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Fire was many things, to the people and Lords of Lordran and the surrounding Kingdoms of Man alike.
Safety, protection, a sign of the Gods themselves even, and a way to fight back against the dangers the world held. Dragons who escaped the Gods' war against them, tyrants, bestial threats and men just as good as. Power, pure and primal, that symbolized and allowed things beyond the normal fates of men or Gods alike.
Many worshipped it for some facet of that nature, either in and of itself or as mere conduit for worshiping the gods in totality. The primal power had, after all, first been brought to bear by the Lords after all. So it took them on, as symbol and name both in many cases, and was etched into hearts of men and stone of temples across the land.
Fire cared not for its tenders or wielders beyond their propensity to become its fuel, or feed it more, and the moment one grew too comfortable with fire one suffered for it. This was the truth of the matter, the Undead knew it as much as he himself was a proof of the statement. The Curse of Undeath was borne of that very thing, as the Fire of the world finally died and sputtered, only prolonged in hopes of finding solution by the sacrifice of the strongest being ever to have walked the planet.
Gwyn, once the Lord of Sunlight, who even now stood before him, wounded and weak and Lord of nothing but Cinders now. A truly tragic end for a great Lord to meet, and ironic, given the weapon which had hamstrung the once-Lord only moments ago, a Black Knight sword that had no doubt once been forged to protect the Lord before him.
Even charred by the Chaos flames as it had been, the edge still shone a bright silver that glinted beautifully with the flames around him in the semi-dark of the Kiln. Just inside that keen edge where razored silver met, black, charred metal a spider's web of elegantly and thinly swirling silver curls. Titanite, gently and expertly shaped onto the metal by the hands of the friendly blacksmith in the tower, that turned the weapon into something truly magnificent to behold and use. Those same gentle, elegant, and yet so exorbitantly powerful swirls coated the rim of his tower-shield and the plates of his Steel armor, the edges of both glowing so faintly as to almost be invisible outside the darkest of scenes where the light could play across the gently glimmering Titanite.
He saw the hateful red eyes of the creature glance behind him, to the center of the Kiln, almost protectively, and readied himself for the attack he knew would. A last instinct of the creature's, left over from before his hollowing out, like the Hollow soldiers manning their posts eternally and the Knights outside guarding their Lord even now as little more than ash and smoke inside ancient and crumbling metal suits.
"This was not a fate they deserved. Or you, Lord Gwyn." He felt the thoughts reverberate through his mind as he turned, raising his shield in front of him and drawing back the blade. "Forgive me, Lord, as I release you all from it."
Hissing angrily as though in answer, the creature raised its sword and wreathed it in flames, leaping with its only good leg and swinging a clumsy if incredibly powerful slash across his armored chest from his sword-side. The blow did nothing itself, though the flames wreathing it seared the flesh of his stomach and drew a grunt from the Undead warrior, and he brought his shield rim down into the shoulder of the Hollowed Lord and shattered it. The creature roared, and the Undead warrior's sword arm thrust up, burying the Black Knight's sword to the hilt in the fallen God's chest and ending the roar in a wet and sad choke.
It struggled weakly for a moment, before he saw the fire in its eyes flicker and finally sputter out, and he cast his shield aside as the body fell limp. Cradling it, he knelt and laid it on the ash covered ground, gently pulling the blade from the wound and laying it beside him while he set to work straightening the God-King's legs and folding his hands over his chest, the crown staying on his head in his rest.
"And so, the mighty Lord of Sunlight finds his rest. And, I hope, his peace as well." He intoned quietly, voice echoing around the Kiln and out even further, coming back like whispers.
Whispers of the dead, his mind thought of them, before he shook the thought off and turned, looking at the simply sword in the center of the Kiln of the First Flame itself. He left his weapon and shield with the dead god, no longer needing them, and lumbered to the hilt buried in the bone and ash of the bonfire that had taken shape inside the Kiln. Kneeling before it, he sighed, and raised his hand to light the bonfire.
And with it, as the flames crawled up his body, sucked the very air from his chest, scorched along his every fiber and the Kiln burst to life around him, he murmured a nearly silent prayer that someone would find a way forward where he and his fellows had tried so hard and failed so greatly.
Into a better future, one that did not send Lords and Men into madness for the failures of their leaders and past.
