//------------------------------// // Smoke // Story: Ornstein in Equestria // by TheLordSiffer //------------------------------// The viridian sea of grass surrounding me had, with the fall of the Sun, become an ocean of midnight blue. Upon the canvas of the night sky, amidst the sprawling stars, hung the Moon. The silent behemoth attempted to cast me into its cool light. It could not, however, for the crackling bonfire before me illumined me, warding me from Gwyndolin’s rays. My legs were crossed in front of me, a nigh-empty bag of apples placed on my metallic lap, one of the red orbs in my right hand. I had eaten them sparsely over the last few days, savoring them while possible. I had covered a large distance since the village, but hadn’t seen another settlement yet. However, Now was not a time of consumption, but one of ponderance. The wild, merciless fire reflected itself in the fruit ensconced in my palm. I dared not look upon the hissing flames. The creatures had been odd, alien to me. I had never heard of their like before, not that it mattered much to me. The land of Lordran held many odd and fantastical things, and I had no intention of presuming upon the oddities found outside of my home. The firewood popped. To think that I, Ser Ornstein, had been reduced to brawling a bunch of peasants for some apples. I simply had to smirk at that. I, who had once felled dragons and demons by the score, beating up the salt of the earth for their produce. Surely, such a sorry sight hadn’t been seen since… Should I have taken the apples? What a whimsical thought. It went without saying that I’d committed theft, by the horses’ law: the purple sorcerer stated as such. However, whether what I did was right or wrong, should I truly care? Here there was no royal treasury to pay back with, but doubtful be it that stealing a bag of apples would crash the horse economy. In the grand scheme of things, who had my actions hurt? Besides those whom I hurt, that is. I had to chuckle a bit at that; it was a short, deep laugh, laden with listless humor. A laugh for the sake of a laugh. Still more than I had laughed in… a long, long time. The cool, crimson surface of the apple met my lips, a crunch making itself known over the roar of the fire as I bit into it. The sweet juice ran down my chin, and I thought of better things: the lavish feasts of Anor Londo, where the food was as good as it was unending; the glorious martial tournaments, where we Knights of Anor Londo would teach the young and the eager of combat and honor; but most importantly, of my family, my comrades-in-arms. The apple crunched once more. I thought of Gough, the gigantesque—yet placid—great-archer, who stood as my equal from day one despite my rank, overseeing us like an uncle. Or a father. Crunch. Memories of noble Knight Artorias rolling in the great halls with his puppy, Sif, came to me. On days we would brawl and wrestle, rough-and-tumble play where fair was foul and foul was fair, and a good-humored taunt was met with a tackle. Crunch. My thoughts strayed to Ciaran, who would sit with Pharis and the children, keeping them well in hand with a serene face and kind words, hiding an edge of steel. She would look over us as we sparred, giving harsh encouragement and insightful critique, but always supporting us, especially Artorias. Oh, how those two would squabble all day and become better friends for it at the end, laughing together. Crunch. I thought of happier days, where Lord Gwyn would encourage and place bets on the brawls Artorias and I had. Then, Gough would reprimand His Lordship for his behavior, only for Gwyn to laugh it off. Pharis would get drunk and challenge Gough to an arm wrestling competition, and Gough would be too afraid of hurting him to compete seriously. Few sights were such a joy to behold as that of a slight, human man planting his boots on the helmet of a “defeated” giant general, proclaiming his superiority to all. Artorias would go to Ciaran with a jolly laugh, hug her tightly and tell her of something he found amusing the other day, and soon his happiness would spread to her. I would go to the end of the hall, to watch the numerous Silver Knights as they played simple games, sang songs and entertained the children orphaned by wars, disasters and crimes. Tall tales would be told, mock deaths would occur at the hands of an exuberant little girl, single-handedly felling a dozen of the greatest knights in the land. It was a paradise. I would never forget the face of Lord Gwyn as we convinced him to eat the old, sour apple. I looked into the flames of the cruel, heartless bonfire. A small toss, and it set out to consume the apple core, which I’d fed it. I would never forget. I would never forget the face of Lord Gwyn as we returned to the little girl’s village a week later. Never would the image of his despondent face, hard as if chiseled from titanite, leave me. Nor would I forget the flames of the burning town casting its dreadful light upon his visage. No decades, no centuries and no millennia would scrub from my eyes the image of Ciaran crying over the mutilated corpse of the village girl whom she for such a short time had held ever so dear. There had been much sorrow amongst my family. But I, and the Knights—we were furious. Livid. Never before in the War of the Dragons had we reacted with such brutality, nor with such ferocity. It proved to be one of the first hammer strikes to the metal of our hatred, heated in the forge of war, one case of a dozen. Soon enough, our hate was a weapon. My own thoughts were traitorous, so I resolved to banish them. In one smooth movement I was on my feet, spear in one hand and helmet in the other. My Face settled itself over my head like the softest embrace and the tightest cell. The darkness of the grasslands welcomed me as I walked out into its caress and took my position. Here, underneath the Moon, I would perform my Dance of Death. The Dance was a thing of beauty and a thing of terror.  