Elite Knight in Equestria Prologue

Your ragged breathing echoed within your helmet, chainmail strained as your chest shuddered under the peak of such physical duress.
You could taste sweat and grit and ash in the confines of the battleground, light-headed with the adrenaline of combat wearing off.
Beside you, the phantom of your companion Solaire of Astora rested heavily against his shield, kneeling in the soot, his white surcoat vivid against the monochrome of the surrounding ruin.
And there, at your feet, lay the smouldering ruin of Gwyn, Lord of Cinder.
You had triumphed, the both of you, against a hollow god. All of the suffering, steel-hewn nightmares leading up to this conclusion weighed heavily upon you. Beyond belief the horror of Lordran was behind you.
A dry chuckle escaped the Iron Helm of the man to your side.
“Who would have thought… the great Lord Gwyn…”
You felt every ounce of your armour tug at your limbs in protest, yet you sheathed your Astorian Straight Sword.
“Never,” You groaned, “Have I felt so small and insignificant in my thin plate, than I did this battle.”
Solaire nodded slowly, the glow of his summoned state held momentarily as he surveyed the legend before you both.
“This… Is the end, then. It’s finished.”
“You think so? I’m troubled still about the flame. What if the serpent lied?”
Numb with exhaustion, you lost yourself in the familiar ruminations on your mission, to distract yourself from the unreal feeling of having cut down Gwyn.
“…”
“Solaire?”
Concern diverted your line of thought, as the sunlight warrior remained motionless, staring.
No, you thought, surely he has not gone hollow now, not now…of all times…
“Solaire,” you repeated more softly, “Whatever is the matter?”
The knight did not respond, and merely reached forward to where Gwyn’s hollow body had dissipated, to sift through the ash with a bare, calloused hand. The soot slipped from his grasp as he stared mutely, in a world of his own.
“Like a magnificent father…” He murmered so quietly did you almost not hear.
With the long-suffered strain you had spied beneath the knight’s jovial attitude, Solaire rose up, and solemnly extended his arms to the heavens.
“Praise the Sun,” he said, his voice raw with restrained anguish.
You watched silent, respectful of your companion’s distress.
“Well,” he said after several minutes, “This seems to be the apex of our journey here in Lordran. I have found what I was searching for, as did you.”
You nodded, and stepping forward, the two of you clasped forearms in a gesture of camaraderie.
“Whatever happens,” you say, “I am honored to have known you, Solaire of Astora.”
“And I you, Oscar of Astora. May we meet again someday, in the light of the new world.”
And with that, you released each other, and Solaire faded from sight as his summon dispelled.

Alone now, you surveyed the Kiln of the First Flame. Absolute silence reigned, the rubble and ash absorbing all, as even the wind no longer stirred this desolate place.
You reflexively examined your gear, Armor of Astora’s Elite Knights scuffed and dented, surcoat singed. Your shield and family crest battered. In your equipment purse your soapstones lay secure, with healing moss and crystals, keys, rings that you made use of in your journeys. You had a sliver of Estus left in your emerald flask.
Shaking your head, you faced the flame. Perhaps the serpent was right, or perhaps not. You had been manipulated by lords and demons, a chess piece; and yet, such was the lot of a Knight-errant, of decent men and loyal dogs.
Were it not for that Undead you freed in the Asylum, you mused, you would have succumbed to your wounds in that dark place. You wondered where the wayward soul was now. Anon...such a strange name.
Shaking your head, you stepped towards the fire. No more idle thoughts…
It was time.

You knelt before the flames, calling forth all of the souls you had won through strength of arms and sheer nerve.
The Asylum Demon, horrid gatekeeper of the Undead.
The Bell Gargoyle, twin beasts wielding halberd and shield.
The Capra Demon, an escapee of Lost Izliath.
The Ceaseless Discharge, faithful construct of a fallen witch.
The Centipede Demon, an insect monstrosity of sorcerous origin.
The Chaos Witch Quelaag, had only you known of her sister’s plight beforehand.
The Demon Firesage, a terrible daemon of flame and ruin.
The Four Kings, twisted lords of men warped by the Abyss.
The Gaping Dragon, a relic of the ancient times.
The Great Grey Wolf Sif, loyal to the end.
The Iron Golem, autonomous guardian of Anor Londo.
The Moonlight Butterfly, Seath’s creation of crystal sorcery.
Nito, first of the dead, a nightmare of the deep dark.
Ornstein and Smough, friends even in hollowed shells.
Seath The Scaleless, the great duke, mad with yearning for immortality.
The Bed of Chaos, a horrific child of a witch’s attempt to copy the flame.
And Gwyn, Lord of Cinder.
You felt a nation of souls spew forth, a crescendo of power swirling as the fire was nurtured by the legendary essence of the daemons and hollows that fed it. Wind howled and ash scattered in a cyclone of energy, as the flames rose to impossible heights in a column of fire kissing the sky. You struggled to stay conscious amid the roar of elements taking place before you.
And then, as you braved forward to enter the flame, you felt a tug within your being, like that of a summoning.
Was this what death felt like? Being called off to some great beyond? No, this was most definitely a summoning, and yet you had not placed your sign for ages.
As the light of the souls consumed by the first flame grew to a blinding white, you felt your being phase out of your world, until even the ringing in your helmet faded away, and you knew nothing more.