Kooroo
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The orc roared defiantly and swung, its axe hurtling towards the knight’s head. Providence flashed and the beast’s shout was cut off, throaty warcry turning into a guttural croak as its axe dropped to the floor and its torso split in two. Blood splattered the leaf-strewn earth, splashing onto Syn’s boots and coat, but she paid it no mind. She would slay until there were no more beasts left in the realms, and drown in their blood if He willed it.
And there was no doubt that He willed it, the angels told her. They sang their praises as the orc’s twitching stopped and then they spoke, voices as one.
‘Go’, they commanded. ‘Carry His word. For it is your Duty.’
Of course, she responded, bowing her head mentally in reverence. There is nothing but my Duty, as I am nothing without my Duty.
The knight turned, facing the remaining beasts. There were two before her, a male and a female, the last survivors of their settlement. Or the last two for her to purge, before her part was over, as dictated by her agreement with the heretic. There was a third monster; a trembling child, whose tusks had barely broken its lips, staring teary-eyed from behind its elders’ legs.
The male raised its weapon as the female beast barked at her, its harsh accent doing no favours for its primitive tongue. Not willing—or perhaps not knowing how—to argue, the youngling scarpered, fleeing into the burning town. Syn stared at the scene dispassionately, keeping her eyes on the adult specimens. The children and the casters weren't her concern after all. Unless He wished for her to deliver His Justice personally, it was her heretical partner’s duty to deal with it.
And though she was a heretic, there was no denying that she was thorough. And fast.
’Forward’.
Syn obeyed. She raised her sword and took one step forward.
The male orc roared and lunged at her, bringing its weapon, a crude battleaxe, to bear. Silver flashed towards her as the axe head arched towards her neck. Providence glowed with violet light as Syn swung it up, crystal edge meeting barbed metal in a resounding clash. The blades clattered against each other for a moment, until she pulled her sword violently to the side, tearing the beast’s weapon from its grasp.
All it took from there was a reversal of that action, and then there was only one greenling standing. It howled—a bestial cry of loathing and loss—before it leaped at Syn, its warhammer thrashing wildly.
Keeping Providence low, the arbiter stepped forward, ready to meet her foe. She raised an arm and charged, violet flames erupting from the back of her armor and propelling her forward. There was a crunch as plate met flesh and bone, matched only by the sound of Syn’s jets as she drove the pair forward.
Five units later, their journey came to an abrupt end when they crashed through a house.
’Stand. There are more in the realms who dare defy His Justice. Stand, for your work is not yet done.’
Syn pulled herself on to her feet, stone and plaster tumbling off her as her armour released clouds of steam. She looked down at her spasming foe, then walked up and stuck her sword through its heart. The movement stopped and the angelic choir hummed, though the soothing hymn was soon interrupted by a blast of heat on her back.
It seemed that her partner had missed one.
The Hollow Knight turned and was greeted by an oak staff being breaking across her face. She stumbled back, then steadied, just as a mountain of an orc grabbed at her. A large, grubby-looking hand pinned her sword arm to her side, while Syn strained to keep the creature’s left away from her neck. Her attacker snarled and doubled his efforts, while Syn stared blankly at the rattling beads around his neck.
It was a priest. Or a shaman, perhaps. A feral and disgraceful parody of those who preached to the masses. Perhaps the most sacrilegious of the plague she’d been tasked with purg—
The knight’s strength faltered and her foe's hand inched closer.
It didn’t matter though. There was an agreement. This was not hers to correct. As was mentioned in His Decrees; Honour thy word and thy ally, and in doing so, honour thyself. Thus, the agreement would stand, even if she had t—
The angelic choir cut through her thoughts, their words drowned out by a single, booming command. ’Idle not. Forward, and bring balance to this land,’
As if on cue, the low whir emanating from within Syn’s chest quietened, only to be replaced by an incessant buzz. Power and strength surged through her limbs, and the arbiter shoved the startled shaman’s hand aside, before pulling back her fist and flattening him with a haymaker.
It shot backwards, heels clipping the edge of the ruined wall, causing it to flip and strike the ground hard. The ivory knight stepped through after it and walked until she was looking down on the dazed mystic. Perhaps sensing what was to come, the greenskin started to move, trying to flip back on to its front. She planted an armored boot on its nape, pinning it. Still it fought, trying to reach for a discarded handaxe.
