My name is Pyralis. Milibeth recommended I make those the first words in this book. The caretaker seemed concerned for me — more than those old women were. Fire Keepers, she called them. She handed me this book — journal, she called it a journal — with a hope that it will keep me sane. Unhollowed.
I wish I had something more to write here. She said to record what I can, and yet. Well. I suppose she said these things would take time.
I do not remember anything, truly, from before I awoke in that hovel. I have these sensations. My swords feel right in my hands; the sign of a practiced warrior, according to one of the Fire Keepers. I hear sounds — the waterfall outside the hovel, the crackling of fire, the aroma of a hearty soup, the crash of waves below Majula — and I feel like I’ve heard them before. Perhaps I have. None seem too unique.
With names, too. Drangleic. I feel this cold burning in my chest, and I feel the need to… hide away. Shalquoir named it for me (beautiful and strange creature she is, she said she smelt it on me.) — shame. Something about being in this place, in Drangleic, it. Hm. I can’t describe it. Lenigrast scolded me for keeping my hood up when talking to him, but… I don’t want to be seen. By who or what is what I don’t understand.
Majula, too, was a name I felt a connection to. Faint, but a spark is there. Maybe I had heard it before. Oddly, I have only encountered that feeling when I approached the not-Fire Keeper for the first time. She was the first I saw when I arrived, and.
When she turned, I swore there was that same vague spark of recognition. And maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I thought I saw something cross her face, too. An expression. Did mine in turn? I do not know.
Saulden says she isn’t a Fire Keeper. She simply guides poor souls like us to a shared goal. I sat with him for a while, and he told me of what I should do. I’ve taken to calling her ‘the herald’. I was workshopping some variation of ‘shepherd’, but Lenigrast said none of them were quite as good as ‘herald’.
The blacksmith needs me to find a key for him. He seems. abrasive, but I feel like he means well. Saulden agrees, though he told me to keep an eye on the other two residents in Majula. Shalquoir, the adorable talking cat, and Maughlin. The herald called her a ‘thing’. Maybe she’s simply never seen a cat before?
I must have. I was entranced by her elegant aura at once. Maybe I had a cat at some point, because I moved immediately to hold her a specific way. She said it was nice, but insisted I put her down.
Maughlin, however. he seems timid. Unsure; on the edge of forgetting something. Everything, maybe. Shalquoir said he was an Undead like me. Yet, he spoke of a home and a past. I cannot recall either. Perhaps he is at a less advanced stage?
More to the point, he was selling wares. Lenigrast huffed when I told him that; apparently his are stuck in the smithy. Among the weapons that felt odd in my hands and shields much too heavy for me, I found he had a surplus of armors that felt… familiar.
I held the padded wool coat (a gambeson, Lenigrast told me with his usual huff) up to the light and felt… a strange sensation. In my very Soul, I felt as though I needed it to be whole again. I told him I would be back for it when I could afford it. Something about it felt… right.
Tomorrow I begin the journey laid before me by the Fire Keepers, the herald, and Saulden. The herald and the Way of Blue advocate spoke of a forest of giants, where a fort once stood. It… felt right. It also heightened that feeling Shalquoir had dubbed ‘shame’. He recommended I start there, though he doesn’t know what I will find.
I know not either. Yet I will start there. I have no desire for anything else; my Soul pulls me that way.
All I have, I have stored in a small tent near the sea side. For now, it will be enough to keep me protected. Inevitably, I cannot drag my feet on confronting whatever is repelling me from the old fort. I will need souls, seemingly for everything.
Majula… a place where life is ‘almost normal’. Maughlin had called it ‘small’. I find it… familiar. Comfortable.
I am Pyralis. Tomorrow, I go to the forest of giants, to take my first steps on the road to breaking this curse.
Journal of an Immolated Wolf is an epistolary fanfic based on my experiences replaying Dark Souls II: Scholar of the First Sin in the Year of Our Lord. Feel free to check (the masterpost here)
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A Scandalous Breakout; The Serpent of Carngrad Walks Free Again!
In an absolutely shocking turn of events in the distant and blighted realm of Eightpoints, the trial of the era saw an unforgettable postponement this morning during the pre-trial process. What was at first believed to be a swarm of petty raiders turned out to be masking a far deadlier foe in their plume of dust - a great force of mechanical abominations direct from the City of Carngrad!
It is believed that the city acquired these mechanical horrors shortly before the infamous Serpent of Carngrad - Khvath Slaveborn - returned to the city after many years of absence. Following his every order, it is speculated that these metal abominations were critical in the Serpent's recent securing of the city's streets.
Curiously, no two units of machine were found to be the same. Although the dual Stormcast forces of the Order of the Path's End and the Sojourners of Indraga were able to crush many of the rampaging machines, they reported that the force varied wildly from crude greenskin and Skaven technology to machines far more advanced than should be possible on the world stage of the Mortal Realms.
