Long ago, the Way of the White produced its
first Undead, a paladin in golden armor.
With the legendary treasures Grant and
Sanctus, Leeroy set out for Lordran,
Land of the Gods, in the first Undead
mission of the Way of White.
Chapter One: Firelink Shrine.
'The flow of time itself is convoluted; with heroes centuries old phasing in and out.'- Knight Solaire.
The faintest of sound passed its way around the faded, grey tiled, cracked pillars, under the draped laburnum, ochre archway of the chapel and across the grass filled moor. Leeroy sat amid nature, sliding his fingers through long dew covered strands of grass. He sat up, stretching his body to peer over the top of the green, staring at the beautifully crafted entrance. The face of the chapels arch was brilliantly decorated with bright white tiles, an orange burnt tinge coated the top side, shimmering under the sun. Smooth, round sculpted windows revealed a glimpse of the interior. It was heavenly, as if Gwyn himself had blessed it, the incandescent white sizzled away under the scorching sun. The sky, a crystal clear blue, like an opening firmament embracing Leeroy in warm arms. Leeroy stood and trudged through the grass, slowly, careful not to slip on the damp growth. He stared at the stain glass window, a great crown with three gold prongs shone in the suns light.
He stepped under the arch and the darkness encapsulated him. A single ray crept through a hole in the thatched roof, the faint light revealed the decrepit state of this aging place of worship. The crumbling colourless columns, appeared crooked, struggling to hold itself together, let alone the roof. The foundations had sunk under the fierce pounding of torrential weather, the building was tilted on one side, he felt slightly dizzy as he walked in-between column after column towards the light.
The ray was perfectly placed, as if god himself had pierced the roof, the sunburnt, orange ray shone on the grey stone mantle.
On the mantle lay the white book, its edges worn, the pages tattered, dried yellow and crisp from age, its softened brittle cover bound loosely together with haggard old leather. The Cleric placed his hand on its surface. He began to preach, a perpetual stream of words, they rose in volume, echoing throughout the empty chapel. Leeroy stood by the grey haired, wizened skinned man and closed his eyes. He did not focus on the summoning words, he focused on god, Gywn, the father of the flame. Gywns gold three pronged crown of the gods ascended in his mind, coated in a blazing everlasting flame, until it suddenly corroded and turned to black cinder. Ash and darkness engulfed the void and all that remained was a sharp white hovering precariously above the blackness. The bright white wavered around the deep blackening mass, the white which longed to dissipate forever; the two opposing colours connected to man's soul. Humanity, this revelation, a piece of the furtive pygmy's dark soul which originated from the chaos of fire, was everything to mankind's survival. To be revived from a hollow state, to appear human wholly undead and never hollow was a godsend. Or was it?
"Your Faith must be strong." The man explained, decorated in black shining Elite Cleric armour. The glossy plates looked untouched, shimmering under the sun's rays as new as the day they were cast in the forge, the man had clearly never seen battle. The many plates protected his frail, withering body, he struggled to maintain the bulk of weight on his bony shoulders. He held an innocuous scrunched brown bag of cloth in his clenched hand. Armed with nothing but this empty pouch; which in actuality declared to a veteran of war that he was brimmed to the teeth. He had high faith as he held god in high esteem.
Leeroy did not speak, he didn't have time to ask questions and the Church didn't have time to answer them.
"Your Talisman." The Cleric held it out. Leeroy slowly edged forwards, he held out his palm and the bag fluttered in the breeze, he stretched his hand and caught it tight, never to let it go, a statement of his faith to the gods. He looked at the bland object.
"We have little time, but with this, you will become are greatest hope." The man was old, which Leeroy did not always attribute to being wise, but the word hope, was he to be the greatest hope? Now the Cleric appeared wise, oh, he was a disciple of god and his words rang true! For how could they be lies? Leeroy thought, as he clasped HIS Talisman.
The fire was undying to a golden paladin armed with boundless humanity. A virtuous little Maiden of Thorolund, resided in the Shrine, next to him, and she was replete with souls of mankind. And as their allegiance was to the Way of the White, the religious sect in Thorolond, Leeroy was allowed an infinite amount, the Gods willed it. The black and white shimmering orb of life, manifested with a living soul of sorts, made no sense to Leeroy. It did not matter, he was Undead and in his haste he needed as much of the stuff as he could acquire or as the Allfather Lloyd commanded, required, forcefully taking it from Undead, in the name of Gwyn our God was acceptable. No matter what, Leeroy did not want to kill living beings to acquire it, there were always other ways, though long and arduous they were. The Firelink Shrine in Lordran, where he resided, was stark, empty of life and coated with debris and broken remnants. Giant pillars and statues with faces chipped, spoilt and defaced lay scattered in the overgrown grass mounds. This once sacred place of prayer, home to a Firekeeper trapped below behind bars, comforted many a Knight, Cleric, Pyromancer and Mage, their missions to light the flame, their missions in this convoluted time had accomplished nothing but failure. Even the great King Rendal had failed. It is said by one such unknown Knight 'There is an old saying in my family… Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords… When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.'
