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Dark Soles

Chapter 1

Sponsored by Rickochet

By Draconicon

The First Flame cast two things from its resting place: the light that many saw and even worshiped, and the shadows that they feared. As long as the Flame burned, the shadows were kept at bay, and the world - and its many reflections - shimmered and flickered happily, dancing in the glow of the Fire.

But as the Flame faded, the shadows grew in number. Though not all were as dark as the first shadows, they were sufficient to dim the reflections of the true world, and to push those that lived in them to the brink. Little by little, the gray began to settle among the worlds of Flame and Light, and slowly but surely, the vibrancy of the Flame was pushed towards the center.

The Undead began to rise once more, marked by the Darksign and scoured by it as evidence of their name stacked up. The more they died, the less living they appeared, leaving their mortality behind bit by bit, and becoming ever less distinct. The gray shadows of the edge of existence settled on them, draining them.

And as the Fire faded, the Undead rose. Some worlds chose to embrace it, while others were overcome with it, and still others chose to fight. Whether for the right to exist, the right to retain what they had, or for any other reason that came to them, they chose to fight, and as they did, some flickers of light remained, drawn ever closer to the center, to the First Flame, to the Fire.

It is the stories of these flickering flames, and their desperate journey toward the Flame, that will be chronicled here.

The story of Kaolix, the raccoon pyromancer of Vinheim, who chose fire rather than glittering magic and paid the price.

The tale of Alfar, a black cat and frail knight, whose faith drives him to find the gods and make them fix what they've broken.

The revenge of Romund, a skunk Undead who was the first - and certainly not the last - sent to rot in the Undead Asylums of the north.

The saga of Cilwein, a wolf hunter of the Eastern Lands whose secrets of Undeath were discovered in the bloodstains on her fur, who was sentenced to exile without trial.

Their stories, and those of Eihmund, Tuwulf, Baldred, Nero, Brychan, and Rebecca, all follow the same strand: to flee the Asylum, and to find the Flame. But why, and how? Well...that will be up to them...

#

It was a moment shared between many, though few knew it at the time. Burnt flesh, pained skin, tattered fur, broken bodies, all marked by pain and death and death and death again, yet they looked up at the same creaking sound. A hole in the ceiling and a flash of light too long denied to eyes used to the darkness, then a body falling with a crashing thump with a glittering light sticking out of the back of the still shape.

Some eyes remained on the body; others looked up. Kaolix's was one of them, and he saw the armored figure looking down at him for a split second before the distant roar took its attention away. The hole in the ceiling sealed once more, and he was alone.

"...That looked like a key," the raccoon said as he got to his feet, wincing as he took his first step. "Unless I'm seeing things again. Gods, I hope I'm not seeing things again."

Everything ached on a low to moderate level, though at least the tight, hot feeling that ran through his flesh at all times was something that he was a little more accustomed to. Having learned pyromancy in an incredibly loose and undisciplined fashion, the raccoon had long-since been used to the feeling of being burned to some degree. Yeah, it was a bit of a different sensation carrying that burn feeling from head to toe under his fur and the soft scratch-scratch pain that the fur carried with it, but he had grown accustomed to it.

Mostly. Walking still hurt with the oversensitive pads beneath his bare feet. The scraps of his robes had long since become pointless with the lack of company. If he'd had any visitors, perhaps he might have been able to get out.

Probably not, though. Most people didn't have a thing for post-bonfire chic.

Shaking his head, Kaolix knelt beside the body, running his fingers over the spot he'd seen the reflection. The dim lights did him no favors, but his fingers soon found the hidden bump beneath the corpse's clothing. He blinked as he slowly withdrew it, his hand shaking as he realized what he'd been given.

It was a key. A hard, heavy iron key, suitable for nothing more than the cell doors of this prison. The raccoon's breath caught in his throat, and like so many others, his face twitched as his lips curled back in a smile. His hand clenched ever tighter around the key until it hurt, the teeth at the tip nearly cutting into his palm. He seized hold of that feeling, focusing on it until he could stop panting.

"Finally...finally."

The raccoon forced himself to his feet, looking at the cell door that had taunted him for...gods, he no longer remembered how long. The bars showed a torch-lit corridor leading down and away. It had been months since he, or anyone else, had been allowed out of their cells. Some had been lucky enough to escape as the asylum's staff had dwindled. Others had been able to rip the cell doors open with their remaining strength.