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He awoke not to pain, as he thought he would when he had finally lost himself to the kiss of fire on flesh, but to a dry throat that gasped and choked on ash and old smoke. His visor was almost entirely covered, he knew, with only tiny pinpricks of dim light making their way into his armored mask from whatever source it came from. A moment later, he heard voices, nearby but muted somehow and he tried to turn his head.
Tried being operative, too anchored in ash and soot that had hardened into thick stone of some kind after however long had passed. He couldn't see to tell what kind of stone, with his mask sealed up as it was, and he was too tired to break free himself. Drained, like when he'd fought for hours straight before dying, and awoken sprawling next to a bonfire. Time was all he needed to remedy that, he knew, and he took no issue with it.
Aside, of course, from the muted voices he could just barely discern through metal, and stone, and the walls of the Kiln. Who they were and what they wanted was his first question, having enough experience in life with strangers to know that a man lying weakened and helpless was a man surely to taste steel soon enough.
A muted whoosh sounded, and something fell into the room, hurling dust and ash into the air and bathing him - and the room, he was certain - in sunlight and hot, arid air. Both washed over him, warming him and sending bright light through the small holes in the ash and stone of his helmet, barely a tenth of the helmet's mask letting anything through. He tried to speak and nothing came, throat dry and rough enough that he could barely even choke. Another familiar outcome, and he schooled himself through it quickly enough to pay attention to his new guest.
"-are beautiful." A man's voice, fast and excited, rattled off as he presumably stepped into the room, walking around in it and speaking to someone who didn't respond as he went and his voice rose and fell in volume. Either he had gotten far away or, more likely, the ash and rock encasing him blocked the sound. "The ash is layered here, compacted so much that one can walk on it easily without falling through, and old enough to have turned flaky and brittle on the edges. The room is round as well, and I believe I see scorch marks along the inside of the room. Likely a blast point of some kind or- Gods, a body."
Footsteps, then, stopping next to him before he vaguely felt hands on his armored chest, or what he assumed to be hands. It was impossible to tell, but seemed reasonable given the minute pressure there.
"Remarkable, truly remarkable…" The voice whispered, coughing after a moment as though to gather himself, while the Undead once more tried to move his buried arms to test his strength. "Pardon me. The tomb, or whatever this place is, has what appears to be a soldier or knight of some description. Heavy armor of fine appearing make, buried almost entirely in the ash-rock save for the top of his chest and half of his helmet. I'm going to test the rock for ease of breaking it, excavating this body would tell us wonders of the past."
There was a shuffling noise, and then a sound of metal striking metal, and he felt a shift around his right shoulder. "Wonderful! The stone fractures easily enough, I'm going to continue, but first I need to fetch my camera and record this properly."
The sound of footsteps rushing away, and he flexed the arm and grimaced, feeling the slightest shift in the stone but no more. He'd have to wait, then, and let whoever this was 'excavate' and 'record him properly', whenever he returned. He didn't have to wait long before he heard the clicking footsteps and the sound of something being set up on the stone, muted metal scraping against it and echoing in the unnaturally silent area inside the Kiln's ancient structure.
"As you can see, the body is buried in ash-stone that has compacted and settled over what seems like thousands or hundreds of thousands of years. Perhaps longer, I will date the rock as soon as the body is excavated, but first it must be excavated and preserved properly." The man's voice rattled off rapidly, clearly more than a little excited by him as panic spiked at the sheer shift in time. Or by his discovery, he supposed, straining once more against the stone binding him while the man spoke, "I am going to resume excavation now."
Once more, the sound of metal striking metal sounded next to him, and he tensed himself in preparation. This man, whoever he was, was digging him out of the stone as carefully as he could manage. Probably in fear of damaging his armor, but the pattern of Titanite on his helmet had to be visible, so the man should know that was not a true risk. Titanite infusion turned armor into ageless works if you used enough of it on high quality items like his, that was common knowledge.
How long had passed while he was in the Kiln? And how long had passed that the man didn't know what the Kiln even was on the sight of it?
"There we are. Dust, this armor… Magnificently preserved. Were you in here when this all happened?" The man said as the Undead felt the rock break over his shoulder and upper arm, and fracturing when he tried to move the rest of his arm. "Wonderful! I must have struck a fault, the stone fractured down his side over where I presume his arm…"
The man fell quiet as he moved his arm again and the stone cracked across his chest loudly, before he wrenched his arm free and the man shouted in surprise and fear. The Undead brought his hand to his mask, pulling at the rock and caked ashes there until it mostly shattered away and he could see, and turned to look at his 'guest'.
