MASK OF THE CHILD

A Dark Souls fanfiction by MungoJerry

- Chapter 1 -

Child, Jester, Warrior, Monster


Oolacile was a prosperous nation nestled in a mystic woodland, the gardens and trees lovingly tended by animate scare crows. The way-roads guarded by golems and tame chimera. The city of the gods was its neighbor. In the distance- through a crafted lense- one could see Anor Londo's white walls and towering parapets crowning the top of the sheer cliffside.

Oolacile was said to be the land of golden sorceries, magic that shifted perception. That morning, Chester could see why. It had misted all night, driving him deeper under the small ledge near the cliffside. As the sun began to rise, the mist subsided and gave way to thick fog. The fog amplified and diffused the dawning rays until all was cloaked with a golden aura. It burned his eyes. It hid the ugly truth.

Oolacile was dead, the fog a golden funeral shroud hiding its decay. Dark pits ate away at the earth, and the ground subsided into a churning void. The city sank by parts into a yawning abyss, buildings and causeways forming dizzying angles. Untended, the custodial magic had run wild. The scarecrows turned their pruning shears towards living flesh, and the golems smashed friend and foe alike. No longer bearers of gentle sorceries, the inhabitants now wielded pitch-black hexes that roiled like fire. The people were transformed, heads swollen and blistering with beady red eyes, limbs overlong and turned to violence.

As Chester had said to her that day, Oolacile has brought the Abyss upon itself. Fooled by that toothy serpent, they upturned the grave of primeval man, and incited his ornery wrath. And what a wrath it was.

He thought to himself: Bugger it all.


As the sun rose further, the fog began to thin. A dim figure, indistinct at first, stepped through the haze and quietly approached the colosseum. Grey, gold hemmed cloth wrapped their frame, and the fall of the gold braided belt had a feminine suggestion. A hem of chainmail clinked lightly against the greaves of a silver knight. Similarly silver gauntlets gripped the haft of a slender spear of the same make in one hand, the other empty. Green tinted shadows cast by the canopy of Oolacile's royal grove moved across the face of a tilted mask- the face of a curly-locked child- giving an impression of shifting features.

"Back for more?" Chester's words came out harsh and provocative. He leaned against the wall of rock at his back, arms and legs crossed. His black leather longcoat merged him with the shadows, but his own pale mask stood out beneath the brim of his hat, expression frozen in a mocking rictus. Marvelous Chester knew this grey woman well.

She called herself Myssa, and she'd been the first sane person he'd seen in a long while, another person pulled into the past. It had been refreshing. Bloat-headed monsters and murderous scarecrows made for poor company and worse hunting. He pegged her for a fool almost immediately. She trusted him readily, buying his wares and picking his brain. She even deigned to remove her own mask, swinging her legs off the nearby ledge and dropping prism stones into the gorge like she was on some holiday. And she had clearly taken the words of that oversized fungi to heart, as she threw herself into the misty wards sealing the colosseum again and again.

Why didn't she just leave? She obviously had a way of returning to her own slip of time. If he'd been in the same position, he'd have left long ago.

He used to keep track of how many times she'd died there, but had grown tired of the game. It had been a while since he'd sen her last. Part of him had missed having someone to pick at, and she'd made an easy- if ultimately unresponsive- target.

What a bore.

At first he'd commented on her lack of skill, her foolish persistence. After she'd trudged out of the gorge below bearing the eye of the black dragon Kalameet, he'd been forced to recant. It was obvious she wasn't weak, further evidenced by the battles nearby that grew more protracted with each attempt. There was some other reason she kept losing.

After hitting on the truth, his laughter almost sent him off the cliff. She'd broken step only a little, but that had been enough. Turned out she was madder than he realized.

After that the game truly began. He tried to have something new each time she stalked past.

"You know, if you really want to take him home, I can sell you a collar and leash."

"I'm sure bringing home a legend would really impress your parents, if you've got any. Maybe they'd even forget your darksign!"

"I hadn't pinned you for a masochist." Low hanging fruit, that one.

"Don't you think you two are a little... mismatched? I mean, he is quite-" she hadn't let him finish that one. He'd had to toss over a few of his hard earned humanity sprites before she'd lower the dragonbow- wherever the hell she'd pulled THAT from. He wanted to get her back for that.

But now...

He'd seen her creep from behind the cliff edging the colosseum wall earlier, no doubt visiting Hawkeye Gough, another legend come to life in this land of twisted children's tales. She stood stone still facing the steps to the colosseum, flanged spear head sagging near the ground, gaze trained beyond the wall of mist. At least he assumed the latter, there was no telling with that creepy mask- at least his own cheshire's grin was finely constructed. She hadn't even acknowledged him.