Kaolix had done neither.

He'd been good.

Now he didn't have to be.

The raccoon stood up, adjusting what little clothing he had left. The rags that had been his robes hung ragged across his shoulders, barely reaching his knees where they had once reached his ankles. They had been regal, powerful, of high quality, but he'd had to tear them up to staunch wounds and help keep the dirt away. But...but they'd do. He'd still strike a good figure once he got out.

And if he didn't? The fire would show he was of quality.

Still barely believing it, he turned the key in the lock. The barred cell door creaked, and his lips turned up into the shakiest smile that he had ever felt cross his face, even more so than the time that he'd taunted the head of the Vinheim Dragon Academy.

"I'm free...I'm...I'm free," he whispered.

The same words rippled through existence, and for a split second, he swore he heard their echoes all around him, but no. It was just him. Just...him.

He clenched his hand tight, feeling the familiar heat of the fire burning deep down in his core. It was nothing - or near enough - without his pyromancy flame in hand, but it was still there. He hadn't lost that part of his training.

And it was better than the ragged little scrap of a sword jammed in the wall by his cell door. The raccoon stumbled forward, hissing with every step but getting used to the pain as he always did: he embraced it, experienced it, and let it teach him, teaching him better than any of the professors at the schools ever had.

There were other Undead, those that had passed where he'd fallen to and become totally Hollow. They leaned against the walls, soundlessly muttering and chittering. What clothes they had were less than scraps, barely more than loincloths, but they weren't aware of him. Kaolix held his flame tight, deciding not to waste it on them.

As he reached the midpoint of the tunnel and had to stop and rest, the roaring of the demons further on filled his ears. The raccoon turned -

"Fuck...you're a...you're a big one..."

The massive demon, more than four times taller than him and pear-shaped to the extreme, wandered an arena that was barely big enough for a couple of beings its own size. He didn't know what the demon wanted, but he knew better than to even think of tangling with it. Even if he had full control of his pyromancy -

Kaolix gritted his teeth. That was something to address later. He would not tolerate even a bit of self-doubt towards his own power. He had earned some recognition for his fire, and he would not let some demon take that away.

But later. Much later. For now...he would keep moving.

He followed the tunnel up and out, and he realized that he'd reached a courtyard. It tickled at the memories of being brought here all those years ago, and he remembered, briefly, those that had seen him then. Back when he had a lush coat of fur, when his striped tail had been a beauty, when he'd not been so ravaged by the Undead curse. Back when he could flirt and make people blush rather than leave them sick to look at him.

The memory faded quickly, and he encouraged it, burning it away with purpose as he pushed forward. He'd lost too much of his sense of himself over the years, and he doubted he'd ever have those pretty-boy looks back again. Best not to dwell on things that burned as much as the fire did.

He walked up to the bonfire and almost pushed past it, but something about the low flames licking around the base of the wood and the sword buried within it drew him closer. He felt...it was almost like a call, something that made him want to sit by it, to stare into the light and be lost in it for a time. It was like the pull of his magic, but deeper, purer, and it was nearly undeniable.

He reached out his hand, and the fire leaped up the blade. Kaolix yelped, jumping away, but the fire didn't pursue him. It did, however, remain higher than it had been, and it licked away at blade and wood contentedly.

It was only then that he realized that the fire couldn't be normal. It hadn't consumed the logs beneath the wood, nor had the blade burned with the heat of the flame. It was...unnatural. And that unnaturalness was all the more fascinating.

Get out first, then...

After making sure that the fire hadn't left him weaker - it hadn't, despite growing from his presence - the raccoon slowly spun in a circle. The Asylum itself was back the way he'd come, and so were most of the cells. The wings of the Asylum grew up and around the courtyard he stood in, and connected to the great chapel ahead. Stone doors blocked his way out, but that was his route.

He remembered being brought here all those years ago, how they'd brought him up the cliffs and handed him to the attendants and the demons of the Asylum. They'd run off after that, leaving him alone, leaving him to die again and again. Far as he could tell, they wanted the Undead to die until they turned Hollow, and then go one final time.