I moved sluggishly at first, my every moment slow and considered. A slow, firm step and a stretch of my arm, a thrust of my spear. Another step, and the reflecting blade made a slow arc in the cool air. Slow downstrokes, flowing upstrokes, I moved with grace and precision. Integral to any movement and any dance was the footwork. Light feet lead the waltz, carefully rooting, uprooting and re-rooting, always keeping balance in the body. Every thrust was preceded by a forward stomp, every horizontal slash made possible by a widening of my stance. Balance lead to poise, and poise lead to survival. My movements became more brisk, yet without ever losing their flowing quality. A right step, a forward thrust, balance transferred to my right foot. From there I hopped to my left, landing on my foot and centering my balance yet again, another thrust followed. With trained footing, one could move from stance to stance. Thrust begat stab begat slash, and the feet moved from position to position. My movements hit the balancing point where grace became ferocious. I stopped, and the world held its breath with me. Cool sweat ran down my body, and I looked to the skies. Was that the glorious Sun rising in the horizon? I breathed once more, gazing upon the light in the distance. In my ears reverberated the sounds of beautiful choirs, of bells and flying doves, of festive people and the proud march of silvern boots upon the stone foundations of great Anor Londo. The fair Moon was still high in the sky, so it was not the Sun rising to proclaim its day. The light was like a tiny dot in the distance, fighting to dent the darkness subsuming the world. But, no progress was made, simply an unending, hopeless fight to stave off the Abyss that was the night sky, with nothing to show for it but the smoke flying heavenwards. I could see smoke. The fire was so far away that I couldn’t even see what fueled it, yet the red glow outlined smoke. What great blaze could produce such, from such a distance? It was larger than the funeral pyre of a giant. About as large as… about as large as a burning village which had once been the home of a sweet, young girl and one sour apple. The midnight blue grass rustled beneath my armored boots as I walked towards the conflagration. My every step was power and confidence. Every swish of my Dragonslayer Spear was deadly grace. For every movement my armor ground together in a harmony of menace, and the metal coverings draped over my legs cut through the air like blades. Though I walked with grace, I walked with force, and though I walked wreathed in silence, all could hear me and fear. Eventually, my movements hit the balancing point where grace became ferocity, and I ran the plains like a lion. Ω It was an inferno. The stone and wood buildings had become blackened by fire and soot, the world shaded in red and crimson. Everywhere I looked the streets were lit up by the flames of chaos, or shaded in the blackness of smoke. The town had long since been engulfed in its entirety, vast columns of smoke choking the air above the houses. This was yet another equine village, as I had gathered from its inhabitants. Or from what remains I’d seen, as I was already far into the village’s streets, having carved my way through— A Capra Demon burst from the burning house to my left, its humanoid shape tearing through the door, torso glistening with sweat. Its heavy blade—swung in right hand—flew towards me, but the lugs of my spear intercepted the sword, and I threw its armament far. A jab of my left hand cracked its skull-face and landed it on the ground, where a savage slash severed its head from its body. These infernal creatures were the origin of this town’s downfall. A casual glance betrayed the fresh blood on the demon’s other sword. I had learned many things about the horses since I’d entered this town. I’d now seen what I assumed were the males of their species, as well as their children. I’d also found out that, in the most unseen of ways, they and I weren’t so different on the inside. The haze of battle had long since fallen over me, allowing me to fight optimally. My heart thumped in my chest like a fleshy drum, blood thundering through my veins as I breathed in the smoke-ridden air with aching lungs. Once again I advanced through the street, buildings crumbling around me, their integrity sapped by the destructive power of the chaotic flames. My progress was framed by debris and corpses, varied bodies lying around, mutilated or otherwise crushed by the demonic weaponry. Just as I was stepping over some equine intestines, I heard an awful noise: a scream much like the howling banshees of the drowned, shrieking out—with terror and desperation—a single “no!”