Her stare shifted from the ward and down to her gauntleted left hand, clenching the fingers experimentally. Chester thought he saw the shimmer of a familiar magic there, dancing over the surface like a ripple of heated air, but dismissed the idea almost immediately.

Impossible.

"It's been too long. I'm sure he's missed you," he tried again, chuckling, and only got the barest head tilt in his direction. Chester frowned behind his mask and sighed in frustration. She still flexed her fingers, staring at nothing. Was she drugged? This used to be fun, back when the undead git had any personality.

Still, she was his only customer. In either direction lay death and destruction as Oolacile corroded in the grip of the Abyss. He could afford to throw her a bone.

The homeward bone narrowly missed her head, and Chester didn't want to admit that wind and error had no effect on his aim.

She did look at him this time, blank mask staring. It had a tilt to it that didn't match the contours of the wearer's face. She turned to the homeward bone, then expertly hooked it with her foot and arced it into the canyon. When they heard the telltale splash of the bone finding the bottom, she turned to leave, and Chester began to shake, chuckling to himself.

Despite the inevitable nature of the curse, he got the oddest, most certain feeling she wasn't coming back this time.

He wouldn't be seeing her again.

His mouth- the real one- twisted, and he abruptly spun around and punched the wall at his back, hissing in regret a moment later.

The fog groaned as it accepted its challenger.


Ciaran's soft, porcelain mask served many purposes. A show of honor, something to strive for. To be cool in battle, and unreadable in life. Her control over her blades and body were perfect, a refined dance etching gold and silver and blue through the weave of her enemies. She wove a shield around her Lord, her land, her fellows, and herself.

She hadn't known what to expect when she marched out the gates of Anor Londo with a band of silver knights and clerics. She knew Dragonslayer Ornstein must've been watching them leave from a high tower. When no word had come from Artorias or Gough, Ciaran insisted on leading a force to Oolacile. She thought he might try to stop her from going, from leaving the city with fewer forces and one less knight. But instead he had wearily assented, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the carved likenesses of the royal family standing in the Godmother's court. His crimson plume and brassy armor had glowed in the setting sun in a way that conjured feelings of melancholy nostalgia.

"Ornstein," she had said suddenly, "I'll bring them home."

He was quiet for a while, and he might have sighed, but he said over his shoulder, "Come home safely." And so she had left to prepare.

Ciaran's mask was a shield, and she was a sword. So some small part of her, the Observer, was amazed and terrified by the forces that punched through the dam of her personal shields, driving her limbs to rash action when she crossed the threshold of Oolacile's public arena. Saw the Knight Artorias pinned to the ground by a giant, black phantom.

And it siphoned something from him in a stream of sinuous blue veils- something a little more solid than smoke- and he howled in a way no living creature should, and her blood ran cold as she rushed the towering black mass, its edges rimmed in white light.

She had an irrational flash of memory- Artorias teaching Sif, then a pup, how to howl in the wood bordering Anor Londo. She'd promised to keep that particular training session secret.

The memory blessedly fled, and she saw the abyss- it could be nothing else- crawling over and through the beast, continually changing and enlarging its humanoid silhouette as it continued its treacherous work. As she bolted forward, Ciaran's dual tracers flashed out of their hidden scabbards and bit deep into the blackness, despite the Observer's tactical misgivings. She felt the tear of gelatinous abyssal tissue, like softened ligaments, and her mouth twisted in disgust behind her mask. The beast let out a shriek, shrinking from her attack, so she took a backstep and twisted, slashing again, before leaning to the left in a feint, then dashing right in an arc around her groaning opponent.

What to do?

Make it stop.

The mass forming the head turned and flashed a pair of white eyes, blazing like cold stars against the black. Abruptly, the creature's free arm whipped out bonelessly in a high swipe. Ciaran ducked and dashed underneath, readying her blades. She must focus, not give in to panic. Wasn't that her first lesson, as a knight?

She skipped over and through debris, trying to ignore the wretched howls, putting distance between herself and the creature as the arm chased with wicked fingers. But she wasn't out of range. The arm extended in a ripple of motion to strike the ground in front of her with a terrible CRACK, pelting her with shards of stone, before sweeping towards her. She leapt forward to meet it, kicking her legs into the air with a dancer's grace while pinwheeling her arms, slicing cleanly through the appendage passing below in a flash of gold. She bounced on her landing, backpedaling to view her handiwork.