He'd denied them that much. So far. He hoped he could continue.

The big guy was downstairs. That should mean that there was some safety going forward. Kaolix climbed the stone steps to the chapel door and pushed.

As he did, he felt odd, as if he'd missed something, or as if there had been another choice.

#

Cilwein stood up from the bonfire, the arctic wolf leaning her head back and breathing in the cold air that blew through the courtyard. It was a distant reminder of the chill winters that blew through the mountains of her homeland, and for a moment, it eased her.

Easing her grip around the fragment of a blade that she'd taken from her cell, she looked back at the chapel. She would have preferred a bow, or anything that she was more accustomed to, but the edge would do. It would have to.

She pulled her wraps tighter over her chest as she felt the winds kick up, tightening the knots at her side and back. It was more than a gesture towards modesty; the white wolf's fur was darkened at the death-wounds in several places, and anyone that saw them, kindly or not, would know what she was. Her only chance to escape the Asylum was to get out and hope nobody realized just what she was.

The white wolf followed the same 'current' - it was not wind, nor water, but it was the only way she could explain the pressure that urged her on from her cell, as if unseen people were walking her same path - to the stone doors. She rested her hands upon them, only to pause. The 'current' pushed forward, but she waited, cracking the door no more than an inch rather than forcing them open wide.

The room ahead was dimmer than the courtyard, though not by so much that she was blinded. She made out six or eight pillars in the distance, many pots, and another set of doors at the far end. A simple glance towards the middle portion confirmed that it was locked, and likely defended. Cilwein glanced up and nodded.

"Of course," the wolf muttered.

Standing at the edge of the hole in the roof was the twin to the demon that she had seen through the bars down below. Likely waiting for anyone trying to escape, ready to kill them and send them back to the start, and feast on what they left behind.

If she'd had more resources, she would have searched the Asylum for another way forward, but she had little to her name. The inmates hadn't been fed for weeks, and she had been forced to subsist on rats to avoid dying again. She did not have the time or the energy to search for a second way forward.

So, she would have to make this one count.

Cilwein pushed the door open the rest of the way, the broken blade clenched tight between her fingers. Each step reminded her of her lack of equipment, from the rough stones biting at her feet to the feeling of the cold air blowing through her fur and touching her in places that she would not normally have allowed. She stepped forward, her head held high and proud as befitted a woman of the Eastern Lands.

Then, the soft thump of the demon jumping.

Then, the whistle of it falling.

Then, the shattering of the 'current' that had been pushing her forward. A ghostly wail made her feel as if she was bearing witness to the deaths of many that had rushed ahead and paid no attention, but she put it out of her mind. She had one chance, and she had to take it.

Whipping the blade back over her shoulder, she took aim and threw. The demon was still winding its massive club up and over its back, and as a result, had no defenses.

As it roared in pain - and she hoped that she had taken at least an eye - Cilwein charged forward. Sliding between the demon's legs, she caught sight of another flickering light off metal. A key, perhaps, but there was no time to seize it. The demon's club swept over her head, barely missing her. She had bought herself a few seconds, but that was all; she had to move quickly, to get out of his reach before he could bring the weapon to bear properly.

No way back.

No way forward.

But there was a way out. As she rolled sideways to avoid yet another sweep of the club, she saw an open archway at the side of the chapel. There was no sign of where it led, but it wasn't here, and that was sufficient.

Rolling, dodging, and backflipping to the best of her ability and feeling her body screaming at her with every step, Cilwein managed to dodge around the pillars and the demon's strikes. Her heels caught the edge of the doorframe, and she swung herself around and through it. The bars hanging from the door slammed down, and she bit off a gasp as she imagined what might have happened if she'd been any less quick through that death-trap.

The demon roared on the other side, slamming its club against the wall in rage at her defiance. The white wolf smiled ever so slightly, miming a salute with a sword that she didn't have before turning away.

The stairs down were slick with old moisture, forcing her to take it slowly. She did not mind; a hunter learned to be patient as they sought their path, and this was no different, though perhaps more deadly than the typical hunt.

