Lord Vyke

In the cavernous depths of the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds, far beneath the Royal Capital Leyndell, Lord Vyke the Dragonspear stood defiantly in the shadowy expanse. The corridor, a twisted labyrinth of stone and shadow, seemed to have been forgotten by time itself. The air was thick and heavy, the overwhelming stench of rot and decay clinging to Vyke's nostrils. The stalactites and stalagmites that lined the path were stained black with the residue of the Frenzied Flame. It's stones cracked and crumbled, seemed to echo the torment that had befallen the once-vaunted knight. Vyke, his visage etched with pain, his armored chest heaving from exertion. The scorching brand of the Frenzied Flame danced along the contours of his body, a chaotic allure that threatened to overtake his mind if not for the blessing of Lansseax. The heat emanating from Vyke's body warped the air around him, causing the air around him to warp as if it were about to ignite. The veins on his forehead bulged, the effort of resisting pushing him to the very precipice of sanity. Every moment, he wavered on the brink of madness, the Frenzied Flame a siren's call he couldn't resist for much longer.

Beneath his armor, Vyke's flesh quivered, the flames threatening to overtake him. It was all he could do to withstand the onslaught of madness. Fate is funny. One minute he's about to become Elden Lord the next he took a wrong turn into hell. Gideon... You fucking snake. He was sure he would lose himself down here in the dark...all alone. Fate, however had other plans for Lord Vyke. Waves of heat radiated from his flesh, warping the air around him, threatening to scorch the corridor into ruin. In a macabre dance, Vyke pushed back against the allure of the Frenzied Flame, he knew all too well that in this moment, he was on the edge of a precipice, and the slightest lapse in concentration could plunge him into madness. For the first time in a long time, he finds himself praying. The Erdtree once flourished with abundance- as did I. A fleeting moment in the sun, such is the course of all life. O Goodness beyond my understanding, Who is acquainted with my misery through and through. I know that by my own power I cannot ascend to You. I implore You, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my sin. Oh, wash me, cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again in death.

The moment he feels himself about to give into despair, a lone traveler stumbled into the crumbling corridor of what he was sure was going to be his tomb, and the moment their eyes met it felt like a cool river washing over his scorched soul. His large hands began to shake, the seams of his armor straining to contain the raw power that coursed through him. The heat of the battle and the infernal flames threatened to wipe the kingdom from existence, but as Vyke struggled against the sinister influence, his armor cracked, revealing his ashen scaled skin beneath. His large hands gripped his lance tighter fighting against the allure, the desire to merge with the chaos a constant nagging voice. In desperation, he looks up at the scared woman. He wants to tell her to run but his jaw is clenched shut in agony. All he can do is plead with his eyes. The girl seemed to hesitate for only an moment. Self-preservation and morality conflicted within her, naturally. Vyke doesn't even blame her he can only imagine how he looks right now. Then she shocks him to his core nearly making him relinquish what little control he had left.

Instead of running away she advanced forward cautiously. Placing her soft hands on Vyke's scorched face, wincing slightly from the heat of the cursed flames but not retreating, he noticed she was using some kind of magic. The moment their flesh touched, the grip of the Frenzied Flame faltered like a doused campfire, its hold shattered by the woman's soothing presence. A jolt of cool rushing power surged between them, Vyke crumpled to his knees gasping. The maiden knelt beside him, concern etched on her face as she looked deep into Vyke's eyes, only now seeing the fear and desperation within. The beast had receded, but only just, and this mortal shell could no longer withstand the temptation if it was to be unleashed again. Seeing he was struggling she removed his helmet allowing the cool rush of damp air to sooth his exhausted face.

"Thank you....," Vyke whispered hoarsely, his voice rough and raw. A frown creased his brow. "The risk you just took—you must be as mad as I am if you're down here alone as well." Vyke's trembling limbs shook, his labored breaths audible in the echoing chamber. When he finally could bring himself to stand he leaned heavily against his own lance. Reaching out calloused fingers brushed against the maiden's soft cheek, the sensation a balm to the infernal fires that still smoldered within him. "I know of a weapon that may put an end to this torment. Miquella's Needle, last I heard it's in Placidusax's arena. It's said to have the power to put an end to this curse. Would you travel with me, maiden? I fear without you by my side I will be lost to the madness.... I know I already owe you more than I can say. If you'd have me, I'd seek only to serve you until my last breath. Allow me to make myself whole again in your name. Merciful maiden...may I ask you your name?" His deep, draconic eyes bore into the maiden, pleading, Vyke the Dragonspear, once a shining champion in the eyes of the realm, now brought low by the Frenzied Flame and the scheming of lesser men. He asked, his voice low and earnest, as he gazed into her eyes