archdragon peak starter

His footsteps are heavy as they climb the crumbling steps up to the peak. By the Gods (and perhaps one in particular) does he pray that this is the true end of his journey, that he may finally find what he's been searching for at the height of this mountain. To think, that the once-great Dragonslayer has been chasing rumors of the Path of the Dragon, yet not for the reasons one may expect of the old Dragonslyaer.

He isn't sure what he will do if this falls through, though. He supposes he will somehow find the strength of will to keep going, to find another lead- perhaps in the Kingdom of Lothric, where he has heard the Warriors of Sunlight have had a revival in following. However... His journey has been so long, and his body so tired. It may only be his will that keeps him together now. All he can do is pray. Pray that this rumor carries through, that it is true that the nameless king that rules what some call Archdragon Peak, that some whisper was once a god of war who abandoned his heritage for the dragons, is real, and is exactly who he sounds like. There is only one god of war he can think of whose titles and name were stolen for siding with the dragons. Oh, does he pray. He's not sure his will could carry him through if this is a dead end.


Finally, he turns a craggy corner as he climbs, only to pause when his tired eyes are met with great walls and domed, squat buildings and towers, stone bricks shining white in the clear sunlight. And then he's stepping forward again, though his eyes are still entranced from under the hood of his cloak- until theres a flash in the corner of his eye, and he barely manages to throw himself out of the way of a hurled fireball, the end of his cloak singed- sluggish. Once, he would've sailed far and away from the fire in an instant, a counterattack already in motion. He's so tired. His spear, which has long been more of a walking stick than a weapon proper, is held threateningly in an instance as he stares down his assailant- a serpent man, not unlike the kind that used to populate the great deathtrap of a fortress at the edge of Anor Londo long ago.

He scrunches his nose and grips his spear- and it takes an awful lot of self control not to attack in retaliation; no, its only protecting its home, and he's not here to fight... He opens his mouth to speak, to try and inform the serpent man that he isn't here to slay or pillage- but before he can try to use the voice that hasn't spoken in far too long, he feels the prod of a weapon against his back through cloak and armor. Ah. When did another get behind him...? He's so tired. He drops his spear, letting it clatter to the dirt. Again, he can only pray his journey isn't stopped short here, like this.

"Ssssstate your businesss." A hissing, scraping, inhuman voice commands. Ornstein breathes a sigh of relief- good, they're at least trying diplomacy. He may have a chance yet. Though he wonders if this is how they always greet visitors, and thus how the Path of the Dragon has proliferated so long... unless they can sense the ancient blood of dragons that must permeate his very being.

"I seek thy master." He says, his voice just as harsh as the serpent man's after what must have been, possibly, centuries of disuse.

"For what purpossse?" It asks, prodding Ornstein with the tip of it's blade- and a few others join it, as he realizes the thing's friends have started to surround him, practically crawling out from amongst the rocks, ready to slay him if they don't like his answer.

"... I seek thy master, for once he was mine as well." He continues quietly.

There is a brief silence that follows, and the serpent men begin to glance at one another, before hissing amongst themselves. One suddenly turns and scampers off, disappearing into the grand temple. The rest... don't lower their weapons, but do at least stop pointing them at the old knight. "You may go," one says, "But you will be watched, and one falssse sstep may be your lasst. It may not be usss who sslay you."

He nods from under his hood. Noted. Swallowing dryly, he bends to retrieve his spear, and groans as he stiffly straightens back up. He's so tired. And then he trudges forward once again, continuing up the steps, past the scattered gaggles of serpent men that watch him keenly through their tattered and bandaged clothing, though truly he looks no better than they, wrapped in his tattered cloak and rags. Though his armor is already largely shrouded by the dusty hooded cloak he wears, it's hidden further by the old cloth he's wound around most of the pieces in a vain attempt to stave off the effects of the elements on the ancient gold- not to mention to draw less attention to himself.

Yet, he was once a great knight. Deep down, a part of him still is, as he seeks his true Lord. Now, he hardly looks the part under layers of cloth and dust.


He soon finds himself at a great gate, closed before him, but thankfully there's only a minute of him standing there and glancing cluelessly around before one of the serpent men seemingly takes pity on him, or at least tries to be hospitable, and activates the mechanism to open the gate for him.

Glancing over his shoulder as he starts forward again, he gives a nod of thanks for the help- but he is not prepared for what awaits his tired eyes when he passes the threshold. A sight that takes his breath clear away from him, leaves him choking on his own empty lungs and the heart that's jumped into his throat.

It's unmistakable. They look just like him- wilder and freer than he remembers, but still so very much him. Statues of the patron of Archdragon Peak line the stretch of road ahead, with wild hair and ancient crowns and great, billowing scarves, his infamous swordspear held with graceful strength in his hands. The statues are barefoot.

If they weren't stone, he'd think they'd jump to life- he almost expects the one closest to him to suddenly move, to look down at him, to speak, to say his name in that voice he has ached to hear again after so, so very long, to say his near-forgotten name at least one more time, the name he may now only remember by the memories he refuses to allow to fade, of this man he once knew.

'Ornstein.'