Despite her patience, the cold wind in the air and the chill in the stones pushed her to move faster. Even as one of the Undead, she could die of the cold or exhaustion or a combination of the two as readily as those untouched by the curse. She had little enough of her sense of soul and self to spare; she could not afford to die now.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw one of the many Hollows of the Asylum staring at the wall. Once, she might have questioned it, offered it the chance to feed, but there was no time, and nothing to offer it. There was only one thing she could do. Cilwein leaped from the rocky steps and wrapped her arms around the Hollow's throat, depriving it of the air that even it needed -

Thwip.

The sound of a bowstring sent her spinning, and she brough the Hollow around to intercept the arrow coming right for her. The arrow took the Hollow in the chest, instead, and the archer at the far end of the new corridor paused in what little shock that Hollows were capable of feeling.

It was her one opening. Cilwein lunged down the hallway, eyes flicking left and right for any doorway, any cell that might be open. There were broken doors, shattered bars, bent barriers, but the archer was already nocking another arrow when -

There!

She leaped sideways, feeling the arrow feathers tickling one foot as she dodged out of the way. The white wolf rolled through the dirty water, grabbing something that stood out in the mess of bodies and rot. She pulled it out and had her first real smile. A bow, and with a quiver that seemed in good shape in the corner.

It was time to show them why she was a hunter. She reached for the quiver -

#

"Nnngh...come...on...now..."

Alfar panted as he dragged the two-handed sword from the pile of bodies. Perhaps it was the theft of a weapon from the dead, but they were remarkably unwilling to allow someone else to take possession of something that would defend him. The black cat gave one last pull and almost tumbled over backward as he managed to drag it free.

"Don't...drop it," the black cat told himself as he took it in two hands. "If we drop it...we might never pick it up again."

The blade had been easy, once. When he had served in the church of Astora, when he had been one of the many devotees of the Way of White and had been in line to become a paladin, wielding a blade with surety and righteousness had been simple. But that had been years ago, years in which he had been restrained to a wall and mocked for his lack of faith leading to his curse.

He wondered what they had used to excuse their own curses when it had struck them down. He pitied them, and wished that they had listened.

Alfar turned as the Hollow entered the cell, bow raised. He pulled his blade up at his side, tip to the ceiling, hands tight around the hilt.

"Step aside, and live your remaining life as you will. You need not die to my blade."

The Hollow stared at him with no more than the limited awareness of any of the others that had fallen so far. Their sense of self, their identity, that intangible thing that had once been called Humanity in the far-flung past, was gone. All they had left was the desire to keep any threat that they could find away, and aside from other Hollows, everything was a threat.

Sometimes, one could speak through the fog that surrounded them. The right tone of voice could ring a bell of hope or fear, of caution or understanding. It spoke to the heart rather than to the long-rotted head, and the Hollow could sometimes hear it and understand enough to back down.

Not this time. He could already see the arrow string tightening, and he had no choice.

Alfar stepped forward, arms and hip working together to bring the blade down harder than the bow could withstand. The weapon shattered and the Hollow fell back, lacking a forearm. Alfar turned, bringing the weapon's momentum to bear to break the Hollow's neck with the second spinning blow, and the creature fell.

"Rest. Do not rise again."

As the black cat lowered the blade, he gritted his teeth as his muscles started screaming at him. Though it was harder to see with him due to the relatively short nature of his fur, most of his muscles had withered away, and his training as a knight had fallen long by the wayside. His body remembered the movements, but it no longer had the raw strength that it once had. He would have to work to get that back.

He missed his armor. He missed his status in the past. And most of all, he missed the feeling of faith that he once had.

The black cat sighed, letting the blade's tip rest on the stone as he covered his face. He took one deep breath, then another, before levering the blade back up over his shoulder. The rusted chunks of plate that he still had left clanged under the blade, and he nodded to himself.

"Forward. We can fix this. Forward."

And so he marched, pushing through the tunnel to a cistern. There were few Hollows to face after the archer, but what there were turned out to be more active, more aggressive than the others in the hallways prior. They must have died many, many times, and the demons that wandered the halls must have fed extensively on them to drain them to this point. Nobody south of the asylums had ever been seen at this point.

Or...they hadn't yet...

Alfar shook his head, not wanting to think about that. He was so far north and so disconnected with the happenings of the lands of the gods far to the south that he didn't know what had happened since he'd been locked up. No, that was wrong; since he'd volunteered to be locked up. The last good thing that he'd done as a knight, following the doctrine and allowing himself to be imprisoned for his 'sins.'

