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The Souls-like DLC Duel Boss You Need To Git Gud To Beat Is Reborn In A Fluffy Otome Game World! - Prologue: ‘The First Venators’ DLC - The Youngest
🕑 Added 2025-01-14 19:00:09 +0000 UTCThe Lone Venator pushed open the tall doors at the peak of the nightmare-twisted Observation Ward. Behind them, they could hear the few misshapen patients still living—for a given value of ‘living’ in this perverse dreamland—crying, or calling for someone called ‘Countess Marla’ to offer them comfort. The strange deformities upon their bodies from the experiments the Chorus had conducted on them made the patients blind to the corpses the Lone Venator had left in their wake of the more violent among them. They had long since ceased questioning how those without eyes would close upon them so unerringly to do them harm.
At least there hadn’t been any dogs. The Lone Venator would take nearly any number of blind, misshapen, violent patients over dogs.
The door opened to what at first seemed like a circular platform open to the sky, but upon a second glance was a bridge leading to another building. The question of architecture was another thing they had ceased pondering, lest they be driven mad. Or possibly more mad. Yet a part of them had to wonder if this bridge was a figment of the nightmare or a reflection of the true world. The Observation ward had been inaccessible to them when they had traversed the city of Ortujha, and they had never seen it from an angle that would have revealed this bridge.
The platform was filled with planters, all organized into concentric ring save for a path bisecting through it. The planters were filled with moonblossoms, the pale round flowers in various states of bloom. Many were drooping, and some were withered. A few clearly dead, their petals strew across the platform. In the twilit sunlight of the nightmare, the flowers looked immature and forlorn, forgotten.
In the middle of the circular platform was a round island with an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood. Suspended from it at slightly above head-height was a bell connected to a pull-rope. The Lone Venator let out a sigh of relief as they hurried towards the bell, ignoring the ethereal forms that flickered out of the corner of their eyes, grasping the pull-rope and tugging. The bell swung, and though it had no clapper, it rang silently with a vibration they could feel in their soul, an empty tone that would cross the boundaries between nightmare and waking. With the mute reverberation, the bell began to glow with a subtle silvery light as the Lone Venator sighed in relief.
There was no guarantee of safety, not in this twisted placed, but the bell-post was the closest thing to it. Should they die…
True death as a choice in this place. Every time they died, in the dark between dying and living, came the knowledge that they didn’t need to go back. That they could simply sink in the blackness, never to return, never to suffer again…
Of course, they would never choose to die, but the bell-post would make their return far less unpleasant. For one thing, they wouldn’t have to battle their way from the last silent bell that they rang…
With firm resolve, the Lone Venator stared at the other end of the bridge. A pair of heavy double doors stood there, almost a mirror of the ones from the Observation Wards. Dark and heavy, only their height made them stand out from many of the doors he’d seen around Ortujha and this nightmare, rising several feet above their head. As they walked away from the bell-post, the Lone Venator instinctively checked their armaments. Their pistol, a superior weapon he had looted from the Keep of Damaigh, was loaded and ready to hand. The Grand Lunarblade was in their hand, the weapon’s radiance dulled for the moment, not yet awakened to burn by silvery moonsalt. The runestones mounted on the weapon glinted, adding strength to the armament. They were as prepared as they could be for whatever lay behind that door.
Tentatively, the Lone Venator placed both hands on the door and pushed gently. Relief filled them as the door moved, opening from this side.
What they found on the other side stifled their relief.
Beyond the doors was a large, round room. Wooden floors creaked slightly under their feet as they cautiously stepped inside, the planks warped by age or simply having come into being already warped, and wood panels were mounted on the walls. High above, the ceiling was a glass dome, panes of glass held up by ironwork. A star-filled sky shone down through the dome, dominated by a shining pale moon bursting with fullness. Lining the perimeter of the chamber were more long troughs of moonblossoms, each flower giving off a faint, silvery glow as they faced the moon, compounding its light. Here and there, they saw dreamlike puddles of blood that bubbled and roiled but held no substance even within this twisted nightmare.
Ah. So this was where the moonblossoms in the vases next to some of the beds in the Observation Ward had come from.
Staring up at the ceiling, the Lone Venator turned to look back towards the open door, though which twilit sunlight shone. They stared up at the moon above, and even as they watched a cloud drifted across the sky, passing behind the celestial orb of pale radiance. Shuddering, they turned their gaze downward.
The only other features of the chamber was a high-backed chair that sat in the center of the chamber, moonblossom petals scattered around it, and another door on the opposite end. Cautiously, the Lone Venator approached the seat to investigate, eyes flicking to all the rooms borders and the ceiling as they walked, wary of hidden giant spiders, mercurial brutes, or concealed ferals waiting to pounce upon them from above. Rounding the chair, they gazed upon what it contained.