. I burst into action, sprinting towards a side-street from which the cry had come. I rounded the corner just in time to see another Capra Demon further down the street bringing his machetes together in front of him, brutally tearing off the head of a female equine and sending it flying through the air in my direction. The dull thud of a hard object hitting metal, combined with the wet smack of flesh and blood, made itself known as the head impacted my breastplate. With a savage growl the demon turned its attention to a wagon standing next to a burning house, completely unaware of my presence; it would not remain so ignorant for long. I surged forwards just as the beast raised its cruel weaponry above its head. My world turned into a narrow corridor of rushing wind, the walls consisting of blackness and flame and blurred buildings, and at the end of the corridor was the demon. My adversary only had the time necessary to turn towards me before I was upon it. With nary even a step, I exited the corridor and thrust my spear straight through its ribs and into the torso, visibly concaving its chest and breaking bones. The beast roared and swung its right sword at me, but I caught its wrist and clenched until the Capra released it. The great machete didn’t fall with a harsh sound, but instead with a muted thud. I looked down to investigate, and was met with the sight of the decapitated female’s body, a large pool of blood spreading from the mangled neck. I clenched my arms and pulled my left towards my body, pulling the Capra’s right arm with me. The golden lugs of my spear served as a wall as I instead pushed the spear away from me, pulling the demon’s arm taut. I pulled harder, and its arm started creaking; I pulled harder again, and its arm started elongating with a sound like a fleshy canvas being torn in two. The force of the other machete hit me in the side repeatedly, heralded by grunts and moans of agony, but it hardly dented my armor. I increased my effort and was rewarded by the sight of the dry skin at the shoulder tearing and ripping, showcasing the red, bloody muscles underneath the surface as they, too, gave out. The demon had released its last sword in agony and I resolved to end it: with one final heave the arm stretched as I pulled and pulled. The Capra Demon screamed like a thousand wailing infants as the arm finally gave way, breaking from the shoulder in a spray of blood, bone and cartilage, and before it could recover I kicked out its knees and forced it down with my spear where I used its own arm to beat it to death, hitting it again and again and again until its face was nothing but a black-blooded pulp. I breathed out a relaxed sigh. That was fun. A tranquil peace settled over the street now that the demon was gone, the silence punctuated by the sounds of the buildings’ fiery decay. Others of its ilk had undoubtedly heard its screams of agony, but whether that would draw more of them towards me or encourage them avoid me depended upon their inclinations. I was about to make my way further into this fiery pandemonium when a sound caught my ears; the hushed sobs of shock and terror. I turned my attention to the wagon, spying into the deep shadows underneath it. As I stepped towards it with quiet movements, a peculiar atmosphere fell over the street; it was one of held breaths, of thundering hearts and quavering muscles. I breathed deep through my nostrils, smelling the air, noticing the rancid odor of urine. Suddenly, a half-heard sob came from beneath the wagon, followed by a shush that was just a little too sharp, reeking of terror. I breathed deeply into my lungs, then breathed out. Another breath, a swallow. It’s been a while. “Equines,” I intoned hoarsely, my voice radiating with self-confidence, “abandon your shadows and follow me if you wish not to forfeit your souls.” Not a peep came from underneath the wagon, so I waited. Flames smoldered around us, but I neither saw nor heard more from the hiding creatures, so I waited. Time stretched and warped as I cast my gaze around the street, idly scratching at the jawline of my Face. It had been a while since I’d last spoken. Memories of a campfire reflected in my eye, and of brave warriors in reflecting armors. One of them was weaving tall tales of battle, I remembered a joke of his: "Why does Gough always hit? All he has to do is listen for the sound of his own voice, and he'll know where they are!" The image of Gough flying around in the air, arms replaced with dragons wings, tugged at my lips. Enough waiting. I stepped forward, gripped the right-hand edge of the wagon, and lifted it so I could look down upon the horses underneath. What greeted me was a sad sight, one juvenile, green-coated and black-maned female gazing up at me with gargantuan, aquamarine eyes, the very breath caught in her throat. In her front legs she held a small, limp child, its head buried in her chest. The tiny, pink blob hardly even moved as the light of the fires reached them, seemingly oblivious to my moving the wagon except for the soft sounds of its whimpers. A closer look betrayed that this one, too, appeared female, although there was a rather sizeable age gap between them. “Children, I gave ye a command,” I helpfully informed them, my voice returning fully to me. “If ye wish not to regret the rest of your miserably short existence, then I would suggest ye