The black cat shook his head again as he crossed the half-filled cistern, grabbing the ladder on the other side and starting his climb. There was so much to think about, so much that he'd have to figure out when it came down to it. If he was able to make his escape, then what would he do?

Lordran.

He would have to go to Lordran. The gods lived there, and if he could find them...

The idea that a mere mortal could convince a deity to do anything was ridiculous, but it was his only hope. The gods had abandoned all those that worshiped them, abandoned their responsibilities as masters of mortals. They must pick it up again. They must fix what they had broken.

As he climbed slowly, weighed down by the blade on his back, it felt that he was nonetheless buoyed up by something else, some unseen presence that was making its way out of the cistern just as he was. It felt like a gentle push, a reminder that he was on the right track.

Eventually, the cistern brought him up to a different place. He paused as he looked around, following the narrow hallway down to a balcony. It overlooked the same courtyard that he had just lit the bonfire in, and he shook his head as he saw that the doors were closed, again. Going through from that direction would just invite another near-death experience, and it would not behoove him to hand such an advantage to a demon again.

He stepped back, looking to his right. There was a set of stairs going up that direction, and that might prove beneficial. The black cat followed the path to it -

Rumble.

Rumble.

Rumble.

"...Oh no."

A great black stone rattled out of the darkness and slammed into him, knocking him backwards and into the stone wall behind him. It came with such force and heft that the stone crumbled, and his armor almost did the same.

As he was rolled head over heels backwards, coming to an abrupt stop in the cracked pile of stone on the other side of the wall, Alfar wondered just how he had managed to offend the gods such that they would do these things to him. The black cat worked against the boulder, eventually rolling it off him, only to hear another groan from his left. It was a knight, a fox, dressed in thick armor that had been dented in by something far mightier than the boulder that had taken him off his feet, and the knight bled from his mouth.

"Ugh...guess...guess the demon was a bit much...but...at least I didn't suffer that embarrassment, heh," the fox knight said, shaking his head.

"...You were the soul that set me free," Alfar said, standing up and immediately wincing, cupping his side. "Oof. My...My apologies. It...hurt."

"Don't apologize. It's...ah. It's nearly my end, already. I misjudged...the timing."

Alfar shook his head, half-bent over as he reached out to take the fox's armored hand. The knight squeezed his hand.

"I'm Oscar. Oscar of Astora."

"Alfar, of the same."

"Heh...quite a pickle we're in...I'll die soon, then lose my sanity. Too many times...too many tries."

"Is there no hope?" Alfar asked.

"Not for me...but perhaps for you. We're both Undead. Have you heard this? '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...'"

"I have not...but I shall remember."

"That is all...all I can ask." Oscar nodded. "But take these. Estus Flasks, an Undead favorite. Maybe...maybe they'll do better for you, than me."

The fox nodded at his waist, where five bottles of orange fluid hung. Alfar nodded, taking them and sipping one. Almost instantly, the pain at his side faded.

"Now go. I would hate to harm you after death. Go...and thank you."

Alfar bowed his head -

#

The soft 'ulk' of death came twice, first with the death of the fox, and then after, when he started to rise with the gray eyes of a Hollow. Romund shook his head, the skunk wiping the blood off his claws before tucking the Estus Flasks to a strip of cloth that functioned as a belt over his loincloth.

"There. Now you will harm no-one."

Brutal, perhaps, but there would have been no saving this Oscar once he Hollowed. Not without more resources than existed in most of the world.

With proper healing tools, however, there was a way forward for him. And, perhaps, for those others that wandered, ghostlike, through the Asylum.

He passed them on his way down the stairs and up them, unlocking one door after another. The silvery figures were almost physical, detailed down to the last strand of fur, and Romund could not help but be fascinated with them. They were unlike the rest of the creatures that he'd fought within the Asylum prison. They, unlike the Hollows and Oscar, were still sane. They had not been here for so long.

Not so long. Not like him.

Romund stopped in his tracks, reaching one hand to the side of his head. He dug his finger-claw into his flesh, just enough to make it hurt but not enough to make it bleed. Picturing the offending thought that would get in the way with grievance, anger, humiliation, fear, he pulled his finger back, and flicked it away as if he had just thrown said thought to the wind. It was enough for the moment.

