Dark Souls bosses rated by how much money they’d owe you after a night out
Happy 10th anniversary, you leeches
So, thought you’d take all your great Lordran chums out for a drink to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Dark Souls, did you? Bad times, pal. Sure, they’ll take care of any everlasting dragons you happen to have hanging around on your lawn, but when it comes to a night on the bevvies, they might well be the sorriest bunch of cheapskates since Final Fantasy VIII’s GFs. Consider this your one and only warning before these fantasy grifters clear you out for the month.
Great Grey Wolf Sif
Absolute chancer, this one. Will deliberately suggest you go somewhere that doesn’t let dogs in then stare at you sadly through the window, pawing the glass. You’ll feel like a monster, go outside, and pour at least three pints into her bowl. Carries an impractically gargantuan sword in her mouth at all times, which is her handy excuse for why she can't carry her shitting wallet anywhere.
Likely Damage: At least three pints. At least.
Complete buzzkill. Will follow you to a rave and get stroppy when the DJ doesn’t have any Elliot Smith and then sulk in the corner listening to Interpol on his Airpods. Is made of approximately 50 bajillion thick skulls but can’t get it through any of them that he’s being a massive downer. Yes, we know, we’re all going to die mate. Just drop it.
Likely Damage: The entire day, honestly.
Seath the Scaleless
Seath the penniless, more like. Seath the skint. Seath the scrounge. Seath the suspiciously in the pissers every time it’s their turn to get a round in. Seath the “spend millenia researching the secret to immortality just so I can flounce for all eternity”. Seath the sponge. Seath the secretly loaded but also secretly bitter about the whole ‘war against the dragons’ thing so decided to take his personal reparations out on you, specifically, one IPA at a time. Seath the shit.
Likely Damage: Six IPAs, all the shots, and a couple of tinnies back at yours while he whines, at length, about his scales.
Ornstein and Smough
Ornstein and fucking no, more like.
Likely Damage: None. Piss off.
Gwyn, Lord of Cinder
You know how this one goes. Half hour in, you can’t find your lighter. Two hours later, neither can anyone else. An hour before closing, this shameless prick turns his pockets out to get to the last bit of change from the tenner that you lent him and it turns out he’s been hoarding Clippers like a bedraggled magpie. "Ooooh sorry lads, I was trying to prolong the age of fire, blah blah blah." Horseshit, is what that is. Burnt himself to death to keep the abyss at bay solely for the purposes of creating a slightly warmer place to act the tosser in. Shitlord of Cinder more like.
Likely Damage: Monumental acts of hubris that disrupt the natural cycle of all living things. Also, your favourite Clipper.
Utter nuisance. Not technically a boss, but likes to hover at the back of a crowd of bosses wearing Smough’s armour whilst you get a round in, hoping to take advantage of your legendary generosity. Keeps banging on about “Jolly Co-operation” but gets distinctly unco-operative when you suggest he might like to buy his own cocktail for once. Praise the sun? How about you go praise the sea m8.
Likely Damage: Four to six grossly incandescent cocktails.
Shockingly good at karaoke, but shockingly bad at not getting into rows with the bouncers about the correct way to guard massive doors. Tries to look intimidating but is in fact easily taken out by small platforms placed directly above its head. Will try to play the sympathy card because of this until you end having to spend all night with the demonic melt, consoling him with lies about how tutorial bosses are actually extremely important. Only drinks craft ale - specifically, craft ale that you’ve paid for.
Likely Damage: Don’t bother. Just run.
Bed of Chaos
Famously formed when the Witch of Izalith went to sleep on her 4am kebab then rolled around in it all night. Will repeatedly insist she doesn’t want chips and then eat most of yours. Not content with recklessly unleashing demons on Lordran, she’s also fond of recklessly unleashing weapons-grade bum dumplings in the back of Ubers. Thorough liability.
Likely Damage: A massive, honking handful of your cheesy chips, then whatever the Uber driver charges you to clean the congealed cheese off the back of their seats.
Look, there’s likely more of these reprobrates lurking about with designs on your paycheck, but if you haven’t got the message by now, I don’t what to tell you. Git gud? Git employed, you shameless bunch of bastards.