Knight-Errant Artorias

I'll probably not follow a continuous storyline throughout this piece of writing. The Dark Souls universe is not insignificant in size and spans multiple disconnected timeframes, so I'll likely pick up on separate storylines that take my fancy as things turn up. For my first story arc though, we'll be focusing on my so-far favourite character, Artorias.

The stench of the Great Swamp filled his nostrils and stuck to the insides of his armour. It was hot. The water ran to his waist and with each step a little more slime oozed into his boots. The bugs snapped and zipped in the trees amid the calls of birds and other beasts. Incessant chirruping filled the air with echoes like those from the walls of a cave. It made the space claustrophobic. Still Artorias trudged on. He wore full armour, save for his helmet, which hung from a strap on his waist. Though it would not have troubled him to wear it despite the sickening humidity, he preferred the wider field of vision afforded by travelling with his head bare; there were undead here. Though rare, it was said that the curse of the undead was spreading, and that a fully hollowed enemy was ferocious and paid no heed to pain or injury. Other twisted and fallen things were banished to the swamp too; those who practised the primal art of pyromancy, demons escaped from the ruins of Izalith and creatures warped by the touch of the Bed of Chaos. Artorias was wary of such foes. He had faith in his battered and rusty armour, he had faith in his towering greatshield, but he did not come here to fight undead monsters and demons. The greatsword slung across his back was not for them. It was for the creature who had fought Lord Gwyn and lived, a vast monster, a survivor of the war, and one of the last of its kind, still said to have one of Gwyn's sunlight spears embedded in its flesh. Thus, in Anor Londo it was named Ansgar, God-spear. In this country, however, it was called another name: King Dragon Akaash, vast as the sky.

Artorias trudged through the swamp. His granite black eyes cut a straight path ahead. He ran a gauntleted palm along the hilt of his sword. Once again, he thought. Once again, we will be hunting dragons.

The End

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