Around me, the nightmare twists into a whirlpool until I emerge, gasping, into the torch lit halls that walked with Oscar of Astora.

Welcome home.

This is real. Where I was, that was a mistake. A mutation, like a dream. A nightmare of the ones who built this place. Now the summon sign is gone as if it never was, its owner dead and locked away in his world like another prison cell.

Only this one will hold the Yellow Knight forever.

It takes me what seems like an hour to make it back to the main hall. When I do, the steps up to the Princess's antechamber seem longer than they ever were before. The gate is still open behind me; my shadow lumbers ahead of my boots, its arms and hands distorted to demonic size. There's no one else here. I wonder if the Darkling arrived already. I could use some company right now.

The thought of meeting Gwynevere makes me ill; I was there when she gave Oscar the Lordvessel, and I was there when we lost it. They scoured the ruins of Lost Izalith for years but they never found his body. No doubt it burned to ash. No doubt there's nothing left.

I step into the antechamber of stained glass windows before the princess's chamber. Sunlight pours in from high above and makes deep shadows out of the pillars. The quiet piles on all the way up to the rafters, a slumbering mountain, a growling iceberg. But it doesn't last forever.

"Guests usually announce themselves. Or have the Undead ruined courtesy, too?"

The voice is an aristocratic bur. It comes from a balcony above the second floor, above the door to Gwynevere's bedroom. I can only make out a glitter of red gold curtains only; my sight isn't what it used to be.

"Solaire of Astora," I say. "Of the Darkmoon Blades."

The head of a lion—the helmet of the Dragonslayer—appears from around a set of red drapes, followed by the rest of his overblown golden armor. He tucks his giant-sized spear into the crook of his arm. "Look at this, Smough. The yellow mutt comes crawling back with a shining silver collar. Do you think he wants us to be impressed?"

A rumble in the air replies before I can. "I dunno what you're talking about half the time." The gravid golden belly of Smough's armor appears from behind a pillar to my right, his voice an empty boom, his fingers flexing around the handle of the man-sized—God sized—mallet knocked over his shoulder. He's enormous as ever, maybe four times my height and the Lords know how many times my weight. At least he's on the other side of the room.

I ignore Ornstein's jabs and give the Executioner my fakest grin. "I thought you were one of the pillars. Have you gained weight?"

"Maybe soon." Smough's head piece tilts up to the balcony, over which Ornstein is leaning like a hawk peering out of its nest. "Can I eat the smart mouth?"

"Certainly not. The Princess gave the Darkmoons free passage. And oh they must be proud to count this one among their number." The Dragonslayer runs his hands along the railing, the claws of his armor audibly scraping even at this distance.

Smough scratches the top of his helmet. "You could just say 'no.'"

"Your statue makes for better conversation than you, Smough." Ornstein vaults over the edge and lands with feline grace before us, except most cats don't carry sixteen foot spears and don't shake the floor when they jump. Of course, the man's not quite as large as Smough, but then again what is?

I salute him lazily. "I thought I heard a kitty hissing up there. Still playing with that oversized toothpick?" I lean towards him conspiratorially. "Haven't seen any dragons around lately. You might want to trade that in for something more your size."

Ornstein's helm tilts back. "As you did with your own Covenant? I know my duty. I do not abandon brothers to disgrace and attrition."

"Yeah, you're real dutiful. I bet you'd be like a brother to Gwynevere, if you could stop drooling over her."

Ornstein stoops down so that his snarling lion is right in my face. "Did you come here to plead for protection again? There are only knights here, Solaire of Astora. Something you will never be, no matter how much busy work Lord Gwyndolin puts you to."

I lift my helmet to show him my smirk. "That's funny, because I don't see many knights. Maybe you should christen Smough to make up the shortage."

The Executioner's chortle echoes through the chamber. "He makes a good point."

"The discussion is closed, oaf." The Dragonslayer lowers his voice to me, his talon of a finger sinking into my chest. "And you. You are just another fool who thinks he knows better, who believes himself so intimately acquainted with honor as to be its champion against his very Lords. I will tell you what happens to such men."