Leeory had achieved none of these tasks, because the Church Covenant Way of the White demanded only the Rite of Kindling and Leeroy vowed to find it. The flame before him, everlasting with a Firekeeper present, still needed to be stoked. And the Rite of Kindling furthered the use of offering humanity into the flame and it would grow oh so great, enveloped with yellow, orange and red flames until tipped with a bright raging crimson hue.
Within the rounded basin pit, the flame, piled in the middle, lit up the features on the desecrated statues faces. The dark and light fought and through the rising embers, lingering phantoms appeared then disappeared as if never there; aspiring Undead heroes attempting to save the lost land of Gods, of Lordran.
A long time ago, maybe a century, or a century more, the world was filled with great Archtree's, housing the eternal dragons which roamed the earth. There was an ever presence of darkness and one cannot see without light, thus the flame emerged to enlighten the lost stragglers beneath Earth's crust. Fire roared into existence and with the flame humans emerged, small insignificant creatures compared to the Gods. The Gods, giants of men, were armed with sword and devastating magic. Within the flame they found the Lord souls, great clumps of fiery souls with immense power, they wielded them and fought the dragons, tearing them down from the skies. They worked together, Gwyn fired bolts of lightning, Nito unleashed devastating miasmas, the witch Izalith burnt the Archtree's to the ground and one scale-less dragon, betrayed his own kin, which lead to the Gods eventual victory. Then came the Age of Fire and the ensuing history is set in stone, it meant little to Leeroy though. He only wanted Thorolund to prosper, he wasn't selfish, but if Thorolund could become stable he could then venture out to save other accursed lands.
Within the tall strands of green moist grass, the one place in Lordran where nature could stay its course, lay Leeroys great boulderesque weapon, Grant. A giant indestructible weapon of devastation, the rock solid iron shaped boulder was tightly linked to a metal and wooden balanced shaft. It required great strength to wield it, he had trained long and hard to swing it with versatility. It also required the utmost Faith as it was a weapon of divinity and possessed the ability to crush Skeletons of the Catacombs and keep them from reassembling. Sanctus, a standard Kite shield imbued with a rejuvenating green healing spell lay next to him, a bulbous round metal dome held it firmly together and could be used to ram enemies when in inextricable circumstances. Its face was green, with a turquoise stream that ran between the gaps, and decorated around the center were delicately painted, intricate white petals. The Way of the White had given him all their new toys and armour to destroy the perpetually brewing evil in the Catacombs. His Paladin armour shone gold in the reflection of the fire, dancing flames lit up the carvings etched into his shoulder and chest pieces. His adorned circular jewels that hung from his chest plate lit up, flames circled around the edges like a hurricane forming in the ocean. Bright finely cut white cloth dangled over his midriff, newly sown, with a few loose pieces of thread here and there which hung in the breeze. It hadn't been trimmed so well, Leeroy started to pull at the thread, only to tighten the cloth and make the situation worse.
He left it and laid back in the soft, comforting grass. He seldom felt this alone as he stared into the sparse clouds barely visible in the open sea blue sky. He wondered if that's how he'd end up, just another Hollow wandering aimlessly, but he shouldn't have, god was his companion, ever watchful, ever merciful, he would be exalted. The hope of men and gods rested on his shoulders. He removed his arrowhead tipped helmet, he ran his finger across the fine narrow slit which ran across the face; a design created to protect his eyes, but severely hampered his vision. The surrounding reinforced plating protected his brow, nose and mouth, it was blessed with divine intervention to protect him from Necromancy. Sweat dribbled from the base of the helmet as he lay it on its side, he let his black greasy hair flay out across the grass and cool in the breeze. His eyes became thinner and he blinked less as he slowly slipped into reverie.
The next few days lingered on at a dawdling pace, it felt like forever as he sat at the simmering fire and contemplated his sacrosanct mission. He went over the information that was given to him about the Catacombs, there was not a lot to go by as every explorer who ventured in, never returned. He went over strategies and what he'd learnt in his training, but really he was just stalling.