Like the wound before, this one didn't bleed, but it did appear to hurt. The arm writhed, and the beast added it's own howls to the chorus of pain filling the ruin, head rolling on its shoulders. The detached piece, flopping like a beached eel, began to steam and decompose in a bubbling mass of black and blue that seemed to eat into the stone.

She dashed for Artorias, daring to pass closer to the monster. She pulled back her tracer and put on a burst of speed, slicing through the root-like masses pinning her comrade to the ground with a twitch of her shoulder while she flew past. She spun on her heel and slid to a stop, meaning to make another pass, when the creature screamed, deafening enough to make her stop and reflexively cover her ears. The sound shook her in a way the previous cries hadn't. Beneath the monstrous tones was something too human.

Suddenly, a myriad of whipping arms burst out of the back of the monster. They moved like hungry serpents, grasping at the space she'd vacated only moments earlier. She had to keep moving, weaving and cutting through grasping vines like a wasp in a tangled garden. Too many, she thought. Too many, if I can only-

She dove through the gap between two arms, rolling to her feet before running up a piece of rubble and jumping off its peak. The roots she'd cut, the ones worming through the body of her friend, were mending. She sprinted for him, arms pumping.

She slipped, boot sliding across the remnants of abyssal muck. NO, right yourself! RIGHT YOURSELF- she twisted, trying to land on her hands. She got her feet beneath her, pushed off, but it grew dark.

She was snatched off her feet, the force crushing the air from her lungs and giving her whiplash. She gasped from the pain- and the cold- it was COLD. She could feel the chill seeping through her robes, her armor. Artorias.

After a sickening lurch through the air, Ciaran felt her back slam against the wall of the colosseum. When the stars cleared from her vision, she saw she was pinned motionless by the hand of the beast, like an insect, her tracers on the ground.

It was looking at her.

The neck extended like a serpent's and the head approached, stopping where she could reach out and touch it, had she control of her arms. She felt herself quaking, in anger and terror both, teeth clattering. Anger at her failure, terror of the consequences.

Gods it was cold.

"BASTARD," she hissed through her mask.

The face, if it could be called that, was stoic and unresponsive, but for the tilt of a head. The panoply of arms retracted back into the main body, leaving only the two. Ciaran's blood rung in her ears, but in the new calm she realized she could hear breathing filling the space- heavy and hollow and loud, as if requiring tremendous effort. The breathing of the phantom. Artorias continued to struggle, growling raggedly like a beast.

"CIIIII...AAAAAAAARRR...AAAAAAAAANNN.." She started when she realized the monster was speaking, its breathy voice making her insides recoil. It sounded like a cold wind blowing through the darkest channels of her heart, and it knew her name.

The Observer gathered the pieces of her broken composure while it could, focused on her hammering heart, attempted to channel the rage to its proper place. The hand held her fast to the wall, claws digging into the stone. The other bound Artorias to the ground, and there was nothing she could do about it. I'm a fool.

She gnashed her teeth as she stared death in the face, but death only looked back with an infuriating passivity incongruent with its former violence, white eyes bright and empty in a sea of black.

"What do you want?!" Ciaran's braid lashed through the air as she threw her head forward in what she knew was a futile attempt to break free. There was barely enough give to breath. Why wasn't she dead?

"...AAATE.." The cursed thing responded to her in a strained voice between hollow breaths. It spoke? Ate? Hate? It hated them? It was going to eat them? Ciaran stared. Was that really such a surprise? She decided she didn't care.

"-UUAAAIIIIIT-" And it hit Ciaran.

Wait. It was saying- "Wait?"

For what? For death? For his? Was it going to make her watch?

The monstrous form sighed, heavy and long and wheezing, and turned from her.

"No, NO! Take me!" she pleaded, "Take me instead!" It looked back over its shoulder, contorted to keep her in place.

And slowly shook its head.

When it continued, healing the roots and drawing power from Artorias, she wailed. If the Observer were at all intact, it would have hated her weakness, but it had already been shattered in the fall of her stomach, churned in acid and blood and sour regret.

And she could not look away, for him- she could not look away. She would see his end, despite her spirit's protest- but then all she saw was darkness, for the monster denied her this as well, wrapping her in a frigid cocoon. Her cries finally died in her mouth, all sounds from the outside world gone, and she could no longer tell if her eyes were open or closed, and what did it matter? All the light and goodness was truly gone from the world. The Abyss had won, and she had been consumed.