His breath returns to him shuddering as his lungs struggle to remember how to function, and he presses a hand to his aching chest through his armor and cloth, leaning heavily on his spear. His eyes sting, and the sight of the statue before him blurs, before he blinks hard, taking a great breath, before tearing those eyes away from it, to turn back to the path, to carry forward again. It wasn't really Him. He can save it for when he sees Him. His will is stronger now, though, his heart soaring, because now his prayers feel so close to being answered. He was at least here once, that is for certain. The chances he may lie just ahead are great, and hope grows within him, stronger than it has ever been, stronger even than the day he left Anor Londo on his quest.

He can't resist smiling to himself as he pushes onward. He's so close. So close. So close. He's so close. He feels delirious, the foreign architecture and additional serpent men passing him by without notice, his mind swarming with the growing joy of the coming close of his quest. A voice in the back of his head tries to tell him not to put all his eggs in one basket, that he may not withstand the disappointment if things turn false ahead, but he ignores it. His heart feels a pull forward now, and it can only mean one thing.

He's so close. So close.


But though his heart has never been stronger, his will never before so great, there is only so much they can do to combat his fatigue, and his body has never been weaker, and weaker still with every passing moment. Often, when one has gone far too long without sleep, they may be able to keep the strength to carry themselves on their journey throughout their day, only to lose it rapidly within sight of their bed, when rest is so near. The old knight's steps grow heavier and heavier, and more and more he worries that he won't be able to lift his foot again, and each time it grows harder.

In the distance, perched atop buildings, great wyverns watch him warily, and he boldly meets their gaze- he wonders if some part of them can sense who- what- he is, was, and may decide to enact swift and fiery vengeance upon him on behalf of their ancestors. He wouldn't blame them. He may even allow it, but not before he reaches his goal. He will fight to the last of his strength and drag his remains forward if he has to, before he allows himself to die just short of answering his prayers. Not yet. Not yet...


He passes through what may once have been a beautiful atrium with a grand staircase and beautiful rugs... but may now be considered little more than a mausoleum. The room is lined with strange figures sitting upon rugs, surrounded by dishware, as if meditating or relaxing- he's seen these before, as he followed the Path of the Dragon. Petrified corpses of dragon path followers, their forms twisted into strange draconic hybrid shapes. He's not sure he wishes to know why every one he's seen has been long, long dead.

After slowly climbing the staircase, one aching step at a time, he finds himself stopping to stare a moment at a cluster of the mummified dragon follower corpses, two of which were hunched and huddled under a blanket together, as if just a bit chilly and sharing a comfort, and not at all very dead. It really does worry him that they are all like this, and he can't tell if this is the intended end of the Path of the Dragon, or merely those who couldn't go further.

However, this brief pause turns out to be a mistake- when he turns his face back to the small portcullis up ahead, he finds it nearly impossible to walk again. Leaning heavily against his spear, both hands gripping at the crossbar, his feet just don't want to lift- already, after that staircase, they had been dragging. But having a pattern of steps, at least, he had been able to at least keep going by the power of momentum before he stopped. Now, he has to start forward again, and the effort is almost too great...

But, somehow, he manages to will a foot to rise, and fall forward, and the other to follow suit, finding his momentum again, slight as it is. His feet drag, and he has to be careful not to let them catch on the uneven tiles or the edges of rugs. The bright sunlight outside the portcullis- left open, perhaps for him?- stings at his eyes after the last minutes in the shade of the atrium, but it draws such a warmth into his heart. He wonders, perhaps, if the sun here is different than that elsewhere, if it takes its influence from the Heir, rather than the Father, if that is why he feel so much more drawn to it.

That thought alone propels him further forward, as if the man he's long searched for may be awaiting him just outside, obscured in the bright rays of a radiant, hale sun. His spear falls from his hands as he passes the threshold, clattering to the stone floor, left behind perhaps for good. He won't need it anymore, he's sure. As he passes into the sunlight once more, his eyes squint against the brightness, though he struggles to keep them open, desperate to take in what sight may await him in the courtyard ahead.


The Great Belfry stands ahead, imposing and somehow holding the same graceful strength as the master of the place. The lane is lined with massive statues of dragons, great and regal and bestial. Ornstein may have been a dragonslayer- but even he, or perhaps especially he, can appreciate the majesty of those great, ancient beings, and he finds his breath caught slightly at the sight of them. Standing in the light, some exposed, tarnished bits of armor visible between the gaps in his rags manage to catch the sunlight to glint and shine, reflecting the radiance of its patron back to the sky. Yet, it may be easy not to recognize that hint of gold, disguised as it is, especially when its most distinctive aspect- a red-plumed helm with a lion's snarl- has long since been wrapped up in a sling that hangs at his hip from the opposite shoulder, and stuffed with what few supplies he's carried with him. Would his King even recognize his first knight?


But then, at last, his strength fails him. It's all well enough, he supposes as he suddenly collapses to his knees. This is certainly far enough. He's got to where he needs to go- he need not go one step further. Surely, in fact, this is precisely where he needs to be to receive his revelation. Breathing feeling slightly ragged, is hands bracing on the floor to support his weight that only seems to grow heavier each passing moment, he lifts his eyes, to look ahead from under the hood of his cloak, praying with all his heart he may soon see what he has looked for all this time, before it is too late.