Although the battle was long and hard, in the end, Slaveborn's considerable Carngrad force was able to burn the Order of the Path's End's courthouse and secure the Serpent before justice could be meted out. He is currently presumed to be hiding back in his blighted Bloodwind Spoil city and its many hideouts, although the Knight responsible for representing Khvath in court - whose name is here anonymized for public safety concerns - suggests that he may be headed for another of his numerous safehouses throughout the Mortal Realms.
Readers of the Hammerhal Herald, from our home in Aqshy and Ghyran to our informed patrons in Hysh, Shyish, Chamon, and beyond, are advised to keep watch for the sinister workings of the Serpent of Carngrad. Any sightings of the notorious Eightpoints criminal are to be reported immediately to your local Freeguild, temple, or Stormkeep.
--From the Hammerhal Herald, dated mid-late Spring, mid-late Era of Ruin
Things have settled into a relative peace since the excursion to Duskwood, and I have been making what efforts I can to enjoy it. There is a surreal absurdity to be found in the quiet, lonesome moments of reflection and tranquility, the persisting notion that there is a malevolence looming beyond the bounds of our knowledge and accumulating in power. But for the moment there is little to do as we investigate for a path forward, and in the aftermath of our last encounter it would be wise to temper preparation with recovery, though for the moment I find my training beset by shades of distraction, a quivering in my focus that strays my blade from its true path.
Deh'meva, Red Lily, accepted to join me for an afternoon in Zandalar, and it was refreshing in a way I had not anticipated. She rode with me on Xochi out into Zuldazar, where we stopped to parcel off an offering of gratitude to an old brutosaur that inexplicably came to my aid years past during the height of the Empire's turmoil, when the Nazmani's foul god had only just been vanquished, and the Alliance was encroaching on our home. She seemed to like Meva, judging by the way she bumped my friend up off the ground so gently with her nose, and Meva in kind seemed to enjoy meeting such a noble and driven beast.
From there we flew further north, to the bound of the Savage Lands, where I've erected the closest thing I've claimed to a home in some time. It is a remote place, but I enjoy the quiet and the solitude, and there are no city lights to disrupt the night dark when it washes over Zandalar. Meva accompanied me to my home, such as it is, and opted to spend time in my humble garden while I prepared us a meal. I know that horticulture is one of Zandalar's less well known, but more outstanding pleasures, but I must confess my roaming does not give me the time to tend to it that I would like, and I was a touch nervous she would find the blooms and herbs to be middling, unimpressive. I was both disappointed and relieved to be working at the stove as she occupied herself on its simple path, for while I found myself possessed of an unexpected want to admire her among the humble bounty I have cultivated, I was also spared any disappointment she may not have had the opportunity to cover up.
When things were ready and I stepped out to let her know she had already sat herself by the fire pit, and had selected for herself a small collection of yucca flowers, with another bloom tucked over her ear. It was a queer thing, the way I froze as if struck by an unanticipated blow at the sight of her, for surely I felt winded as if I had been thumped in my breast, yet with a surge of blood erupting through me that made everything feel...electric. I did not move till the flower over her ear shifted out of place, at which point I lunged forward to correct it in the same instant she made to. Our hands touched, and though I had held her during her affliction to bring Hi'reek's darkness over her to ease her burden, this caught my heart in my throat like a fist.
I told her she was beautiful, and something about this made me nervous, so I clarified that I meant with the flower, though this changed nothing and was perhaps embarrassing of me to say. She remarked that I sound beautiful, for naturally she can not know my face by sight, and so I unthinkingly offered to let her touch my face and know it.
It had been a week since the Shattered Elysium's crash, and the hospital was still in shambles. The once-sterile floors were littered with debris and bloodstains, and the air was heavy with the smell of burnt metal and smoke. The sound of medical equipment beeping and whirring filled the air, mixed with the soft whispers of nurses and doctors who moved around the room.
Vaerin lay in his bed, still unconscious, his chest rising and falling with the help of a respirator. His wounds had been treated, but the damage had been severe, and the doctors were unsure if he would ever wake up again. Despite the state of him, Sylris was the only one outside of the doctors to slip in, resting a firm hand on the Knight’s shoulder and studying him intently.
“You wake up, Vaerin. You don’t get to die yet.” The Crusader whispered, golden eyes narrowing a bit.
The hospital staff had been working around the clock since the crash, doing their best to care for the injured and treat the sick. Some of them had been injured themselves in the chaos, but they had soldiered on, driven by their dedication to their patients.
(TW: Injury, bloodstains, medical supplies.)
The crash had been a disaster of unprecedented proportions, and the hospital had been overwhelmed by the number of injured. It had taken several days for other hospitals in the area to get up and running again, and in the meantime, this hospital had been the only one available for miles around. The staff had done their best, but they had been stretched thin, and the patients had suffered for it.
