The air in the Catacombs of Carthus was thick with death and ancient decay. The dust that swirled with every step tasted like ash, and the shadows stretched long across the crumbling stone. From the ceilings, water dripped in slow, steady intervals, pooling into blackened puddles. But nothing here was truly silent. Somewhere beyond the winding corridors, a faint clattering echoed—a never-ending symphony of bone against stone.
The skeletal warriors of Carthus were restless, their bodies long turned to dust, yet their will unbroken. They rose from the darkness, their curved blades glowing red like embers in the abyss. I dodged the first strike, my scythe carving through the gloom. Bone shattered, but I knew better than to stop. These creatures did not die easily. Their forms twisted, reassembling from the ruins of their former selves. I struck again, relentless, until there was nothing left but dust.
Deeper into the catacombs, forgotten halls loomed, suffocating under the weight of a civilization long dead. And in a vast, empty chamber, I found what had drawn me here—the tomb of High Lord Wolnir.
A chasm yawned before me, a bottomless pit from which a foul mist slithered. The darkness moved, it swelled, and then… it rose.
Wolnir emerged from the abyss, a massive colossus of bone and corruption. Hollow eyes burned in his skull, and as he dragged himself over the chasm’s edge, the very ground trembled beneath his weight. His skeletal arms, adorned with golden bracelets, smashed against the stone, obliterating ancient pillars as if they were nothing. But I saw them—his weakness. Those shimmering shackles that bound his existence.
His first attack was devastating. A massive fist crashed into the ground, sending cracks spiraling through the floor. I leapt back, narrowly escaping the force of the blow. Wolnir’s claw rose, and from the darkness came the dead—warriors of ages past, summoned to his side. But they were nothing to me. I cut through them, the taste of battle burning in my veins.
Then came the corruption. A wave of black mist spread like a living thing, thick and toxic, creeping toward me with insidious intent. It clawed at my skin, wrapped around my throat like unseen fingers. But I would not yield. I surged forward, my scythe finding its mark—the first golden bracelet cracked beneath my blade.
A scream, raw and otherworldly, echoed through the chamber. Wolnir recoiled, retreating into the darkness as if to escape. But I did not let up.
The second shackle. Then the third.
Each strike tore him further apart, his form crumbling, the shadows clawing at him as if to reclaim their master. And as the final bracelet shattered, Wolnir’s roar became a gurgling death cry. The abyss swallowed him whole, dragging him back into the eternal dark. Silence returned.
Now, I stood at the threshold of Carthus. Before me stretched a bridge, suspended over the unknown. But beyond that bridge… Irithyll awaited. The mist had lifted, revealing a city bathed in pale moonlight, its towers piercing the frozen sky.
I stepped forward, scythe in hand, leaving the darkness behind. Whatever awaited me in Irithyll – I would be ready.
Lythias bloody journey can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQRPy70pDgKVEzqUBOLF7KTHCTDX4riF7
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