archdragon peak starter rewrite

Ancient stone steps threaten to crumble underneath heavy, weary footsteps as he trudges slowly, ever higher, up the peak. His cloak flutters around him, the end of his spear knocks over a small pile of stones as he bears it like a cane, supporting his weight as he makes his way up the weathered stairs. 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 sun-kissed mountain. He has traveled for so long and so far. Kingdoms have risen and fallen without any consequence to him as he pressed ever onwards to his distant, nebulous goal, and finally it at last seems so close.

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, but... His journey really has been so very long, and his body so very tired. It may only be that will that keeps him together now. All he can do is pray. Pray that this whisper of a rumor carries through; that it is true that the Nameless King that presides over what some call 'Archdragon Peak', that some say was once a god of war who abandoned his heritage for the dragons, is real. There is only one god of war he can think of whose titles and name were stolen from him for the crime of allying with the dragons. Surely there couldn't have been more in such a specific circumstance? Oh, does he pray. He's not sure his will could carry him through if this is yet another dead end.


He turns a craggy corner and all at once his tired eyes are met with great walls and domed, squat buildings and towers, stone bricks shining bleach-white in the clear sunlight. He pauses for a moment, and then he's stepping forward again, eyes still entranced from under his hood at the strange, massive temple- until a flash in the corner of his eye is his only warning before he barely manages to hurl himself out of the way of a ball of flame, edge 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, nowadays growing dull, more of a walking stick than a weapon proper, is held in a threatening stance in an instant as he rounds on 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. His nose scrunches, grip tightening on his spear- and it takes an awful lot of willpower to not retaliate. No, the creature is only protecting its home, he has no right to take its life, nor is he here for a 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. Immediately, he drops his spear, letting it clatter to the dirt, and raises his hands in surrender. Again, he can only pray his journey isn't stopped short here, like this.

"Ssssstate your businesss." A hissing, scraping, inhuman voice commands. He can't help but breathe a sigh of relief- good, they're at least trying diplomacy, likely in response to his surrender. 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 could sense the ancient blood of dragons that must permeate his very being, drawing their ire.

"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 him with the tip of it's blade- and a few others join it, 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.

A brief silence follows, and the serpent men glance briefly at one another, before hissing amongst themselves. One suddenly turns and scampers off, disappearing into the grand temple- to inform their master of his visitor, perhaps? 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."

He nods from under his hood, only for the serpent man to continue, voice low in warning. "It may not be usss who sslay you."

Noted. Swallowing dryly, he bends to retrieve his spear, groaning 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 own 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 in his travels. The attempt has only found moderate success.

Yet, once he was 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 rags 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 about before one of the serpent men either seemingly takes pity on him, or at least tries to be hospitable, and activates the mechanism to open the gate for him. Starting forward again, he glances back over his shoulder to give a nod of thanks- but when he looks ahead again, 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, unmistakable 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, clearing his sight and taking a great breath. He tears 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, swelling in his chest, because now his prayers feel so close to being answered. He was at least here once, that is for certain. The chance that He may lie just ahead is great, and hope grows within him, stronger than it has ever been, stronger even than the day he first left Anor Londo in his quest, long, long ago.

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 even more serpent men passing him by without his notice, his mind swarming with the growing joy and anticipation 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 his body can only follow- it can only mean one thing, surely.

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. Sometimes, 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. With the end of his journey at last in sight, his body screams for rest, but he can't let it stop just short of his goal.

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. They can pick his damned remains apart like vultures if they so wish, but not yet, not until he has finished his quest. 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, withered 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, just for a moment or two, to stare at a cluster of the mummified dragon followers. A pair are 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 keep going by the power of momentum alone before he'd 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 some manner of 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 several 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. He wonders if that is why he feels so drawn to it, why it feels so warm.

That thought alone propels him further forward, as if the man he's long searched for may be awaiting him just outside, merely 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 its master. The lane is lined with massive statues of true 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 through the dirt, 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 and dirtied as it is, especially when its most distinctive aspect- a red-plumed helm with a lion's snarl- has long since been wrapped up with cloth into a sling across his chest, hanging at his hip and stuffed with what few supplies he's carried with him. Would his King even recognize his first knight? More than likely, he may only find an old forgotten knight, covered in rags and the grime of an age-long journey, and not much more than that.


But then, all at once, his strength fails him at last. It's all well enough he supposes, as he suddenly collapses to his knees. This is certainly far enough. He's gotten 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, his 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.