’Forward’.
Syn raised her foot and brought it down, stomping hard.
The struggling ceased and the angels began to sing amongst the sound of crackling cottages….
A peaceful silence that was remarkably short lived, as there was a shout and a thunderclap from behind her. Most people would’ve ducked or covered their heads at the abrupt exclamation; after all, the word sounded similar to another often used in the sporting world. Syn, however, had next to no knowledge about sports and the phrases they employed. She’d heard the word before—many, many times before—and turned to look at her partner instead of ducking.
She was immediately rewarded for her efforts by a sword that cannoned into her face, its tip digging into the ivory surface of her mask.
There was a loud clang, not dissimilar to a gong being struck, and the Hollow Knight went down, crashing to the earth.
When she finally came to, the crackling of burning buildings had stopped. Two blurry silhouettes loomed over her—one thin, the other bulky—both preoccupied in a serious discussion, their voices muted considerably.
“—she’s not some…. priest, or nun, or Father, or Mother, or Hail Mary, or anything like that. I get that. She’s a simpler sort, one of the many sheeple that follow instead of lead. Which is fine.”
“Still, when a devout”—the thin figure gestured, waving two hazy arms in the air—”something gives you their word, you hope they’d keep it. But she didn’t, so I had to balance the numbers a bit.”
“So you shot her,” the bulky one stated bluntly.
“I was on forty-three, alright? I needed one more. So after our recently departed shortstack—may she decompose peacefully— stepped in that last Greeny Houdini, there was nothing left.” There was a lengthy pause. “You look lost. Can I offer you a map?”
“Ms. Astra—”
“Call me Theia, please.”
“Theia—”
“I changed my mind, you’ve gone and ruined it. Back to Ms. Astra, cheers.”
The second figure took a deep breath and raised a hand to his face, the movement followed by the clank of armour.
By now, Syn’s vision and hearing had cleared up. She could make out her heretical partner’s toothy smile and singsong voice, contrasting immensely with the stern expression on the man’s face. There was further commotion in the background; orders and directions being given, intertwined with the sound of equipment and tools being moved. Their employer’s subordinates; most likely clearing up the remnants of the orcish plague.
The two continued back and forth like that as Syn stared up at them from the ground. She lay there and waited, as the pair discussed the importance of numbers and cracking eggs to dispose of orc settlements. None of this concerned the arbiter in the slightest; their bickering was inconsequential to His Grand Vision. If it had mattered, then He or His Messengers would have relayed to her.
And so she waited, patiently as always. She waited for His Word to direct her. For His Command, for a Purpose. The wind blew through the trees and the still-smoking remnants of the orc village. A bloodied leaf tumbled through the currents and landed directly in the centre of her armoured veil, before being whipped off to its next adventure. The knight waited.
And waited….
And still, Syn waited.
Until eventually, there was something that came to her. It wasn’t a sentence, or a word. Or even a sound.
Instead, it was a strange… sensation. An emotion… A… what was the word? Feeling? A feeling, yes. The first in… the first in ever. It made everything feel slow and distant. What was once merely irrelevant chatter was now just a droning buzz in the background. Even the gentle hum in Syn’s chest seemed more real and… relevant than whatever the two above her had to say.
What was the word for this feeling? Was it… was there even a word for it?
Something inside her spoke up; it wasn’t a clear, overwhelming voice like the Lord or His Heralds. It was something quieter and softer, but just as real and just as loud. This something whispered to her and the word clicked. Yes, this word perfectly described the sensation she was feeling. It was…
Boredom.
It was boredom she was feeling. Yes, that was it.
Syn was bored.
Very bored.
She needed something to do. There was nothing to be gained from simply lying on the ground, listening to these apostates quibble over insignificant matters. But what was there to do, in the absence of His Guidance?
She didn’t know. The arbiter had no idea, but all she knew was that she had to do something besides just lying there.
So Syn sat up. The gunslinger and the armoured man looked at her.
“Ah, Miss Syn. You’re awake. How—”
The heretic cut him off with a flourish, pulling out her gun. “Looks like I missed a spot.“
She took aim at the knight’s head and was about to pull the trigger before the man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. Soldiers around them glanced over as the two struggled before continuing on with their tasks. Syn ignored them and slowly pulled herself off the floor, taking up Providence in her right hand. Finally, she straightened up and walked off.