The chair held a corpse.
At this point, that wasn’t anything unusual, eliciting only a watchful glance in all directions—especially above—to ascertain if the cause of death was still nearby. Spotting no immediate cause of death, the Lone Venator looked at the corpse more closely. Female and red of hair under a triangular leather cap, the dead woman had skin that was colloquially described as ‘moon-bleached’ and more accurately called ‘pallid’. They were clearly a venator of some sort, as they were wearing several layers of thick leather meant to armor them against ferals and dogs, but it was clearly of much finer make than their own garb. It was the little details like subtle silver embroidery, frills on the cuffs, the leather dueling cape of their left side being held in place by polished silver chains, and the pure white cravat—stained with blood, but obviously made of silk—held in place by a bloodstained broach in the shape of a moonblossom.
A quick glance over the corpse showed no obvious supplies—no carmine jelly for them to dissolve in their canister, no moonsalt bullets,—to scavenge, so the Lone Venator turned away, regarding the opposite door. They hoped it wasn’t locked, because they hadn’t found any keys in the Observation Ward that they hadn’t used, so if it was that meant they were going to have to scour the whole building—again—to find whatever key or mechanism unlocked it, and knowing their luck it was going to be in some unobtrusive room back in the basement and who put the locking mechanisms of things on the top floor of a building in the basement?-!-?
The Lone Venator’s musings on the impracticality of what passed for architecture in the city of Ortujha were cut short as he heard a subtle sound behind him. It was a whisper in the still air, like the sound of a single flower petal falling to the ground… or in this case, the relaxation of a wooden chair as weight was removed from it.
They spun, one hand snapping up over their shoulder to grasp the hilt of the Grand Lunarblade. The woman they had assumed was a corpse was rising from her chair, her movements slow and deliberate as she gained her feet.
“Let the dead lie in peace, stranger,” the woman said, even as she drew a pair of blades from sheaths hidden under her coat as her hat shadowed her face. The metal did not gleam. Instead, they had the clean, worn look of weapons that used and maintained industriously for years. “Ah… but the promise of answers call to you, does it not?” There was a metallic sound of mechanisms, and the two blades locked together, joining their hilts. The crimson-haired venator gave the weapon a slow flourish, tracing it in an almost lazy circle in the air as the blades gleamed in the moonlight coming from above. “I will remedy this folly, and free thee from this nightmare’s hold.”
Countess Marla of the Lunar Conservatory
(▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓)
The Lone Venator drew their weapon, the unearthly eldritch blade surprisingly light in their hand even when dull, and grasped the hilt with both hands. The Grand Lunarblade began to glow with verdant moonlight as the crimson-haired venator began to walk towards them—
And she was there, her strange weapon stabbing at them as she lunged, the blade embedding into their shoulder only to be ripped in a shower of blood as it ripped upward. The blade on the opposite end of the weapon slashed upward in response, tearing through their thigh and torso in another explosion of blood.
As the Lone Venator stumbled back, there was a metallic snap, and the strange weapon separated into a pair of blades. Both swung down at them, coming down on their head—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood. Suspended from it slightly above their head was a bell that was swinging back and worth, ringing an empty tone. They blinked, shaking off the now-familiar momentary disorientation of death and phantom pains burning in their chest and head. In front of them, the doors of the moonlit conservatory stood open, the doorway shrouded by a barrier of silvery mist.
Well… death was hardly unexpected when facing strong enemy, even when they weren’t powerful enough to summon the mist. While unpleasant, this was not unexpected. Indeed, most recently they had done battle with the twisted and feral Wolfgang the Thrice-Crowned, which had killed the Lone Venator several times. And that battlefield had not had a conveniently close silent bell nearby, so they had needed to run back several times to both do battle with the feral venator and recover their bloodsong where they had fallen on their death.
As the Lone Venator stood before the silvery mist, they drew the Grand Lunarblade from their back once more. Then, they braced themselves and taking a deep breath, they plunged into the mist once more.
This time, they were in a far better position. The other venator stood in the center of the conservatory, their half-cape flaring out as they turned to face the Lone Venator, their staff-like blades in hand. Unfortunately, the Lone Venator could hear their fallen bloodsong behind the woman. They ran, trying to circle the conservatory to reach the bloodsong before the other venator could reach then—
The crimson-haired woman seemed to flicker, seemingly disappearing from sight even as an odd motion darted towards them, and the Lone Venator forced themselves to dash forward in a burst of speed, barely avoiding the swings of the woman behind them. They just kept running until the reached the fallen bloodsong, pulling the power into their own blood before turning to face their enemy.
