"My brother, the moon does not shine on this night, as our father the lord of light has left the sanctum of Anor Londo on a quest to prolong the age of fire. I love you brother, but you must flee. Only too soon will the Undead overwhelm are once glorious city."- Gwynevere,
The white light danced upon the curves of his rose lips. A meandering tremble crawled upwards forming the slightest grin across his pale face. His flattened brow, free of weary creases was clear white under the vibrancy of the full moon; a vivid sheen across his frigid features. The wind gently clawed at the veil draped over his sealed eyes. A scattering of crescent and moon shaped patterns were weaved throughout the delicate thin robes. The aura of twilight scintillated across his craned posture.
The parchments shimmering neon text had all but faded away; withered from extensive exposure to the sun and creased aplenty as he held it on his person, constantly rereading it, soaking in its unending pleasures. His slender feminine like fingers stroked across the creases of his gown and he groped above one knee, pulling up the oversized robe as not to drag it across the dusty, unkempt floor. The narrow hall, far below the depths of Anor Londo from Undead reach, was flooded by the moons rays from many stain glass windows. The panes multitude of colours depicted gallant men exalted as gods wearing many pronged crowns as gold as the sun, bright in the dusk and engulfed in cloaks of silver. The cloth rippled like brutal tidal waves, highlighting the amber tiles beneath him with an iridescent twinkle.
Gwyndolin perched himself upon a shivering cold slab; sitting in contempt of the events that bested him. The gods were cruel when dishing out injustice, for he had existed in a life full of perpetual ridicule. Born with an affinity of the moon, he was raised as a daughter and rejected by his father Gywn. Gywn was no god, just a giant man who happened upon a blistering flame of immense power… and all men cried for power… cried to be heard.
Everyone had fled Anor Londo. Prisoners absconded and priests forgot their faith, yet he remained in the plagued city, alone with the dead… forlorn… the sun helm atop his brow a reminder of his failures.
Just because the sun shone brighter than any star did not mean the moon was its weakness. The moon guides the wanderer at night, controls the tide and sets the tops of buildings alight with a gentle white aura.
The moon had other strengths. Drawing from its incandescent glow Gwyndolin had sapped immense power, maintaining Anor Londo's beauty; its church steeples aglow with a saffron tinge, its intricate craftsmanship a sight for any prosperous Undead to gaze upon; to crush their confidence. But inside the chambers through the winding corridors draped in light, beyond the stately statues of his father and sister was a mirage, so accurately and realistically constructed by himself, an image of his sister, Gwynevere. Many a time he had sat by her side, dozed into reverie and awoke, her sunlit beaming smile comforting him, causing for a split second for his past to remerge, to see her, touch her red curls and laugh with her. She was false… like the sun teetering in the expanse, like the royal guards patrolling the halls; once Gwyns followers who had forsaken their duty and fled. For now, she was here, figment or no, he would revel in happiness till his dying day. Yet if any Undead ever stepped afoot and noticed something amiss, and perish her image, he would once again be lost, forgotten, a mind tormented in an unending spiralling abyss…
So stubborn then, was he, to prove a point? Would Gwyn ever see him? Return and praise his son for keeping the fort? Gwyndolin could never leave. The moon glowered, trapping him in this plain of oblivion.
"Why no reply? I have fled with Flann, we are safe for now, but you will be slain by the oncoming hordes… or worse yet… humanity driven from your soul. I would do anything to baptise you in a pool of sunlight and gladly claim the moon to be by my side."- Gwynevere.