"Smough needs to get his lunch from somewhere, right?"

The Executioner snorts again, like a rooting pig. Ornstein's red tail of hair shakes out around him when he shakes his head. His voice is metallic and sour in my ears. "No. Men like you die, and no one remembers them. A knight may leave a howling wound in the world. But what do you think you will leave? Most like a sore, or a scratch, a stain." The butte of his spear lifts off the ground. "I think nothing. Nothing at all."

"Go the Abyss."

A voice calls from across the way before I can draw my sword. "What's going on here?"

Ornstein straightens up to the Lady of the Darkling coming out of the elevator between us and Smough, her hands resting by her hilts. The great Executioner lumbers to meet her first.

"Hello, pretty lady. You just can't stay away from old Smough, can you?"

"If only." She pays him as much mind as a wall, going to stand before the Dragonslayer who is still twice her height. "Sir Ornstein."

The man goes still like I've never seen. You could mistake him for a statue or a cat ready to pounce. "My Lady. What draws you away from the Princess?"

"I heard shouting." She turns half away from him and gestures to me and Smough. "What do you intend with this behavior? The children of Gwyn ordered cooperation, not petty quarrels."

Ornstein thrusts a golden clawed finger at me. "That man is a disgrace to everything the holy covenants stand for."

I keep my hands behind my back and watch the sun shear through the windows.

The Darkling seems unfazed. "Lord Gwyndolin accepted his oath. Do you question the will of the Lords?"

Ornstein's chest rises. "Never."

"Neither do I," says the Darkling.

I try to speak, to take hold of my voice and get one more jab in on that pompous asshole. My mouth feels like it's full of cement. I can see a man in green falling and blue falling.

After a few moments of silence, Ornstein bows his head. "You speak the truth, my lady. Best regards to you."

Smough snorts like a pig. "She can have my best regards right now."

The butt of the dragon slaying pike raps against the floor and I swear I see the Executioner jump. "You are mocking your better, Smough. Remember that." Then he steps back to let me pass to the elevator. I follow the Lady, deliberately not looking over my shoulder.

Ornstein's been around as long as the Lords themselves. Most speak of him and Smough in hushed voices, if they even dare to speak at all; they say he slays us as happily as he slays dragons.

So why did the Darkling make him nervous?

She keeps her voice low as we step into the elevator. "I told you to stay away from him."

"Maybe you should have told him that. Did you catch Shiva?"

"Solaire."

"I'll take that as a no."

Out of earshot of the Princess's royal guards, the quiet in her voice disappears as soon as we're inside the shaft—and so does the control I have over the shaking in my hands. I hide them behind my back, though it's dark enough in here already.

I can't see, but I can hear her brass clinking as she crosses her arms. It's a familiar sound. "Lords—this isn't a joke. Are you that dedicated to ruining this meeting?"

The grin I put on hurts my lips. "I just can't help myself. Maybe you should cut my ear off and be done with it, save Ornstein the trouble."

"That was not funny."

"Ha-ha." I grab my estus flask, pop the cork, and knock it back. The warmth trails down my insides and disappears even before the glass goes dry. I don't remember having drunk so much already. Through the dark I see light from the fresh bottle that the Lady of the Darkling holds out to me. I take it. I drain this one even faster than the other, the liquid fire sloshing wildly in my hand before it disappears.

I return it, empty. "Thanks."

"I need you on your feet for this." A sliver of light cuts down across us as we near the stop. I can see her fingers rubbing the pommel of her rapier. "Listen." Another pause. "Back at Firelink. I regret telling you to die for this Covenant."

I blink through the light as the platform comes to a stop. "Shouldn't I have?"

"Maybe," she says. "But not by the hand of scum like Shiva."

"And what if you knew that I was as bad as him?"

The two of us step off the platform. "I would not believe that. No matter what Ornstein says. Or what I may have said."

