D ▲ R K S O U L S // frost & echo

[Echoplex]

The Curators of Chaos

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[Echoplex]

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They sought refuge in the remnants of a cistern eked out from Irithyll’s cold, hard earth. The stones were set in a fantastical pattern that was reminiscent of ages long passed; some had purposely fashioned niches constructed to hold sconces or tapers, while others suggested that they may have once--or even currently--housed secret passageways. Before they found an entrance to the catacombs, the entire party--consisting of no more than nine operatives--mired their ship off of the coast. The captain was a windburnt member of the Curators, a few years shy of his fourth decade and missing his right eye. His lips wer always puckered, as if he’d smacked on a sour grape. He ushered the majority of the Curators into two skiffs where they paddled to shore, through the labyrinth of jagged obsidian searocks that, much to their terror, resembled teeth. It was when they arrived that their focus truly began. Psylla, their silent leader and highest ranking Curator, possessing the title Poisemonger, lead the charge. They scaled the cliffside, nearly losing one of the Duskdoers to a misplaced step. Pyslla did immense research into Lothric architecture and discerned that the catacombs ran so deep that they nearly bore through the cliffs in the Boreal Valley. One of the more magically inclined of the party, a Suncipher, used his faith to create a shockwave and destroy a small chunk of the bluff that Pyslla knew was a corridor. With it exposed, the party, fatigued, set up camp. The first night, they were raided by a swarm of insectoid women. They encroached from one of the sewer ports; the clicking of their legs that exposed their position. Fortunately, the swarm was easily felled, but it made the group wonder what other horrors lied in wait. One of the Duskdoers, a handsome ranger with an unorthodox shock of creamy white hair and roots as black as soot, grumbled hatefully about the dangers the entire night. He plucked at the frayed fabric on his bedroll, occasionally throwing his glance at Exxus, an excommunicated Poisemonger and appointed general of the Duskdoers. Although the Duskdoers favored subterfuge, Exxus found the clandestine nature of his faction unsavory. Instead, he honed his strength and discovered how to manipulate his vitality to bolster his strength, allowing him to wield the mightiest of greatswords in each hand. Come morning, Psylla, Exxus and the Suncipher emissary, Qorraxdu, divided up their party and went their separate ways. Exxus agreed that they would make a sojourner to the Firelink Shrine to commiserate with the Shrine Maiden and warn her of the invaders, meanwhile, Qorraxdu ventured to the Cathedral of the Deep. When the Sunciphers were proudly their own third of the Curators’ triumvirate, Qorraxdu trained scholars to use their faith and intellect in battle as well as on parchment. They discovered the existence of the Abyss, and after rigorous studying and research, discerned that the Deep was just a bastardized term for the Abyss that was mistranslated over the ages. “We’ve encountered the Abyss before, although we’ve a different sobriquet for it,” Qoraxxdu said to Psylla and his comrade, Exxus, “If it is real, and its influence is what turned the Saint Aldrich to theophagy, then we must establish rule quickly.” “There is a term for invading a land and forcing ideals on the indigenous,” Exxus interrupted, “although it very well may be necessary, yes … we must weigh other possibilities. The Deep could be a story drummed up by sailors in their cups. Good ale is wont to give a man ingenuity.” He chuckled, turning to Psylla for her input. Among all three of the generals, Psylla was the most cryptic. She stared through people with her half-lidded eyes. They were black like obsidian beads, with a dollop of gunmetal for pupils. She claimed it was a miscalculation when she was casting a dark spells, but Qorraxdu was unconvinced. “The Abyss. The Deep. Give a man a different name … and his soul, remains the same..” Her voice was sonorous, but commanding. “Some child’s rhyme,” Exxus grumbled. “But, its truth is nevertheless valid. We, at our very cores, know that when the fire is linked, elements of the world that existed in the age prior are reshaped … remolded … refashioned into something perceivably new, but realistically, the antithesis--something old, rotten and fetid. This one understands.” She touched one of the cobbles lining either side of the corridor. Despite the cold, they were queerly warm. “The Abyss is more real than what we perceive as time. Because it is real, and because it exists, then our focus is evident. If the Abyss is expanding and allowed to eat and eat and eat, then the balance is disturbed … and we are well within our jurisdiction to act.” There was a lapse of silence, but the trio eventually agreed. “I cannot argue with your reasoning, Psylla,” Exxus exhaled, “But we will cross that bridge when the time comes. Ultimately, I trust you will find means to convince the Last Knight that the threat of the Lachrymose is real. And if they, too, understand that the Deep is the Abyss, they will annihilate the cathedral. I’d wager it is the last aegis protecting Lothric.” “This entire world is a dying animal. This one would opt to euthanize it, however, it is unknown what darkness would bring … and it goes against the code of the living to end life.” They all gestured to one another, exchanging their last parting words before Psylla collected her two other party members and trudged into the darkness, the same thing she feared would unmake her.

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