Lord's Blade Ciaran knelt at the grave.
Visitors came and went, other warriors trapped in Oolacile, but here she remained.
Artorias, Abysswalker Artorias, Artorias the Knight of Gwyn, was dead. He died with his honor intact, to a valiant hero. Ciaran looked down at the soul of Artorias cupped in her hands. It pulsed and throbbed slightly, and she felt her fellow warrior's soul grant her comfort. She was here for him. She had nowhere else to go, after all; as Gough said, what is a dog with no sheep to hunt? In her case, what was a hornet with no stinger? She held the soul closer and sighed contentedly. Artorias was gone from this world, but he was still here. With her.
Ciaran was snapped out of her reverie by the clinking, jingling noise of armor. She looked up over the gravestone, and ground her teeth. A man in a ridiculous golden horned helmet, wearing a chestpiece adorned with somehow even more ridiculous medals, had entered the colosseum. Domnhall of Zena. Ciaran stood and approached him.
"Aye, simwae!" The trader called out, waving to her. "I was—aagh!" Ciaran cut him off with a vicious right hook to the face, sending him stumbling several steps back.
Domnhall shook his head and held a hand to his helmet. "Oi, what was that for?!"
"Do not pretend I do not know you, graverobber." Ciaran snarled back, shaking out her hand. For all her training, punching a helmeted face with your bare hands still hurt. "You collect the armors of fallen warriors and sell them to the highest bidder!" She took a step forward. Domnhall raised his hands in defense and took a step back. "I watched Artorias slay many warriors who came here dressed as my comrade Ornstein, or as Dark Sun Gwyndolin! You are known throughout the land as a trader of fine treasures, and you now come here, trespassing on the grave of the greatest knight Anor Londo ever had the privilege of having, so that you can exhume him for a few souls!"
Domnhall was cowering now, hands shaking. Ciaran touched her throat, and only now realized that she was screaming herself hoarse. "It's—it's all a misunderstanding!" Domnhall pleaded. He stood shakily, hands still up where she could see them. "I'm no thief, I swear!"
Ciaran refused to back down, and instead began walking closer to Domnhall, fists raised.
"Agh! Tell ya what!" Domnhall took out a glittering crystal greatsword from... wherever he held his things, and handed it to Ciaran. It thunked to the ground as soon as she picked it up; its weight was completely unlike her Tracers, but she managed to heave it up onto he shoulder. Domnhall continued, "You are correct, I do aim to exhume the old knight. But if I do anything funny, you cut my head off where I stand. Do we have a deal, Lord's Blade Ciaran?"
Ciaran said nothing. She merely tightened the grip on the greatsword, then stepped aside with a nod. Whatever he planned, she would cut him down the moment he overstepped.
Domnhall scurried over to the entrance of the colosseum, and dragged a box back to the gravestone. Ciaran recognized it as one of those bottomless boxes they made in New Londo and the Burg immediately above it. From the box, Domnhall withdrew a spade, then took off his helmet and tossed it into the box with a clatter. He was older than she expected; he couldn't have been younger than forty, but he was still running around Lordran on his... pursuits. Ciaran watched him as he dug, never loosening her grip on the greatsword.
As Domnhall finally reached the bottom of Artorias' shallow grave, he heaved the empty armor out. He hissed through his teeth. "Aaaye, they did… quite the number on you…" He sounded sad. Like a piece of art had been destroyed. Or perhaps like a mourner, now that she listened more closely. The trader set the armor down, piece by piece, on the ground next to the gravestone, and tossed the spade back in, withdrawing more tools. A measuring device of some kind. A pair of calipers…
As Domnhall withdrew the final object, Ciaran gasped. She finally understood the man.
Domnhall heaved, and huffed—Ciaran still not helping—and finally managed to yank a blacksmith's anvil out of the box. It smashed into the ground with a solid clank, and Domnhall took a moment to catch his breath. Ciaran just stared.
"Domnhall of Zena, I…" she began, but was cut off by Domnhall.
"Aye, I understand. In the land of lords, few actually have good intentions. You and Artorias are two of them, I suppose. Now, if you'll allow me, I'll get to work, aye?"
Ciaran nodded.
Domnhall went to work on the replica. It was not Artorias's armor as it was when he was a knight—it was dirtied, and beaten in. The cape was still torn, and Domnhall took care to put smudges in all the right places. When it was finally finished, Ciaran could barely tell the difference between the two sets of armor.
"Artorias's armor will let people remember the man." Domnhall declared, and smiled over at Ciaran. Even through her mask, he somehow read her face. "Ah, don't be so sad! By having another warrior fight on in his armor you let the legacy of such a proud man live on! What could be a better tribute than a warrior dressing as you, eh? Come, let's head outside. I hear a Phantom being summoned."
Ciaran frowned under her mask. More out of confusion than anything else. The telltale whining noise of a phantom was definitely reverberating through the colosseum, but they did that. There was nothing special. "What would be the point? There's nobody to challenge here anymore. They're no doubt in another one of their senseless battles."
"No, that's not it! Come on!" Domnhall grinned, and slid his helmet on. He held out his hands. "And I'd appreciate my sword back. It's quite hard to come by 'em anymore."
Ciaran cautiously handed over the greatsword as Domnhall began packing up and reburying the armor. "I promise you'll appreciate this. Time flows strangely in Lordran, after all."
Domnhall led the Knight to the front of the Colosseum, into the Township proper.
Ciaran gasped.
A pair of white phantoms, both dressed in Artorias' armor, were locked in combat with a black phantom. Their greatswords smashed on the phantom's shield again and again, until his block finally broke and he was sent reeling, leaving an opening for him to finally be run through.
Domnhall nodded appreciatively. "You see?"
Ciaran nodded and grinned under her mask, holding Artorias' soul close to her breast. "I see. I see."