"You're too kind, Darkling."

"I—" she stops, staring at me. "By the Lords, what happened to your hands?"

"They're fine." I put them behind me again. "A ran into some…into some trouble, on the way over here."

She's crossed her arms again. "Go on."

"Lautrec of Carim," I say. "He attacked me, in one of the side halls. Jumped out with those damn shotels and tried to take my head off—I think he'd gone hollow. There was nothing left in there."

Her stillness reminds me of Ornstein. "And?"

"I had to beat him off to make distance for my sword. I took him down clean after that. Right through the heart." An idea occurs to me. "Strange thing, too—the wounds that hollowed him were burns. I think they were the same as from the Parish."

After a moment, the Darkling claps me on the shoulder. "You should tell the Princess. But I am proud of you, Solaire; I imagine that it is difficult to slay one who was once your friend, no matter what they have done."

"He was scum. Worse than Shiva. I should have taken him down years ago. I should have."

"You had the strength to finish it in the end. Remember that." She jerks her head at the doors across from us. "Now, come, it's unwise to keep Gwyn's children waiting."

"After you, Darkling."

I follow her into the princess's chambers.

Lady Gwynevere prefers comfort over pomp. In fact, she'd probably look pretty unimposing sprawling there on that fine carpeted dais if both she and it weren't about as wide and half as tall as her very bedroom. Those scraps she covers herself in always struck me as a bad idea, too, considering her dimensions. It's unnerving to say the least—though I suppose I should count myself lucky I don't find it too unnerving.

I guess Petrus of Thorolund isn't a lucky man; he seems pretty much transfixed, standing there before her. And he's a cleric, too. It's barely even a challenge to think up some snide remarks. I bite my tongue. That sunny charm at work.

Gwyneve turns to me, her literally and figuratively broad smile flagging just a bit. "Ah. You're finally here, Solaire. We heard raised voices below." She lifts one chocolate colored eyebrow at my escort.

"A minor misunderstanding with your guards," says the Darkling.

The Princess blinks slowly. "I hope this will not be recurring misunderstanding."

"I understand," I say.

"Then to the main." She nods to the Lady of the Darkling. "I thank you for attending in my brother's stead." She beams at Petrus, who is visibly sweating. "And I thank you, Petrus of Thorolund, for coming on behalf of those clerics who remain in Lordran." At his name, Petrus jerks his eyes around to me and bows hurriedly. Gwynevere goes on, "My brother's Darkmoon Blades, the Way of the White, and my own Princess Guards rally from across Lordran even as we speak."

"Rally?" I glance at the Darkling, my mind racing to recall her words to me back in Firelink. What in the Abyss is this about? She only nods at Gwynevere, who seems inclined to go on with or without my attention.

"The Forest Hunters have bled the good people of Lordran dry for far too long, and their latest outrage is a sign that they intend to escalate this stale mate. It is time to retake the Darkroot Forest from them."

The bottom drops out of my stomach. "But we don't even—we haven't proved anything yet! It could be—"

Gwynevere huffs. "Really, Solaire. My own Guards were slain—with cowardly methods, I might add—on the very edge of that foul little wood. Who else could it have been?"

"The burns, they—"

She waves one oversized, over manicured hand. "Ah yes. The burns. The Lady of the Darkling related what little evidence they provided as well as your unorthodox investigative methods. I must say I understand why you were removed from the inquest." Her voice softens. I have to lean my head back to fully meet her eyes. "Child, I know that the Chosen Undead was your friend. With the circumstances of his death, I understand your obsession with the Bed of Chaos and the creatures that guard it. But unless these wild excursions of yours can conclusively prove that the Forest Hunters were not involved, then I see no reason to doubt the theory. Do you?"

"I...uh…" I look to the Lady of the Darkling, but she gives me a shrug and looks hungrily back to the Princess. I can feel a headache coming on.

"I did not think so." Gwynevere turns from me in a swirl of warm air and dancing locks. She motions invitingly towards the Darkling. "Do you have word from the rest of the Blades?"