The blades had come apart once more, the woman lunging towards them with one of the blades. With a practiced gesture, the Lone Venator drew their pistol and fired, the bullet of silvery moonsalt causing their foe to stumble to their knees. They dashed forward, and their hand struck like a claw into the woman’s chest with a savage strike that covered them both in blood. The Lone Venator felt their blood seeping into their skin, drawn by the bloodsong in the veins, and had they been injured there would have been a modicum of recovery. As it was, they had merely drawn first blood.
Pulling back from the woman, they palmed another moonsalt bullet as they grasped the Grand Lunarblade in both hands and swung overhead. The moonsalt was consumed by the strange, eldritch weapon as stream of flowing verdant moonlight erupted from the blade—
—and completely flowed over the still-fallen venator. Ah. How awkward. And wasteful. Moonsalt bullets were a finite resource, only rarely salvageable from some of the feral brutes they encountered and required bloodsong to produce…
They repositioned, swinging the greatsword in their hands, which slammed into the venator’s side in another minor explosion of blood. The strange logic of nightmares meant that even as her body was torn open by the blade, her clothing remained whole to preserve her modesty, even as the Lone Venator reversed their swing to strike her a second time.
However, they overestimated themselves, launching a third swing that the venator managed to evade. Even as they tried to dart back, the woman’s swords flashed, both of them stabbing in quick succession before simultaneously slashing upwards in an explosion of their blood that left them staggering. As they stumbled for a critical moment, the blades locked together, and with a two-handed overhead swing both blades tore into them again—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood, gnashing their teeth at their own carelessness and idiocy. Then they marched towards the silvery mist, reminding themselves to not use so much stamina in the attack that they overcommitted and could withdraw from the inevitable retaliation as they palmed another moonsalt bullet.
They made a dash for their fallen bloodsong, pulling it back into their blood before facing—
A lunge and a blade stabbed into them, followed swiftly by its twin before they were stabbed a third time. Frantically, the Lone Venator tried to make space even as they drew out their jelly canister to imbibe in—
A lunge, and a blade slashed at their back, followed by another, and then a double overhand swing—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
All right, this clearly wasn’t working. Fond as they were of the Grand Lunarblade, it was simply too large and too slow to stand against this particular foe. Perhaps a swifter weapon…
They marched towards the silvery mist, the simple blade of Wolgang’s Divine Sword in their hand—the metal of banded steel and silver like flowing water—a heavy sheath like a bludgeon on their back.
Once more, they rushed towards the bloodsong, intending on—
The report of a pistol staggered them, causing them to stumble momentarily, and then a pair of blades swung together cut them like scissors—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
…all right, this wasn’t a setback, this was liberating! With them unable to recover their bloodsong it had become disconnected and had joined with the music of the spheres, so this meant they didn’t have to worry about recovering them anymore! They could concentrate fully of defeating the venator.
They marched towards the silvery mist, full of determination, blade in one hand and pistol in the other. On the other side, they matched the crimson-haired venator’s confident march under the moonlit dome, meeting them in battle, their sword flashing—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
Perhaps the sword was too short. Given their foe’s speed and ferocity, they needed a weapon that would allow them to keep their distance…
They marched towards the silvery mist, gripping the Feral Spear in both hands. Long and sharp, the head was almost a small sword, and behind the wide crossguard was a mechanism for firing moonsalt bullets into something the spear was impaled into.
The Lone Venator kept the point of the weapon pointed directly at their foe, ready to impale them and—
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
All right, they were too fast to be impaled, and even if they weren’t they could easily parry the spearhead! Perhaps if they used a heavier weapon, one that would effortlessly stagger with every impact, they would be able to force the venator to their knees for a savage strike…
Holding the Bludgeoning Cane Sword in their hands, with a heavy ball of as a grip on one end and a shaft that concealed a long and narrow blade, they marched towards the silvery mist…
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
Weapons clearly weren’t working. Perhaps something less straightforward. They still had several moonsalt bullets. With those, they could evoke the power of the Herald of Thysania, allowing them to momentarily call upon the Elderborne’s power. It was a bare fraction of the Elder’s might, but it should be enough to bring the venator to her knees so they could stab her repeatedly—!
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
Come to think of it, the Elderborne Thysania wasn’t all that powerful. The Lone Venator had killed them after all, although given how the Elderborne still answered the calls of the Herald that they used, it seemed the Elder carried no grudge about it. Perhaps they should try weapons again…
Holding the Meldun Axe in their hands, they pulled on mechanism built into the haft to wind its spring, sheathing the axe-head in blue sparks as they marched towards the silvery mist…
They Died.
The Lone Venator found themself standing under an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood.
They threw back their head and screamed.
Grand Lunarblade once more in their hands, a cannon in the other, they stomped angrily towards the silvery mist…
They Died.
They Died.
They Died.
They Died.
They Died.
They Died.