A younger man wearing spectacles and sporting oddly vibrant green hair, in light looking trousers of some variety covered in large pockets and a long, light trench coat over a simple white shirt with buttons running up the middle. His head was partially wrapped in a white linen towel of some sort, under a wide brimmed hat reminiscent of some of the garb he'd seen and heard of from the far eastern kingdoms. In simple looking cloth gloves the man held a small box of some kind, with a glass circle on one end, shaking slightly where he had fallen on his posterior on the stone floor.
Or, no, he realized the man was the thing shaking even as he looked down at himself, entirely encased in stone up to his a few inches under his neck so that even now he could barely move his head to look down past the armor and stop that sealed him in. "Sensible to take fright, I suppose, at a corpse's sudden revival. Even among the Undead, such suddenness can elicit fear."
The stone itself was surprisingly smooth, almost glassy on the surface, with very small fractures and cracks across it from the man's work and his own sudden movements. Sparing the man a glance in thought, knowing he had little time to decide how to approach this before the man decided his intentions for him - violent or otherwise, and the warrior's true intent wouldn't matter once this man decided on his own reaction. So, while he wanted nothing more than to break fully free of the stone, he instead looked to the man and held up his free hand with his palm towards the man in a gesture of peace.
"Gods, it… The corpse is moving, and seems to be even communicating in some manner." The man spoke, fear giving way quickly to excitement and wonder. "I… Can you speak, corpse? No, I apologize, that is insulting. You are clearly a man of note, likely a knight, correct?"
"..." He rasped almost mutely, growling and holding up a single finger and then moving his hand to the front of his mask and miming taking a drink. Then he held up two digits and offered a thumbs up.
"To confirm, you can speak, but need a drink first. And you are a knight of some description." The man spoke slowly now, or rather at a normal rate but that seemed a chore for him, and the Undead offered a raised thumb in answer. "Remarkable… Risking freeing you could be dangerous, but… Gods, the questions you could answer for me, the things you could know…"
"No matter, I shall endeavor to free you, sir Knight." The man stood again, setting the device aside and making a point of not coming between him and it as he retrieved his tools - a small hammer and a chisel made of what looked like iron - and came to his right side, running his hands over the stone, "I just need to find- Ah, there, a small fault in the stone. Perfect. I shall have you freed in a moment, sir Knight, and we shall get you a drink."
He turned to look at the small thing the man had left behind, and the man spoke, "Ah. I suppose you had no cameras when you were, er, free?" He shook his head and the man nodded, speaking through the quiet sound of metal tapping metal. "I see. Cameras allow for what we see and hear to be recorded and watched at a later date and place. It's a machine."
He nodded and after a moment pointed to the man, and he chuckled, "Ah, I suppose introductions are in order. Forgive me, the wonder of this momentous occasion overwhelmed my sense of politeness." Offering a hand, the man spoke as the Knight gripped it gently and shook, "Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck, not so well known archeologist and historian and relatively more well know teacher at Beacon Academy for Huntsman and Huntresses. A pleasure, sir Knight."
"Now," he said after a second, "Please, allow me to focus on freeing you. I have so many questions, things you must know… My heart hammers in anticipation."
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It took nearn enough to an hour to dig him out fully, his body having been entombed at an angle that meant the stone and ash encasing his lower half was thicker and deeper. But the doctor never stopped his work, gently chipping and then breaking away the stone, laying each piece behind him softly in rows as each layer came free. At the man's request, he didn't shatter himself free once he could, and after he was done the knight finally sat up, accepting a hand from the doctor that pulled him from the hole.
"This is why I asked you not to shatter free, my friend." The man explained, gesturing at the stacked rocks that themselves looked like thin slabs of glassy stone and then to the almost perfect shape of his body in the stone. "Using this, we can date the layers of stone and ash, and find out how long you were trapped there."
He nodded, and the man smiled before be blinked and gasped, "Ah, please, forgive me. I forgot how thirsty you are, come with me." Another nod, and the man carefully moved through the ruined structure of the Kiln.