She nods. "We've amassed a sizable force at the Parish. Andre has generously provided us with the key to the gate of Artorias."

"Excellent. And you, Petrus? What does the Way of the White say?"

The cleric clears his throat weakly, not meeting her gaze. "Many have come from across the land, my Lady, assembling around Firelink Shrine. I can marshal them at your word."

I look between them in complete disbelief; how long have they been planning this response?

Was there a moment today when I could have stopped this insanity?

Gwynevere claps her hands once. "Glorious! My own followers are making the journey even as we speak. This will be a luminous day, my friends—the day that our Covenants join together in all faith, forming a spear of fire to ignite the deepest heart of the Darkwood!"

Like moths drawn to the flame. That's what Lautrec would say. "That's great, sister." My fingers are prodding unconsciously at my empty green blossom pouch. "Care to explain why I needed to be here for this little pep rally?"

The Lady of the Darkling doesn't look over at me, but I hear her voice quite clearly. "Solaire..."

Gwynevere favors me with the same smile she gave the others. "A fair question. As you know, the Forest Hunters are a slippery foe. But overwhelming force would cure this problem. Think of us as men and women in need." Her eyebrows rise again.

My mouth runs ahead of me, faster on the draw than my brain. "You have no idea, do you? You really think I could dredge up whatever's left of the Sunlight Warriors—if there even are any left—and all to go on some crusade?" The others give me sharp looks.

Gwynevere cocks her head, not seeming to care about my outburst. "You were their leader. If there were any left then they would follow you."

I'm too tired to apologize. "We—they didn't have leaders. Just a cause." The pain behind my eyes has spread to the back of my head. "And it wasn't to slaughter our way through Lordran in some sort of war band."

"No, I suppose not." Her lips don't look so full and smiling anymore. "You'd rather be down in the muck with thieves and the murderers, lending your hands to the hopefuls and the degenerates."

"If they'd take them, yeah."

She gives a real frown this time. It's impressive on a face that full. "Like that foul little 'Patches' creature. Like the Yellow Knight."

My teeth make an angry sort of plastic sound against each other. "Not any more."

The Lady of the Darkling's voice is about as flat as one of her blades. "If I may, my Lady: if there is anyone who has first hand experienced the fickleness and faithlessness of the lower peoples of Lordran, it is Solaire. His days of fraternization are over."

"You could say that." I don't look at her.

Gwynevere wafts perfumed air into my face with a flicked wrist. "I can see that this is getting us nowhere. Very well. We shall do this without the aid of your former" her nose wrinkles "colleagues."

I shake my head. It doesn't help. "I don't believe this. You're talking about marching straight into the Forest Hunter's home turf. They've got more than prickly bush men in there."

She glares down her aquiline nose at me and lifts her lip, showing a half row of perfectly straight teeth. "Is your faith that weak? These are holy warriors you speak of, my acolytes, those of my father, of my brother. There is nothing that they would flag in the face of. There is no order that they would not obey." She leans towards me, fabrics and perfumes swaying through the air, her eyes like fluorite. "Can you count yourself among them?"

I point at the Darkmoon talisman on my belt with the finger that has my Covenant ring, turning so they can all see. "Here's my oath. For what it's worth to you." Enough, it seems, to lose the Princess's suspicion. She doesn't even look at me as we wrap things up.

So that's it. So much for the Book of the Guilty. So much for a knight's duty to the people, or what's left of them; in the end it comes down to the will of the Lords, to whether an overgrown Princess is feeling peeved. And we all get to burn for her. My head aches like iron struck on an anvil. A whole damn garden of green blossom won't make this one go away.

We close with a prayer to Gwyn, me kneeling by the Darkling. I watch her clasp her hands and rock back and forth and I listen to the shirring whisper of her expiations, muffled to unintelligibility by closed lips of bronze. She puts her hand on my shoulder when she stands, and we follow Petrus out the door—he's in quite the hurry to go; the Way of the White being as popular as it is, there are probably a few more corners of Lordran left for him to conscript.