Once his routes were open, leading back to the bonfire and then up to the upper levels, he took the stairs up. The near-naked skunk was immediately set upon by another Hollow, likely the same one that had pushed the boulder down the stairs. He side-stepped the clumsy swipes of a dagger, kicked the Hollow's knee, and swatted it with his club, sending it falling head over heels down the opposite side of the stairs. It cracked and crumbled upon landing, and he felt the same slow surge of energy that he'd felt with every other death in this place.

Souls.

Self.

The dregs, of course, nothing more than what was left to sustain life in a moving body, what remained when the demons were done, but enough to keep him sane. And that was what was important.

Romund followed the passage to the outside balcony, removing the threat of the other Hollows that occupied it - including sending the archer over the side - before sitting down to stare at the wall of fog between him and the interior of the chapel. The skunk folded his hands, resting his chin on them as he just...watched.

None of the phantoms that he'd seen had been aware of him just yet, but he'd seen them since leaving the cell. One by one, they'd appeared, some of them appearing but once and never being seen again, while others passed by several times. Some eight or nine had appeared many times, passing him or going back, and he watched for them now.

A raccoon.

A wolf.

A cat.

There were more, six more, but those three were the most focused. They'd run up through the balcony, sweeping their weapons and fire through those that stood before them, only to run for the fog door and jump through. An echo of a scream that was not quite there followed, and then, a few minutes later, they would be back, running right through the same motions once more. Slightly different, experimental at times, but always with the same end-goal, always running through that door once more.

The demon was killing them, which meant that it had a good chance of killing him. There was little point in fighting it on his own in that case, even now that he had a better weapon. He needed something...or someone...more.

We all face the same thing. But how to draw it closer? How to all face it at once?

That was the hard question. All Romund could think of was that they were strongest, and most clear, when they were all doing the same thing. Two dagger-fighters leaping through the air were clearer and more distinct than an archer on one end and a horse sorceress at the other.

But there was something else. Every so often, a ghost would come through that was different from the others. Not the white ghost of someone moving forward with purpose or the red one of someone about to die, but one that was tinged with black along their form, whose outline was trembling with darkness. They moved with distracted motions, usually with one hand down between their legs, and they were obviously panting. Something in their universe had done something to them, something that he didn't understand. As he studied the ghosts, several that had been white took on the same black marks, and he knew that it was spreading. Soon, it might reach him.

That, more than anything else, spurred him into motion. He walked from one side of the balcony to the other, picking up rubble that had been strewn across the place, and carried them to certain points. Here, for the sorceress that stuck to the back, to force her to move forward and be in the same areas as the others. Here, to slow down the acrobatics of the white wolf hunter. Here, to force the Hollows to appear at the door rather than where they stood normally.

His hopes that the worlds would change to reflect each other bore fruit. The ghosts appeared again, and this time, they started to shine brighter as they stepped forward more in sync with each other. Here and there, some turned to face one another, and others turned as if they'd heard something. They were close. So close.

They just needed one last thing. And for that, he'd join them.

Romund stood up and waited at the fog wall. The other ghosts all filed in - a cat, a wolf, a raccoon, a hyena, a rabbit, a mare, a bat, an otter, and a crow - and he joined them as they all stepped through the fog wall together.

The world shuddered around them, and for a moment, it all twisted up. He felt like he was falling, flying, disappearing, coming together, and Romund seized on that, pulling all the other feelings of others to him rather than letting him go somewhere else. The world came together once more, with him and all the others standing together, physically, on a small platform overlooking the demon.

"With me," Romund said. He leaped over, and the others followed, and ten cursed Undead fell together on a very, very surprised Asylum Demon.

It had no chance, and it knew it.

The End

Summary: A parody of Dark Souls, focusing on the journeys of ten different Chosen Undead. This chapter introduces four of them, and brings us to the death of the Asylum Demon.

Tags: No Sex, Partial Nudity, Dark Souls, Introduction, Parody, Seriousness, Anthro, Furry, Zombies, Series, Sponsored, Various Species, Skunk, Cat, Wolf, Raccoon,