follow it.” There. That should square things out. To my slight annoyance, nothing changed, at least not at first. The green one continued to stare at me, sucking in a breath through her nostrils. Slowly, her tongue came out to wet her lips, the mouth forming odd and varied shapes as her voice slowly came back to her. “P-please,” she sputtered out. Although her voice was thick with emotions, it sounded beautiful to my ears. “Please d-don’t hurt us.” Her gaze flickered to a point behind and under me. I looked back, and traced her gaze to the headless corpse. Of course. ‘Tis so easy to forget I’m not dealing with weathered knights here. Perhaps a delicate hand would be more fitting? I gazed around the still-burning houses lining the street, glanced at the corpse of the Capra Demon, and then back to the two before me. Perhaps not. The wagon went flying as I pushed it away and before the black-haired girl could run—an action that would be impeded by the young in her grasp—my left hand snaked out and grabbed her by the neck. With excellent precision and a bit of shuffling, I quickly had the two children cradled against my chest with my left arm. I was cradling a horse cradling a horse; amusing. Looking down at their wide eyes and shocked expressions, I could now see that the pink girl possessed a magenta sprawl of hair, as well as striking green eyes. I could also tell—observing the expansion of her chest and tensing of her body—that she was about to scream, so I poked her on the nose. The sheer randomness of the act mollified both of them, thus proving my superior skills at handling children. Never let it be said that Ser Ornstein, dragonslayer and demon killer, was poor with children. Safely removing the peasantry from the battlefield was always a priority, so I decided to head further down the streets of the village, hoping to come out on the other side. With the equines quietly in my grasp, I passed by street after street. The multitude of burning houses surrounded me, smoke oozing like liquid darkness from their windows and tiny cinders passing through the air like fireflies as the buildings slowly collapsed. My progress was a melody of metal boots on stone, the roar of collapsing buildings, the breaths of the little ones in my grasp and, sometimes, the far-off screams of the dying. “E-excuse me, sir?” came tremulous voice of the green-furred girl. It was a fresh voice, laced with beauty, and I stopped my trek to heed her. A quick glance around showed a large plaza, which I had just entered from one of the many streets leading into this place of communion. The apparent lack of danger satisfied me, so I turned my attention to the horse. “What ails thee, child?” At my words, she blinked her aquamarine eyes and raised her hoof questioningly. “Erhh…” While she pondered her words, chewing at her lower lip, I looked to the plaza’s exits. Which one, I wondered, would be fastest? “Where are we g- uh, going?” “Out.” A sound caught my attention. It was the crackle and pop of fire, this one oddly significant to my senses amidst this ocean of flame. “I intend to leave the village limits, removing ye from the dangers that are abound here, little one,” I clarified, gauging her reactions. She seemed to breathe easier at my words. Perhaps she would be of help to me in helping herself. “Little one, dost thou know which of these streets will most swiftly lead us to safety?” Her ears sprang up, though sluggishly. It would appear that fatigue was beginning to overtake her, now that she lay within the boundaries of my protection. Still, the child gazed at our surroundings, doing her best to answer my question. “That way, over there, that leads to a road going out of town. It’s the fastest way.” One hoof lifted from the tiny one’s back to gesticulate to a streetway on my left. “My thanks, girl. Ye will be safe, soon.” Something ominous awaits. My gait was cautious as I walked towards the street, a tightened grip on my spear. I could hear it, clear as the bells of Anor Londo: fire, sizzling and smoldering. It seemed to grow in the back of my head, vibrating in my chest like the roar of a dragon. Another step, I had covered half the distance, and then I stopped. Out from the very street I was headed for walked a figure, standing upright like myself. The feminine contour was covered from head to ankle in an ash-black, hooded cloak. A single, golden circlet ran around the figure’s waist, its individual pieces stringing together to form a belt strongly contrasting the rest of the garments. My eyes peered deep into the hood, but I saw naught but the faint outline of a face, the only evidence of flesh being her unprotected feet—dainty yet dirty—and two hands. As the delicate fingers danced and her hand moved to guard her body, I saw the flames licking her skin, fanning forth from her palms and travelling up to her fingertips. A thump in my chest heralded heat, liquid warmth spreading from my heart and into my right arm. At first came a single spark, but then came two. Streaks of light surged up and down my spear, lightning coiled within its metal confines. I could feel a searching gaze from the blackness of the hood, and two frightened, aquamarine eyes staring at my countenance. I was ready to drop my passengers, ready to unleash death. Not quite yet, however; first, I would observe. And then, the battle might commence.