Ornstein and Smough are gone when we come out. In their place are two of the giant sentinels, still as ever. I should have guessed that Gwynevere would send her best men—no doubt the Dragonslayer will be running this slaughterhouse. Her best man.

The Darkling and I walk out of the palace and back to the Anor Londo bonfire, back across the bridge and to the ancient corkscrew lift while the sun gives a glare to every surface we pass. It's never night in Anor Londo.

Wordlessly, the Darkling and I kneel by her bonfire to refill our flasks. She waits for me to finish before we warp away with bones from Firelink. I want to ask her if it hurts to leave her fire, or to have us draw from it. Somehow her silence doesn't seem inviting.

My thoughts stretch on through the short time it takes to transport to Firelink, as if I'd walked the distance anyways. I turn over all that's happened today again and again, coming back to the same places every time: I thought that the curse of Undead had ended the old world. No more pushing territories between the other lands, no skirmishes, no armies. Just a steady march into the Abyss, sinner by sinner, sprite by sprite, mark by mark, until the world ends.

Oscar was supposed to change all of that. Set things back to the way they were, or make it even better. That's what they said, at least. But he didn't change anything. And I guess I didn't either. Such a terrible shame.

It's midnight in the rest of Lordran. We walk up the empty shrine into the ruins. On the elevator ride to the Parish, the Lady of the Darkling asks me if I'm talking to myself. I tell her that I'm not.

We see them when the lift clanks to a halt. They must have marched in files to the Parish, assembling in little miniature columns before the shrines. Some of them sit straight backed in the pews, some lean against the walls, others converse in corners. I can't tell the difference between the Way of the White and the Princess's Guard; their faces are all the same holy stone, their armor all patchworks approximating clerical filigree or knightly attitudes. These days it's best to dress in imitation of whatever Covenant you're in—you never know who might be watching. These are the Undead that joined the Covenants out of faith or necessity. We're the ones that weren't strong enough to go it alone.

The real clerics, Vince and Nico among them, are far fewer. They stand apart from the rest, watching those that surround them with obvious suspicion. I don't see Petrus and of course Rhea is nowhere in sight.

I watch the Darkling. When we come up the elevator, a dozen figures in silver knight's armor slip from the shadows and march over to us. Some of my 'brothers.' And it looks like they're dressed for war. They salute the Darkling with drawn swords and she salutes them back, and none of them even spare a nod for me.

"Hello to you, too," I say.

My words break the half-silence of the chapel. A few heads in the pews turn to stare dully at me. Before the Darkling can tell me to shut up, someone else decides to grace us with his voice.

"That the Astorian and his sour bitch again?"

I silence a groan as Ornstein cuts Smough's giggling off. "Hold your tongue, fat one. This is a holy place."

"That's great and all. But it's getting to be my lunch time."

A stirring runs through the occupants of the church, a ripple of cloth and chinking chain mail. They know the stories.

I look at the Darkling. "Smough's hungry? It must be Tuesday."

She actually laughs, if only once or twice. I wonder when the last time was that someone laughed in this house.

I round the corner to see the Executioner squatting at the altar before us all like he's about to lay a golden egg. It's the only way he'll fit into the church. Ornstein, an easier fit, stands with his hands clasped in front of him and his spear in the crook of his elbow as before. He looks up as me and the Darkling come before him.

"Hail, my lady." He doesn't even seem to notice my presence—I suppose that's an improvement. "Come, join us in a prayer before we march to battle."

She nods and takes a place by the golden monsters, motioning me to follow suit. I stand as far away from those two as I can and take one last look at the Parish as I pretend to bow my head in prayer. There are maybe three dozen of us, with more in the doorways looking in. It's black outside.

When was the last time I saw this many people in one place, Undead or no? It should feel good.

