Looking down, he found himself clad in armor he had never worn. It was primarily iron, or perhaps steel, with a gold coloration. He could feel some elderitch power radiating from it, A crrimson tunic, with a shining gold trim, completed his armor. A blazing sun was emblazoned in the center, glowing. He looked up, a war,crown, made of the finest materials, with shimmering red-tinged crystals embedded in the center in the shape of a stylized sun, lay around his head. Around him, the sounds of combat raged. Men and women in gleaming silver armor, the Silver Knights of Lord Gywn, before they were forever scorched black when Gywn sacrificed himself to keep the First Flame burning, battled against figures clad in armored dark grey robes. In the hands of these robed figures, weapons, glowing with a a faint light, radiated unholy spells. Solaire knew when he was, Heretics had tried to kill the gods, with weapons forged of profane materials, and had failed.

Solaire felt his body move, lifting a great blade. It shone with the light of the sun, and radiated heat as if it had been forged in the sun's eternal heart. In his left hand, he found a talisman clasped in his armored palm. "Forward, mine followers! Strike ath the hearts of these traitorous scoundrels!" Solaire yelled in a deeper, booming voice that was not his own. A symphony of cheers and war cries sounded from behind him. Solaire raised the blade again, and charged at the robed heretics. His blade arced, as flames danced on the honed metal. The screams of his foes were like the sweetest hymns to his ears. A manical grin was plastered on his face, bellowious laughter bursting from twixt his lips. "Through fire and iron, the Age of Fire shall prevail!" Solaire yelled, cleaving the head from a Heretic pyromancer's body. The body fell, twitching, as flames licked it. Out of the corner of Solaire's eyes, he caught a vague glimpse of a midnight blue mare, before she vanished into a murder of crows.

Solaire raised his hand, as a spear of pure sunlight, different from the spears of lightning he utilized, appeared in his hand. "Feel the light of absolution, Darkspawn!" Solaire yelled, hurling the bolt forward, the wind cutting around the tip. Heretics, and a few Silver Knights who were caught in the crossfire, screamed in a mixtue of pain and fear, before they were obliterated, turning into smoldering piles of hot ash, melted and blackened armor, and singed pieces of cloth. The laughter of a bloodthirsty madman came from Solaire, as he turned his head skyward, the sun hanging in the sky like a glowing eye.

Solaire's eyes snapped open, as he slowly sat up. He ran a hand slowly across his face, shaking his head. He turned to the window. His body was bathed in the pale moonlight. He knew it was, as said in the old tales, the symbol of Gwyndoline, the son, raised as a daughter for his practice of the widely thought as feminine lunar magic, of Lord Gwyn. "Lord Gwyn, whats was that dream you senth me? A vision of thou in thine glory during the war with the occult villains? Thine exiled Firstborn, old god of war?" He rubbed his head, which throbbed. "A premonition? A...memory?" He thought. He had vagure recollection of a battle. "Twas impossible, I art a Knight of Astora, mortal-born. I art no god." He muttered, chuckiling to himself. "Perhaps I hath been reading the tales of the ancient days too oft." He ran an armored hand down his face. "The land of dreams shalt sooth mine troubled mind." He grabbed the glass from the nightstand, and downed the water within. Swallowing, he laid back down, his size causing the bed to creak. Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes, and let his mind wander back to the Dreamscape, where all dreams lie, even those of the dead, be they dead gods, or dead peasants.

The scene had changed. Instead of a battlefield, he was in a magnificent city. Towering buildings of masterly cut stone surrounded him. He was not in armor anymore, well, not full armor anyway. He had on finely crafted boots and gauntlets, but the rest was an exquisite black coat, buttoned neatly, with gold trim, alongside matching pants, with gold trim. A refined, stylized sun-shaped crest was pinned to his right pectoral muscle. A reddish-gold ring adorned his right pointer finger. A reinforced black leather sheath with a gold trim was attached to a belt around his waist. Fine, blood red boots adorned his feet, and a slightly slimmer version of the warcrown he had worn in his first vision adorned his head. An ornate gold pendant with a beautiful jewel, the color of flame and the size of a fist hung from his neck. He was well muscled beneath his attire, a fair bit moreso than his body in the waking world. He was seated on a bench, his blade across his lap, and a cloth in the other. The blade shone in the early morning light.

"Brother, I am surprised to findth thou arisen so early in the morn." A soft, yet still male voice called out. Solaire's ears perked up, as he came face to face with a feminene looking man. His hair, as pale as the moonlight, was long, yet part of it was tied into a small ponytail. A thin mustache graced his upper lip. He wore a dark grey robe with a white trim. The robe covered his feet, though, somehow, Solaire knew white leather boots adorned them. Solaire knew who he was in an instant, Gwyndolin, frail lastborn child of Gwyne and his wife, whose name had been lost to time alongside the annals. A small smirk formed on Gwyndolin's face, his silver eyes held a mixture of curiosity and kindness in them. "Usually thou art asleep till noon, or later. Or with some harlot or that." He chuckled, his laughter like a breeze hitting wind chimes.

Solaire sighed, and sheathed his sword. He lightly slammed his fist into Gwyndolin's shoulder. "Yes brother, tis true." A smirk rivalling that of the covenant leader of the Blades of the Darkmoon appeared on his face. "And thou art asleep with either a scroll or male tween thine ass." He teased. It was a common joke around the Firstborn of Gwyne, and his brave, lionhearted knights, that Gwyndolin was so much more woman than man, that he preferred men to women. That, and the practionier of lunar sorcery loved his tomes so much, when an urge came upon him, he would use a scroll or tome to slate his carnal desires.

Gwyndolin rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Thine jests are as empty as thine brain." He helped his brother off the bench. Solaire nodded, dusting himself off. "Come brother, I believeth that Bishop Havel wisheth to see us. Something pertaining to a dragon sighting." A grin broke out on Solaire's hardened face. Gwyndolin chuckled into a hand, "Ah, I knewth that would get thine attention, always ready to wage war, mine kin. Thou and noble Knight-Captain Ornstein wouldst get along well indeed." It was known throughout Anor Londo that both Dragonslayer Ornstein and the Firstborn were close friends, bonding over one of their favorite pastimes, dragon hunting. The two immortal siblings began making their way to the palace, where Havel was no doubt ministering in the chapel, or polishing his mighty warhammer, crafted from the tooth of the dragon, Dragon Tooth. On the way over, Solaire once more glanced the midnight blue mare, this time in a crowd of passing peddlers.

Solaire once more awoke. "Lord Gwyn, why showeth me memories of thine lost Firstborn?" He thought aloud, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He turned his face to the moon. His mind was ablaze, thoughts tacing through them.

"Art thou wishing, in thine great intelligence, that I findeth him?" Solaire asked the silent moon.