His Chosen Knight managed to get seven units away before her partner strode past briskly and stood directly in the arbiter’s path.
“Hello there, buttercup,” she beamed, waving brightly at the arbiter.
Syn ignored her and kept walking. The two collided heavily, the impact causing the lighter woman to curse and stumble. The swordswoman disregarded the dull throbbing in her chest and shoulder where the heretic had bounced off, continuing to march on unimpeded.
Another six steps and she felt herself slow. There was some resistance from behind, something heavy enough to create a significant amount of drag.
No matter.
The rising hum in her chest grew to an audible purr and the weight vanished. Syn became aware of a tapping on her shoulder and her back. Someone was shouting coming from directly behind her, but still she continued forward. Whatever was happening behind her was irrelevant. Forward had been His last command to her, so Forward she woul—
There was a FLASH! right next to her head, and Syn shot sideways. She flew weightlessly for what seemed like an age, zooming past wrecked buildings and wide-eyed warriors in a magically charged blur. Eventually, the magic of whatever had shot her wore off and physics took claim of her once more. The Bleached Arbiter’s heel struck the dirt path, flipping her like she had flipped the mongrel shaman.
Luckily, there was a tree up ahead to cushion her.
She struck the tree with her back, hard enough to splinter the trunk, and slid down onto the floor until she was looking up at the sky once more. She lay there unmoving, until a hat, two amber orbs, and a metalclad grin popped into the bottom of her vision.
“Well hey there, champ! Looks like I managed to get you just in time,” the heretic rasped, voice magically distorted. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Silence followed and the gunwoman waited, counting slowly on her right hand. Syn stayed down, completely frozen, her mind empty and silent like the former inhabitants of the village. Until, unexpectedly, a small, tiny voice whispered to her. She repeated the word to the masked woman looking down at her.
“Ow.”
The gunwoman jumped backwards in shock, then bent over again. “My god, it talks! I thought I’d broken something with that last one. Not that…. Well, not that you were unbroken before. So, uh…” she glanced to her left and right, as though watching for eavesdroppers. ”Would you mind terribly if I just asked you one quick question?”
A moment passed them by, with the heretic looking down pointedly at Syn, who stared skyward, towards the clouds.
Nothing. There was nothing, once again. Stillness and emptiness… except for one tiny, miniscule sensation. Unlike the boredom she had felt, this feeling sat in the center of the canvas of her mind, waiting. Expecting.
Syn inclined her head. The heretical gunwoman nodded to herself. “Great! So, just answer me this.”
She bent down until her metal grin was barely a hair's breadth from Syn’s own blank visage and hissed. “Where the hell did you think you were going?”
“Forward,” Syn echoed.
“Nah, sideways. From my P-O-V, you were definitely going sideways. To the left, as a matter of fact. But let’s say that you somehow managed to outrun moi. Where would you go? What were you hoping to find?”
The amber-lensed goggles and leering mask vanished, and her partner looked down at her expectantly. Syn didn’t answer her. The question sunk into her, floating in the emptiness. Only then did Syn truly feel it; the hollowness. There was a hollowness within her; where once the song of angels had filled her, had driven her. All in His glorious name. But without it, what was she to do? Without His Guidance, what was left? What was to be her purpose?
Purpose.
She whispered the word. The heretic cocked an eyebrow, then leant down again, metal hand cupping her ear. “Come again?”
“Purpose,” repeated a voice, but not her own.
They both looked towards the direction the voice had come from, to see their employer standing with his arms crossed. He began walking over to them, armour clanking with every step.
“How long’ve you been there, General?” her partner queried, adjusting her hat.
“Marshal, Ms. Astra.”
Syn watched as the Marshal bent towards her and offered his hand. The knight stared at it for a good while before reaching out and grasping it. With a grunt, the tall man pulled Syn upright and on to her feet. There was something… off about the action, but Syn didn’t know what.
Shaking his arm out, the armoured man glanced between his hired help.
“Purpose. A little soul searching might”—he looked directly at Syn, locking eyes with where he thought he eyes would be and then coughed—“will do you some good. The two generals that you two are replacing have departed on similar grounds. I suggested to both of them that they go to an outer realm, away from Alafael, but both declined and went their own ways. You, however, might be a bit more… adventurous than either of them.”
