“No. You have to do something really impressive... but that shouldn’t be too hard, now should it? I mean, usually you have to do something impressive to even be considered for knighthood, so..”
“Not this shit again...You would think my name would be on some big list created to keep dwarves out of this shithole.”
The fade was looking as lovely as always. Or, at least, as lovely as the last two times he had been here. A lot...redder than his first visit, of course, but just the same amount as his last. He wasn’t surprised to see it, within the looming green structures little dots of red like tragedy on canvas. No, just a numb little ball growing in the pit of his stomach as he looked around the impossible landscape. He gripped at Bianca’s strap.
“How do you manage to ruin a spell so badly you teleport us to another plane, Goldy? What? Did you trade the last bit of your actual skills for more volume in your coif?”
King Knight’s reckless persistence has paid off. Shovel Knight doesn’t deck him in the mouth on impulse. Instead, she’s loosely gripping the fraud’s arms in confusion. “What is the meaning of this?” She demands in a harsh whisper, eye searching for his intention. Such a deliberate act for anyone else surely can’t have the same implications for King Knight.
So, my hombres, I got the inspirational magic fingers to write a bit! Heavily dark souls inspired, here’s a taste of the newest short story i’m writing!
Upon the frigid valley
in which the blood of man if frozen in an instant
and the water is in eternal frost
those who are damned seek retribution.
Tears strewn and mixed with ash flew into the distance, the mass of men and women sluggishly crawling forward through the icy storm of ashen dust. Its flecks dug into their flesh, into their very being. Their skin had grown grey, and their souls had grown dark. Everything they owned was tainted with the sick remnants of fire; their food, their clothes, their eyes, their mouths. This ash was toxic, it sapped away the life of man, and killed those who were too weak to continue on. The Journey across the Frigid Valley was a battle that all from foreign lands had to make, as there was simply nothing left from whence they came. What could one go back to, when their homes and memories were destroyed by the plague of ash? Maybe they wished that there was something across the Valley, that there was some hope...But, only the foolish believed that. Even now, sickly men and women crossed the icy Valley; their eyes so dry that they could not produce tears for those who died around them. The water they drank was filled with vile toxin, the air they breathed fresh with the smell of rotting corpses. The pilgrims could see it amongst themselves. Many of them had fallen to the curse of the Undead, forced to come back to life every time they died, never finding solace. Those who so often died would lose their minds, then, they would turn upon others. The curse was something none could avoid, since death brought it upon them even if they did not wish for it. This land, this Valley, was drenched in madness, a madness that would never let them die.
Laurence held his baited breath, his eyes wrapped closed with thick linen bandages. He could not see, just as so many others. It was so commonly thought amongt their kind that those who have died and come back should be bounded in bandage, and tossed into wagons to be carried to their destination. Laurence was one of them. Bound and gagged, his flesh broiling under that ashen sun, he had lost everything he had. Under him, he could feel the writhing bodies of those who had fallen to the curse with him. Why was he so unfortunate to be cursed like this? Laurence could only think that it was almost unfair. His skin had been tattered with the color of ash, its pigment fading away into that of the Frigid Valley; Grey. His clothing was stripped from him, and he wore nothing but tattered rags that covered his modesty, if such things even worked anymore. No, as an Undead, he was considered the worst of his kind. One who had died upon the pilgrimage. Such a sin was unbelievable amongst his people, and because of the fear of possible madness, they planned to burn them all upon reaching their new homes. Of course, it would be too harsh to burn them now, so they simply dragged them along. Laurence was given no food or water, he had no needs, but he craved for them so dearly. Was it because it would make him feel human, or because it felt like it was a human thing to do? Laurence could never understand.
His people were a religious sort, and while they loved their kin more than any other, ones undeath was considered an affront to god. This cursed Valley had brought them back when they should not have been, and now they could not die. Laurence could remember when the others tried to kill one of the Undead the first time they arose, only for them to appear hours later in the ash, fully alive. Yes, it seemed that the Undead were even born from the ash storms, and when one died, they simply came back further in the whirling maelstrom. No one even knew how the Undead got ahead of them, but many were fearful of its diabolical nature, like it was some attempt to deceive them.. Yet, even at the rage of their fellow man, they could not bring themselves to leave them in the ash. It was like leaving that of family to waste away, alone. Even at the wishes of their highest of priests, Valen, they could not leave them behind. So, they were shoved into wagons, and dragged behind. He was the leader of their village, but also their high priest. Far ahead, far past those he knew, Valen guided the other pilgrims to their new destination. So often did Laurence think that Valen did not know where he was going, but that was considered sacrilege. Valen had gathered more pilgrims along the way, and now the extent of their population stretched for miles. Many died, and many joined, it was a constant cycle. Yet, even now, many thought the Valley never ended, and many doubted his credibility, but none ever spoke it.
Laurence didn’t bother himself of thinking of his village, or even what they believed in. The idea of a high god was so foolish to him. What god would let his people suffer like this? It was wrong, and just the idea made the tinges of madness in his mind grow and pulse with rage. He moved his hands in frustration, to realize once again that they were bound with thick linen. “For gods sakes, let me out of this wagon. I’m not some type of mad beast!” Laurence yelled, his words muffled from the saliva soaked rag in his mouth. It felt like the more that he tried to yell and fight against his captivity, the more ash fell into his throat, and the more he thirsted. He could only think of how people thought of him, his yells coming out as monstrous groans. Laurence’s chest pulsed softly, ash being expelled from the pores on his chest. Whatever had happened to his insides, there was no longer any type of heart that would beat for his suffering. No, his chest was filled with ash, and he could only spit it out and vomit the remnants of flames out of his mouth. It was true suffering.
{ "To be honest, this Gamefaqs contest lost my support when Dark Souls got kicked out of the race. This is vengeance." I feel this. I feel this so hard.}
