The Chosen sat on a worn bench near the Sunlight Altar and crossed his arms. He played this question in his head multiple times in the past. At first, he thought it was because he had the iron will and ultimate resolve to accomplish the task. However, once he saw how the Four Knights fell so low, and how those with the strength of lords degenerated into weakened, pathetic states that even the Chosen could kill, he began to think otherwise.
He had died so many times, yet unlike all other soldiers and warriors, he never went fully hollow. He never lost himself to the lack of humanity that clawed at him, or the dangers of the Abyss and its dark magic. Was his will stronger than Artorias? Was he greater than any legend in Lordran? The Chosen did not think he alone had the power to accomplish the succession or death of Gwyn, and those toothy serpents did not help in making his mind clear. And above all else, he wanted no part of either fate. To succeed Gwyn and use his own flesh and blood as kindling, or to kill him and leave the world a dead husk of itself, he desired neither. Yet… It seemed that he was the only one able to do anything.
“Destiny,” he simply uttered, and he stood up and walked toward the bonfire, warping away to an unknown place.
OOC: Drawing a serious blank on what to RP on for Dark Souls, so I’ll write more drabble with the Demon’s Souls nightmares that the Chosen has. The Dragon God was fun to write, and I get to make the Chosen feel powerless, which is always fun (at least to me).
Conniving, deceitful, dangerous.
OOC: When I have the time, I’ll narrate my roleplaying. I really want to practice my narration and voices so I can get better at voice acting in general. Besides, it’ll make my RP stand out. Hopefully.
His armor was different. His pyromancy was gone, though he retained some spells and miracles. All he saw was a gate of fog before him and the heavy breath of some fiendish creature that echoed behind it. The air was hot and thick, and the room had the bones of enormous beasts that had long been dead. The steps leading up to the fog gate were cracked and old, and the entire gate appeared to be an entrance to a shrine of some sort.
Although a sensation of dread washed over him, the Chosen One walked forth through the fog gate. What he met was a great monster of immense proportions. Parts looked like that of a dragon, others looked like a demon. As he treaded further, the beast unleashed a deafening roar and the earth shook. The Chosen One ran to a pillar for support and hid there.
The bellowing stopped. The Undead peered out from behind the pillar and carefully walked forward. Yet the dragon noticed him, and it pounded on the shrine with great ferocity. The knight lost his footing and fell onto the ground, and the dragon raised its arm and smashed its fist against the shrine. A burst of flame and pressure erupted from the mighty beast, and the burning air cut through the Chosen One’s fluted armor, tearing flesh and sinew, shattering bone and knocking him down. He could not feel nor breath, and the shrine grew dim as his crumpled form lay upon the earth.
He woke with a jump. Fear and adrenaline coursed through him as he eyed the familiar surroundings of the Demon Ruins. The crackling magma and the whispers of the Egg Carriers were all he heard. It must have been a twisted dream, though it seemed so very real. With a sigh of a relief, he relaxed his body and closed his eyes. He’d remain in the ruins for only a spell longer…