“Where is this place?” Syn asked. The gunwoman shot her a strange look, while the Marshal smiled.
“The one world I have in mind is a… unique one. It’s name is Lore. There’s a city within the realm that hosts an annual competition. I’m not sure of it’s exact location, but I am told if you ask the locals about it, then I’m sure you will have no trouble finding it.”
“Bren?”
Both the Marshal and Syn looked at the gunlady who shrugged. “Pleasant place, not sure I’d go again. Could do with better security and signage. Three out of Four stars.”
“Excellent,” their employer nodded. “Then you can guide her there.”
The heretic stopped smiling and blinked, puzzled. “Pardon?”
“Take your friend—”
“Friend is such a strong word—”
“Take your colleague to Lore and guide her to the city. Help her enter the competition and then I would probably say that you’d have made up for…” He stopped, then pointed at Syn and gestured towards his face.
The gunwoman followed his gaze, up to Syn’s mask and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine, it’s fine. It’ll buff out.”
The man’s smile faded and he shot the heretic a dark look. The hired gun got the idea and nodded spiritedly. “We’ll be gone in Four hours. Be seeing you, General Marshy.”
She grabbed Syn by the jacket collar and tugged on it. The knight followed without resistance, stopping only when the gunwoman turned back to the Marshal.
“Oh, but last question. Is this going to come out of our annual?”
Now it was the Marshal’s turn to look confused.
“Darkness, eh? Can’t say it doesn’t suit you. Honestly, I always thought that the inside of your head was like a giant, blank canvas, but I guess that would mean there’s room for improvement, huh? A dark and squalid room sounds far more suitable. It’s much harder to change anything and you probably need an expensive permit.”
It had been about a week since the pair had left Alafael. Different emotions came and went from Syn’s mind as they pleased, their sporadic passage not dissimilar to the weather across the realms. There were surreal moments of waking where a sensation would come to her, only to vanish immediately after she had begun to understand it. Some feelings were generous enough to remain longer and were more consistent, but those were rare.
“So, what do you think? About your hair, I mean. Do you like it? I tried my darndest this earlier, but you’ve got so mu— Oh, snacks? Are these snacks? How much are the…. Wait, are these geckos?”
Syn could only assume that this was one of His Trials, but that didn’t make it any less troubling for the Bleached Arbiter. While it was not her place to question His Will, the most constant sensation that Syn was being entreated to was the one called irritation.
The heretic was unimaginably good at constantly evoking the emotion within Syn’s mind. Some of her partner’s behaviour was tolerable and even for the better at times; her tendency to run off and disappear for unspecified periods being the prime example. Granted, her absence had been a significant hindrance at the application centre, since Syn hadn’t managed to do much more than stare blankly at the clerical staff. Luckily, a kind hearted woman with dark hair and even darker eyes had seen fit to help the hapless arbiter with her application.
But when the gunwoman was around? It was as though she had taken it upon herself to try and replace His messengers. Sweet abyss, she just never stopped talking.
“Big city, huh? What do you think of Bren so far? Enjoying the sights? Drinking them in?”
Syn didn’t answer and let the heretic continue leading her by the collar of her jacket. Bren was a city, meaning it had people. Sure, it had lots of people and even more than just that; creatures and entities of various shapes and sizes that the arbiter had (probably) never seen before.
But so what? What was there to enjoy about the city? What was there to enjoy about the world, about life?
What was joy? And happiness? Why did they exist? Why did feelings and emotions matter?
She didn’t know, nor did she care. Syn wasn’t here for either, nor did she need the rest of anything else from the emotional spectrum. The Hollow Knight was here for herself, to either find her Purpose or pass His Trials and receive His Guidance once more. Nothing would stop her from achieving her goals.
Determination.
Was determination an emotion? Then it was irrelevant. She would prove that in the Trials ahead, of this she was sure. Of this she was deter—
Huh.
She stopped abruptly, watching as the heretic was pulled backwards comically by the sudden resistance and weight. The annoying woman turned around and started berating her, placing one hand on her hip and wagging her finger at Syn as the whizz of the arbiter’s Engine grew into an audible purr.