Yet a sort of revulsion for Lordran wells up in me, brought out by the feeling of belonging to this new army, this spearhead; you don't realize how lonely the Land of the Giants is until you see one of its emptiest corners filled with people, all about to be witnesses to each other's deaths. But the truth is that more often than not, men die alone, and their killers go unpunished. There are a lot of names missing from the book of the guilty. And I have a feeling that the ones who are really responsible for what's about to happen tonight will never be put there, no matter how much they might deserve it.

The butt of Ornstein's spear slams into the brickwork with a hollow clunk. He straightens up with a swagger, golden cuirass glimmering in the candlelight. When he speaks his voice is full and clear.

"Children of Gwyn. As we walk into the fire this night, think on your brothers and sisters who have fallen to the shadowed blades of the scavengers. Think on the sin of the Forest Hunters, and on the foul bartering of their lords; the prized possessions, the beloved memories of your brothers and sisters, traded from paw to grubby paw like rubbish. Your…" I can hear the faint sneer in his voice "lives, the lives of your friends, they are dependent on the icons of hope that the Hunters would steal so brazenly." He raises a hand, open, as if to silence the crowd that hasn't dared to speak. "But fear not: there is still law in Lordran, and these transgressions cannot be bought out. Tonight, you are the brand of justice."

I think on how many of the people in this room have murdered to save their humanity, their own sanity.

"Look at the brothers and sisters by your side, look at them. We are all of like mind here. We are the hope of Lordran, like those who came before us. We are the fire that will bring light to the darkness, as our fallen brothers once did, as the Chosen Undead once did."

I swear there's laughter in his voice. I look to the Darkling to see if she hears it too, but she seems wrapped up in the speech. I can feel dozens of pairs of eyes on me. How many of them know who I am?

"Many have fallen, and many more shall before the night is out. For sacrifice is the nature of fire. Burns are the only reward of the sun. And not even when we have spent our whole spirits for its purpose will the fire cease to live, will it cease to light and warm this world. Have faith."

I tell myself that I am not going hollow.

Ornstein raises his spear. It's long enough to carry a war banner—there are three stripes of white cloth on its haft, all tied individually, most likely meant to signify our Covenants. They hang long and limp in the dim light of the chapel.

I realize for the first time since I left the Princess's chambers that this is really happening. The world has been rolled backwards to the wars of the Covenants in the course of a day, in the course of an hour, and all for a few dead men in the basement of an abandoned church. Did I ever really escape Lautrec's nightmare?

During the journey, I catch sight of Ornstein tearing the makeshift banners off his spear and throwing them aside. We all give him and Smough a wide berth. I try to point it out to the Darkling, but she waves me off. I can tell by her silence that she's not as sure about this as she seemed back in Anor Londo. Andre waves us past his shop for maybe half a second before he starts to hammer again, and the sound bores into my bones and my ears and my eyes. His clanking might have joined in the rhythm of our steps if we had any organization at all.

The Forest Hunters hit us before the Gate of Artorias.

By the light of the moon, we're spread out against a cliff side when the wall of earth to our right explodes in a storm of hissing vines and screaming branches that slams into the file of would-be clerics and carries at least a half-dozen of them over the edge. They don't even have time to scream. The living plants of the Darkroot Forest were lying in wait for us.

One of the devils comes for me too. I drop my weight, letting the ball of vines and branches roll right over me. The thing's got to be less than a fourth of my size. It scrabbles across my back like an angry cat and joins its friends off the side of the cliff.

Two of the living bushes have tangled Ornstein around his waist, their coils pulling uselessly as they scramble towards the edge. As casual as if he's fishing, the Dragonslayer slams the blunt end of his spear through one and then skewers the other, splitting them apart in clouds of moss and bark. A few yards away I see Vince pull one of the things off of Nico's back and throw it to the ground, both of them setting their weapons to it. I see the Lady of the Darkling effortlessly sidestep and bisect the bushman that comes for her. She turns and points to Smough, who's bearing about a half dozen of the things on his massive back like flies on the ass of a golden cow. The other Darkmoon Blades draw their bows and let loose a volley of glowing arrows that wash the living trees away. Smough straightens up with nothing more than scratches and gives them a wave; not a single one of their arrowheads could pierce that giant's armor.