The structure, once grand even when he had come and witnessed its ruined state, had fallen even further to disrepair and destitution. Half the wall had fallen, collapsing upon itself or blown open by the doctor. Either way, a small wall of rubble was all that was left of around half the structure. Around the ruins of the Kiln a second ruin sprawled no more than a hundred feet out, in most places little more than crumbled bricks where walls would have stood, partially covered by sand from the massive desert that stretched out around it. To the right of the exit a single wall stood, separate from the Kiln and discernible thanks to the different materials used in construction. A simple tent made of white cloth fluttered in the hot breeze, and the doctor led him towards it.
Inside, a single chair and collapsible table sat against one side, a cot on the other, and both rested on a rug. A small white container sat nestled under the cot, and from it the green-haired man pulled a small bottle like a dozen others around it and offered it to him, "This is a cooler, which keeps things cold. And this is bottled water, you unscrew the top and can drink from it. I would offer my seat, but your armor would likely shatter it from how much you weigh."
Nodding, he instead sat on the rug facing the entrance of the tent, feeling sand shift under him oddly, and reached up to work his helmet off enough to drink, barely letting his chin show before a gauntlet covered it to hold the bottle up and let the cool liquid quench his aching throat.
He coughed as some of it caught, his throat so dry that the water caused discomfort for a moment, before he could finally manage to get out a very quiet and sore, "Thank you."
"Please, sir Knight, take your time." He smiled, turning to push through the tent's flap in front before hesitating, "I'm going to fetch my tripod and camera, so we can speak. I'll be right back."
He was back inside a minute, carrying a three legged metal contraption that he placed just to the side of the tent's entrance with the 'camera' on top of it. "There," he said while the Knight drank the water idly, turning to look at him and then saying, "now our conversation is being recorded, for posterity. Are you all right with that?"
"Yes." He nodded, voice sounding more like the smooth baritone he normally spoke in now that he'd had some water. "I do not mind being recorded on your… Machine. Camera, I believe you said?"
"Quite right." The man grabbed the chair and sat in it, just beside the camera and smiling widely, "Now, do you have a name?"
"No." He shrugged, "I suppose I did, once upon a time. But when an Undead dies, as they oft do, things get… Foggy, and then lost, eventually all of it does. But that, at least, is common knowledge even among the peasantry. Is it not?"
"I… No, it is not." Oobleck answered carefully, fingers knitting together in front of him as he leaned forward, "May I ask what an Undead is?" Stunned, he leaned back on the ground, and the shock must have been apparent even with his face mostly covered, "I'm afraid that a very, very long time seems to have passed since you, er, died I suppose. The term 'Undead' is not used outside fiction now."
"I see…" He swallowed, sighed, and then nodded. "Very well. An Undead is a being that may be struck down, but will rise again. Should you thrust a blade into my heart now, it would kill me. But in hours I would rise once more, alive and well, so long as the trauma of dying did not drive me to madness."
"I suppose resurrection does explain your, er, resurrection in that tomb." Oobleck nodded, smiling wider still and leaning forward, "Now, please, I know you said memory can fail when you rise from the dead, but do you remember what that tomb was? Or the temple built around it?"
"That is the Kiln of the First Flame, Doctor. How would such knowledge be lost...? To time? Surely not..." He shook his head, forcing himself to move on, "As for the temple, I know not. The Kiln was underground. Deep enough that it should not be on the surface as it is now, and this desert… I do not know it, either, I fear."
"This is the Great Desert of Vacuo, and has been such for nearly two thousand years. Even before that, for another four thousand, the land was a desert. It just lacked the name. This region's sands were recently shifted massively by a mining catastrophe leagues away and a sandstorm, which is why the temple was even found… And you know neither the desert or the temple." Oobleck informed him, face turning thoughtful and almost pensive for a few seconds. "This means you must have died before a desert was even here, which would make you at least eight thousand years old or more. Gods…"
"I am sorry, but do you have food?" He asked when the man trailed off for a moment, "I will speak at length, but… Supposing that figure is accurate, I have not filled my belly in eight millennia. That works up a fierce appetite, I fear, so I must press upon your kindness in asking for more. Pray forgive the impoliteness. I should also like to retrieve my sword and shield from the Kiln, it is likely buried there as well."
"No forgiveness is needed, my friend." The man stood, stepping in front of the machine, and spoke, "We will continue this later, hopefully. Once we have eaten and refreshed ourselves properly, and when we have found our new friend's things."
"Now then," the man turned, looking at the Undead warrior, "do you prefer beef or chicken, with your potatoes?"
"Y-You have… Beef?"
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