Her partner ceased her scolding when she heard it and squinted. “You’re like a cat, you know that? Either a cat or a dishwasher, but it can’t be the latter since you never do anything to the dishes. I mean, besides break them.”
Spinning around, the irksome gunslinger raised a hand to shield her eyes as she looked further down their path. “Oh, what do you know. We’re here!”
She jabbed at a spot on the other side of the footbridge, near the entrance to the Trial complex. “That was where someone tried to cut me,” she exclaimed happily.
Shame that they couldn’t finish the job.
There were a few itches under her mask, right on the corners of her mouth, but Syn didn’t move to scratch it. The heretic walked behind her and gave her a massive push, managing to move her a monumental two units before talking again.
She just never shut up, did she?
“So I would say that I was going up to the stands to see how far you’d go, but I’m going to guess, I dunno, maybe 3.6 units if we’re being optimistic? Not great, not terrible. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I would watch…. But quite frankly, I have much better ways to waste my time. Ergo!”—with a flourish, the gunlady drew a small revolver—”I’ll just send you off. See you at noon. And a one, and a two, and a one, two, three, FO—”
Syn backhanded the gun out of the heretic’s hand before she managed to finish the word. Both women watched as the handgun sailed high into the air, its silvery finish catching the sun’s rays before it suddenly dropped, spinning end-over-end into the stream. With the slightest of ripples and a soft little bloop, the gun sank beneath the water.
The heretical gunwoman looked back to Syn, frowning. After a moment of contemplation, she raised an arm and jabbed a finger at the competitor-to-be. “Rude.”
Dally not, chosen one—
The arbiter stiffened at His voice returning to her, straightening up slightly.
—for now is the time. Onwards, herald, and spread My Word.
By Your Holy Grace, I go.
Syn turned and made to leave, only to feel a hand latch on to her pauldron. Without nary a pause, the Bleached Arbiter grabbed the proffered limb with her free hand and spun, twisting across her body. She let go at the end of her turn, hurtling the offending gunwoman into a pile of neatly stacked wooden crates.
All movement around them stopped for a moment, every pair of eyes fixated on the toppled boxes. A moment passed… Then a second… And a third…
A gunmetal arm burst from the mound, knocking the top-most package on to the ground. “Fair enough. I guess I deserve that.”
Everyone in the crowd immediately went back to their business.
Her partner’s arm seemed to struggle for a moment, as the person stuck within the pile tried in vain to free herself. After a couple of minutes of straining, the straining ceased.
“Well, I guess this is as good as any other way to spend the rest of my day. Cheers, love.”
The metal hand shot her a gesture. Syn blinked, itching back once more on her lips.
Forward, arbiter.
At her lord’s command, Syn turned around and walked into the bowels of the complex.
There was a door in front of her, marked with a single sigil. She stared blankly, watching as the rune disappeared and the entrance swung open, the yawning portal revealing the blackness beyond.
Syn made to immediately step through the gateway, but something held her back. The knight turned to look behind her.
The hall was empty. There was nothing.
Nothing at all. So why di—
The engines roared, signalling the ship’s imminent departure. She smiled and snapped off a crisp salute. The people on the tower waved back vigorously, as gangplank retracted into the vessel.
This could be the last time they saw each other. She knew; they all knew. This could be the last goodbye—their final parting. But, refusing to entertain or give birth to that possibility, none of them had talked about it. Was that a mistake?
Nah, of course not. Who was she kidding? Sh— Onwards. Thou shalt not forsake thy duty on such wayward possibilities.
Angels sung with each of the arbiter’s footsteps, dying down to a steady, incoherent hymn and then—silence.
Syn stopped.
The single ray from the heavens swept over the room, passing over the edge of the pit they were in. It returned to the center and split with a loud wail, matched only by the rising chorus sounding in the arbiter’s mind. One beam became eight, each spreading out and illuminating other parts of the chamber. A solitary shaft focused on Syn, its siblings revealing the heretics in the room.
Heresy…
The purring within her breast grew into a growl as a deafening baritone washed over the pits inhabitant. The proclamation reverberated and resonating within Syn’s armor and bones, boring deep into her core.
And then He gave her His Command.
Purge the heretics, my arbiter. Crush the unclean. And let none stand in thy path. Forward.
“Forward,” the arbiter echoed, her voice but a whisper.
And so she went.
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