"Report." Ornstein buffs a smudge of dirt off his shoulder guard. He doesn't even look over the edge of the cliff.

The Lady of the Darkling glances around at us, all straggled and recovering. She gives me the slightest nod. "They took a half dozen over the edge. No doubt they hope we'll stop to try and recover the fallen."

Ornstein marches on ahead as if nothing's happened. His spear thumps the earth like a war drum. "They can hope in vain while we burn this forest to the ground."

The Darkling falls in behind him without another word. Smough waddles after, and soon the whole force falls into step. I bring up the rear.

We just lost six men. We haven't even gotten to the Garden.

The entrance looms just ahead, a high and narrow double door of engraved stone with a small hole for the seal. The Lady of the Darkling reaches into a pouch in her belt and pulls out a hand sized disk, which she fits into the slot. I reach her just as the door cracks open.

She looks over at me. "Watch your back. If Shiva's there, don't try to take him down alone."

Ornstein shoulders between us before I can answer, before I can tell her not to die. "Come, Smough. Widen the passage for the rest of the faithful." Smough belches an affirmative.

I follow Ornstein and the Darkling through the gate and down the steps, my teeth clenched. With a crashing from behind us, dust and chunks of rock dance down the stairs and splash into the pools of moonlit water at our feet: the consequence of Smough's bulk squeezing through the gate. Cloying air rolls over me, sweet smell of decomposing plants and the thick mustiness of fungus and moss.

Like a wall of black static, the Darkroot Garden looms from the mist before us.

But standing there I see that it's not all dark. There are a few blue tinged rays of sunlight dancing through the trees. In the space between the canopy and the earth wall behind us, I think I see the sky lightening in preparation for the dawn.

The Lady of the Darkling raps me on the arm. "Solaire."

Looking over, I grin at her. "I thought the sun would never rise."

"It's not the sun."

I catch a glimpse of a sword, a bow, the glitter of metal beneath the ghostly sheen of a phantom. Ghosts the color of an early morning sky dart between the trees, their numbers so thick that they seem to override the shadows themselves. Forest Hunters—there could be three, four dozen, flitting from tree to tree. They've come in response to our invasion, rising out of the root-veined earth like the will of the wood itself. Is there one for each of us? A blade and an arrow for every name—for those of us who remember our names.

I can feel the pressure of the followers of Gwyn and Gwynevere and Gwyndolin at my back, a wall of faith pushing to enter Lordran's favorite hunting ground. Ornstein and Smough stand in the middle of our line like living figureheads, watching, waiting for some cue I can't fathom. There is nowhere left to run to.

The Dragonslayer's booms out all around us. I can almost see him shake the leaves. "I've seen few such dens of sin in my life. Purging this place will be an honor to the grave of Artorias."

The words catch me off guard. Shiva mentioned something about a grave, about a knight.

Then a yowl echoes from somewhere behind the wall of mist and darting hunter-shapes.

"Grrreat servants of Gwyn." I see something white and huge lurch from the top of a tree with impossible lightness. "Turrrn back. Dissscarrrd yourrr fanciful notions. Turn back, rrreturn to the stone world, and you will not be hounded."

It's great cat Alvina, Mistress of the Forest Hunters. One tough customer—old, too. Old and clever.

Ornstein points his spear into the night to track something that I can't see. "These are the lies that I would expect from a servant of the Abyss."

His last word weaves its way through the swaying branches like some invisible serpent, echoed by the empty, far away voices of the phantoms that seem to ooze from everywhere. The great cat's yowl joins in the chorus.

Abyss.

Now I remember. The grave of Artorias the Abysswalker is somewhere in this forest.

Ornstein half turns to us, his helm cocked to the side, his red hair draped like a mantle of blood. "Vereor nox," he says.

Smough the golden butcher starts to laugh.