In the aftermath of the crash, the hospital had become a makeshift command center, with military personnel and emergency services personnel coming and going at all hours of the day and night. There had been press conferences and briefings, and the hospital staff had been called on to provide updates on the injured and to give details about the crash.
Now, seven days later, the hospital was finally starting to return to normal. The debris had been cleared away, and the bloodstains had been scrubbed clean. The staff had a chance to catch their breath, and the patients were starting to be discharged. The ventilator was removed from Vaerin, the doctors optimistic his body no longer required the assistance.
On the eighth day, things within the hospital had continued to return to normal. Vaerin's eyes shot open as he suddenly returned to consciousness, a sharp inhale followed by violent coughing. The room was sterile and cold, with the pungent smell of disinfectant overwhelming his senses. Blinking rapidly, he tried to sit up, but the sharp pain that ripped through his side caused him to gasp in agony.
"Don't move, Vaerin," a gentle voice said from beside him, and he turned his head to see Paithien Runeara, one of the healers from The Order, standing over him. "You've been through a lot. Just rest for now." She added, lifting a glass of water to the Knight’s lips.
Vaerin drank greedily, as if he’d been left in the desert for days, before he looked down at himself and saw that his chest was tightly wrapped in bandages, and his left wrist was heavily bandaged as well. He winced as he shifted slightly, feeling the pain shoot through his body. "What happened?" he managed to ask, his voice hoarse and strained.
The Priestess sighed heavily, her expression somber. "Your airship went down over Tanaris," she said. "The Order retrieved you, but you were badly injured. You have three broken ribs, a concussion, a punctured lung, and a large gash in your wrist from a piece of jagged pipe that you were impaled on."
Vaerin's mind raced as he tried to remember what had happened. He had been on a mission for The Order, investigating reports of a... He paused, eyebrows furrowing. He remembered the chaos and the fear, the sound of metal tearing and the smell of smoke and blood, but not why he was there in the first place.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will the memories back. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, looking up at the Priestess. "What now?" he questioned.
"Now, you rest and heal," Paith said firmly. "You're lucky to be alive, Vaerin. You need time to recover."
Vaerin nodded, feeling the exhaustion wash over him. He closed his eyes, his mind drifting as he tried to find some measure of peace. His body slumped back into the hospital bed, head falling to the side as he lapsed back into sleep.
The Priestess straightened up, brushing Vaerin’s hair back from his face and making her way to a table, picking up a communicator and speaking into it.
“Admiral, Vaerin woke up. If you could reach out to Warden Silverflame-Bloodhawk, Commander Ashfeather and Wing Commander Ith’valin to inform them, I’m sure they’d be appreciative.” She requests, before setting the device down and slipping from the room.
( @heartpiercer, @thesilvercrusader @thestarsfury for brief mentions.)
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She wept in the corner as we spoke, the Young Blade having walked off in disgust at me; the Machinist, afar, intentionally avoiding my words; my reflection, mocking us as she showed "friendship;" the Magiteknologist and Chirurgeon, trying to force my reflection to show her hand.
And in the corner, she wept, despairing that she caused great trouble, that she had made any of hate her, that she had done some great wrong both by seeking justice for me and by, incidentally, bringing my dark reflection back to the Tower.
We were able to pull her back from it, with calm words of love and trust and, perhaps, the connection of the ring she and I both wear. But I remained trembling, nonetheless. She is so loved. She told me she has so much to live for, that while she cared naught for her life before, she sees meaning and purpose in it now. That she could be drawn into a darkness that might have consumed her once again...
The thought is a heavy weight to bear.
, Y.
The edge of the page is oddly frayed and bleached, as if it were exposed to some sort of dissolving magick.
She has returned to work after many days of a cold forge.
It is rather impressive to see how easily she shuts herself from the outside world, turning to the drawing board and immersing herself in ideas, calculations, and the swift strokes of the pencil - before she transplants it all to the data terminals.
It is also confusing. Every time I manage to look into her eyes, I detect a different emotion. She has been on edge since some of her words brought a revelry of pain to those around her, or so I surmised after hearing her drunken admission. When the topic of visiting the Moon appeared, there was excitement. Upon her return, concern. Her eyes recently glinted with childish glee during the journey to the Crystal Tower, a place she admires greatly. Back at the forge, I could identify the fear in those same eyes, hints of despair, and of weakness.
I asked her about it. She pretended not to hear me.
I asked her about it again. She said she was fine.
I dared ask one more time.
She hugged me. And cried tearlessly, the only way she can. She spoke of earnest fear. Of confusion. Of freezing when she was needed; of facing things she has no easy answer to; of trying to avoid her old ways as she promised she would, and worrying she will fail.
