The Slave Knight, Gael (2)

Gael cut. He tore. He stabbed. He ripped. And he took their souls. In search of the dark soul.

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By this point in time, the ashen one had long since laid claim to Lothric, setting forth his own age. Gael instead had been seeking in distant lands for fragments of the dark soul, but gathering it was hard work. At first he only killed the rogue warriors. They were easy to pick off and had a high likelihood of containing fragments. He would kill them in clean battles, and try not to disrespect them in death. But it was not enough. Battle after battle seeped in death and the tiniest wisps of the dark soul as reward for his time. He grew encumbered.

So, he turned to fighting stronger opponents. Lords, legends, dungeons, he seeked them all and he made sure to kill them all. He would ensure they didn't get away and made sure he extracted the dark soul with care and stored in in the depths of himself, the safest place he could keep it. But, as he fought time and time again, time fought back. The cracks had begun to show. He would struggle to remember who he was and where he came from. Even names began to fade from his mind. But it was okay, as long as this image never left his mind.

A cold, dark and very gentle place.

One that would make... a goodly home for him some day.

At some point his aged, greying body had swollen up in restored youth. His body began to reform itself in order to better contain and the dark soul and it surmised size was the way to do so. He had near doubled in height and tripled in width. But his mind continued to crumble. He no longer spent the care and time with his battles. Resorting to ending battle fast and taking in the dark soul the fastest way he could. Digestion. He had eventually taken a hobby in using his perfected physique to master other forms of combat, and settle on an Ultra Greatsword. A hulking sword that weighed just less than he could swing and one that made use of his hulking strength. He grew tired, but to him all was fine as long as he remembered the picture.

A lonely girl with long white hair curled up behind her stool. A painting before her. The light danced playfully around her, as if the spirits themselves were waiting to see this world she was sculpting.

And at some point, Gael could no longer think. A task had remained engraved into his being and it would remain all he could and would ever be able to do. Take the dark soul. And take he did. The flames of the world rose and shrunk, like the winds of time fluttering by. Yet Gael never grew weaker, like a cancer of the old world, his hold on living as an immortal never faded. The mighty had perished and all that remained were the old. But he could not rest. The girl... The girl he could no longer remember was waiting patiently, for Uncle Gael to return. Yet the Red Hood was all that remained.

The Red Hood sat and stared forward. The ashes of this world sifted through its cloth and a Greatsword lay grasped tightly in the thing's fingers. The scent of the Dark Soul remained strong but it could no longer identify where it came from, the smell would plague its thoughts yet it could not find where it came from so it chose to wait for the fragment to appear before itself. More eons passed. And then, it happened. A flash of light and a great disturbance near the edges of the world like a section of frozen time had been rudely dropped back into place. Ripples of causality settling the mishap back into place. And with it came a new Dark Soul. A soul with a powerful scent, one that tickled the nose hairs. But one, that couldn't hide the Dark Soul from Gael. He rose and settled into a bestial sprint. Using his whole body as a spring that compressed and snapped to launch himself forward at speeds that collided with the air particles hard enough to spark flame. But the flame had come and gone from this world. He found a city, one shaped like a ring that had gone unnoticed. Unacceptable. The stench of the dark soul remained untouched and he had to do something about it. He found and he consumed. And as he consumed the last of the elders seated around the table. A trail of blood led away from the table and over the dunes of ash. So he followed it.

A familiar face appeared before his eyes, one he had not seen in a long time. This one appeared wisened to the age and unusually anxious. What was there to be nervous about? The ashes had long taken all to be found here and the Dark soul had dried up inside the bodies of the devoured. But the Red Hood felt an urge well up inside of him. A foreign yet strangely recognisable urge. Gael spoke with a voice that had remained unused for ages.

"What, still here?"

And with this new sensation discovered the Red Hood began to take over once more.

"Hand it over, that thing."

The Red Hood and Gael had yet to come to a closure but they had something they could agree upon.

"Your Dark Soul."

For their Lady's Painting.

"For My Lady's Painting."