The Lone Venator continually found themself standing under the post of the silent bell. They had passed though rapids of anger and the maelstrom of frustration to once more find themself in the tranquil mudflats of determination. In their hands was the weapon they had found most effective, the Serrated Sword, with its saw-like edge and hilt that could be extended to give it reach so it could be wielded like a polearm. It was just fast and damaging enough to be ideal…
With a determination that bordered on madness—and no way of knowing if the border was crossed—they strode through the silvery mist.
Alone together in the pale moonlight, the two venators danced. Serrated blade cut flesh and blood, and twinned swords exacted their toll. The Lone Venator spun through steps learned over multiple deaths, barely avoiding yet another journey guided by the silent bell, even as they took wounds. The venator’s savage strike seemingly ripping out their heart, and carmine jelly healed their wounds barely in time as they stood on the knife’s edge. Their sword was parried even as they parried their foe, the dome filling with the ringing of metal and gunfire.
It didn’t last.
As they had almost come to expect, the crimson-haired venator would not die easily. Piercing her own flesh, the venator coated her swords with writhing blood that seemed to gather the moonlight around them, growing long radiant blades that—rather unfairly, a part of the Lone Venator thought—were still as swift as ever. The blades cut further than before, and when the venator combined her swords, it was to form a spiraling lance of moonlight that tore through the Lone Venator entirely, a cold, icy light that somehow burned—
They Died.
The Lone Venator learned to roll away from the spiraling lance. They learned to keep their distance when their foe exploded with moonlight like a flower unfurling its petals. They learned to evade the chilling, burning mists that trailed her swords, or simply erupted from her like ephemeral blades when she slashed. They learned to simply run and roll when she leapt into the air so swiftly and so high she seemed to disappear, only to descend upon them like a hammer from the skies, slamming him into the ground as her blades impaled their back as chilling fire—
They Died.
They learned to hold their ground when she leapt into the air so swiftly and so high she seemed to disappear, only to descend upon them like a hammer from the skies, rolling away at the last moment to evade her blades that impaled the ground in an explosion of chilling moonlight and burning mist. They rolled under the arcs of moonfire that sliced the very air as she slashed at them from halfway across the conservatory, and where did these venators and feral brutes and whatever learn to do these things, and why couldn’t they do the same…?-!
They Died.
And yet after every death, they lasted longer. Their own sword cut into the crimson-haired woman, even as she evaded and flickered away from him with skill and grace. They fought.
They Died.
They fought. They rolled.
They Died.
They fought. They rolled. They parried.
They Died.
They fought still, rolling away from the spiraling lance of light. Dashing to the woman’s side when she swung her swords, evading them by hairs’-breadths. The rolled under burning mists, and arcs slashed into the air and the woman slamming into the ground like thunder. They dodged her swords and shot the woman to make her stumble, leaving her open for a savage strike that ripped the blood from her chest…
—and suddenly he was staring down at her tired eyes as swords fell from her hands, even as the momentum of their strike pushed her away from them. The woman stumbled back, eyes fixed on the sky, one bloody hand reaching up desperately only to fall to earth, pulling the venator down with it.
“Is this… my open sky? Yet the walls are still here… did I never leave?”
The Lone Venator stared as the venator’s form seemed to explode into silvery mist when she hit the ground… and then she was gone, the same silvery mist that had been blocking the doorway into the conservatory fading away. They swooned slightly as they felt a rush, bloodsong filling their veins with subtle power as a fraction of the strength of their foe became theirs. A sigh of relief and exhaustion escaped them, and they swayed in place as they finally allowed themself to relax.
In the center of the room, where the chair that the woman had sat on had once been, an incongruous post made of curving, gnarled wood seemed to fade into existence, from which was suspended a bell connected to a pull-rope but had no clapper. And at the Lone Venator’s feet was a simple key, plain and unadorned save for a long loop of leather cord.
Wearily, the Lone Venator picked up the key and rang the bell. Its silent tone washed over him as the bell began to glow with a subtle silver light, and they sighed in relief as all the aches and injuries they had acquired seemed to fade away. With firm, confident steps, they began to walk towards the sealed doors at the far side of the chamber. The key fit the lock easily, and with a twist the seal was undone. Pressing both hands against the door, the Lone Venator began to push the door open, the promise of answers still calling…
Rakka
A venator weapon wielded by Countess Marla of the Lunar Conservatory.A pair of cunningly crafted swords originating from the same land as the Chisame, only these sword feeds not off life and soul, but instead requires great strength and skill.
Countess Marla was fond of this aspect of the Rakka, as she frowned upon the sanguine arts, despite being distant kin of her crimson majesty.
One day, she cast aside her Rakka in shame, leaving it to languish in a pit when she could no longer bear the deeds she had committed.
