Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.

Chapter 8

Nito fell, and as his servants crumbled to dust around him, and the cloying evil that pervaded the chamber dissipated to nothing, Nemeta stepped through the rapidly-dissolving remnants of his massive form and claimed his Lord Soul.

She quaffed at her Estus flask, and then waited for her breathing to return to normal.

Nemeta realized that she hadn't seen her Mistress in weeks. She hadn't meant to be neglectful, but first Lautrec had killed Anastacia, then Seath abducted Rhea, then Nemeta had to delve into the catacombs...

If Mistress wants more visitors, she shouldn't live in Blighttown.

Nemeta plotted out a route. From Firelink, she would descend to New Londo, and from there make her way to the Valley of Drakes. She would ride that massive wooden machine to the bottom of the Blighttown swamp, and then Nemeta could bombard her Mistress with all the new insults that she had devised since their last meeting.

Of course, the Witch of Izalith was next for Nemeta to confront. That was sure to be a tiresome conversation...

Nemeta teleported to Firelink. She needed a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the light. At last, she looked about, taking in the crumbling ruins, the overgrown weeds, the wide, open sky...and Anastacia.

"Hello!" said Nemeta, cheerily.

Anastacia yelped, and leapt to her feet. Apparently, the Fire Keeper of Firelink Shrine had been engrossed in the workings of an ant colony situated in the ground, and had been too absorbed in the tiny workers' comings and goings to notice Nemeta's arrival. "F-forgive me!" she whispered, bowing her head.

Nemeta tutted. "Ana, I have nothing to forgive you for. Sometimes I wonder if you're capable of hurting other people..."

From the other end of the shrine came a massive, undignified snore. "Frampt is dozing as usual, hmmm?" Somehow, Nemeta realized, it would do Anastacia a world of good if she too could lose herself to slumber as easily.

"H-has my Lady just returned from the Catacombs?" she asked, meekly.

"Of course!" replied Nemeta, proudly. With a flourish, she revealed Nito's Lord Soul, burning brightly in her palm. Anastacia seemed gratifyingly impressed. "Only the Witch of Izalith left. That will be rather more tiresome..."

Anastacia cleared her throat as tactfully as she possibly could, and then creased her brow in pain as she tried to wring together sufficient courage to achieve what she wished to do next. Nemeta waited patiently as the words formed in her mouth.

"Frampt has told me of you," she began. "That you have agreed to link the Fire...I thank you, sincerely. Finally, the curse of the Undead can be lifted, and I can die human..."

"But you can't die yet!" squealed Nemeta. "Don't you know? I'm going to be the Queen of Sunlight! You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?"

Anastacia smiled nervously, and her entire body began to sway strangely, tilting in the direction of her cell. If Nemeta had been any less self-obsessed, and more attuned to the moods of others, she would have realized at that moment that Anastacia had had enough conversation for now, thank you very much, and wished to return to her privacy.

As it was, she kept on babbling.

"You will be my personal Fire Keeper, won't you, Ana? Lady Anastacia! Yes, you'll be a member of my court, one of my retinue, hee hee hee hee! You'll have quarters in my palace, won't that be splendid? Your own bathroom! Oh, but you won't be able to wear those rags around the palace. No, that would be rather...inappropriate, I fear. You'll have an entire wardrobe, full of beautiful costumes, dresses, hats, shoes, so big you'll get lost in it! And, I'll also give you your own special fashion advisor. Because, no offense in the world, but you don't strike me as one who is particularly knowledgeable about style, Ana."

"You clueless imbecile."

Nemeta halted in mid-syllable, her mouth ajar, her face frozen in an expression of shocked confusion. Anastacia was no longer staring at the ground. She was gazing straight at her.

"Well, heavens, Ana, there's no need to be rude..."

"Is it not obvious – screamingly, pathetically, obvious – how much I desire death?" Gone was the timidity. Gone was the hesitation. Anastacia's voice was now infused with anger, and hatred, and derangement. "Is it not obvious how much I would love to simply crumble to dust this – very – instant?"

"I'm sorry," mumbled Nemeta. "I only want people to be happy..."

Anastacia's eye pushed out of its socket, and fell to the grass at her feet.

Nemeta's breathing began to quicken.

Where the eye had been, a squirming, churning mass of maggots.

The colour drained from Nemeta's face. "Ummm...ummm...you almost look Hollow, Ana..."

Anastacia skin took on a sickening pallor. She seemed to chew, for a moment, and then her tongue was pushed out of her mouth, and joined her eyeball in the dust.

"I prefer to remain human as much as possible..." murmured Nemeta, her voice almost too low to be heard.

Anastacia stepped forward, and seized hold of Nemeta. Their lips pressed together, and then Nemeta's mouth was full of crawling, scrabbling, slithering, scuttling...

()()()()()()()()()()

In the cloying, impenetrable darkness of the Tomb of the Giants, there was a horrified scream, and then frantic, bewildered breathing.

Nemeta needed a few minutes to regain her composure; for the beating of her heart to return to normal, for that twisted, profane parody of Anastacia to fade from her mind.

She rummaged about in the shadows, finally managing to seize hold of her Estus Flask. The marvellous stuff trickled down her throat, and then she wiped her mouth on her wrist.

"Is that all you have to offer, Nito?" she whispered. She wasn't sufficiently emboldened to roar her defiance to the shadows; it might attract the skeletons. "Is that the worst you can send me? Nightmares? Ha!"

Nemeta tried to make herself comfortable, and wondered if she would be able to return to sleep. "I'll show you," she said. "I'll show you."

()()()()()()()()()()

"An interesting little piece of trivia for you, Griggs," said Logan. "You are aware that Seath the Scaleless was not the most...well-liked citizen of Anor Londo?"

"I can't imagine he was," said Griggs. "What with his having betrayed his kind, and all. People do not usually take kindly to a traitor, regardless of whether his betrayal was in their benefit."

"Yes, well, he had many enemies among the people of this land. For example, Seath writes very scathingly about 'Havel the Rock'. He was a bishop in the service of Lord Gwyn, you see, and so distrustful was he of his king's confidante, apparently, he devised elaborate measures to counter magic, if ever circumstances arose that Seath betray his liege."

"A pity Seath did not betray Lord Gwyn," said Griggs. "He might have been slain centuries ago, and much suffering would have been averted."

"Mmmm," replied Logan, non-committal. "However! There was one individual that Seath despised more than any other in all of Lordran. Can you guess who that was? Who did Seath fear more than any other? In his writings, who inspired Seath to expend more ink in expressing his hatred and dislike, than any other person in the land? Can you guess who this is?"

Judging by his Master's expectant expression, Griggs sensed, with a twinge of resentment, that he was being tested. "I am not particularly versed on the most prominent personalities of Lordran, Master," he said. "I do not know."

"Why, Nito, of course," said Logan. "Seath was obsessed with the Gravelord, Griggs. He devoted page after page to detailing his suspicions about the King of the Dead. He was convinced that Nito was trying to find his way into the Archives, if you can believe. Many a time when Seath would work long into the night, all alone in his study, when, suddenly, a gust of wind would blow through, and all the candles would gutter and waver, and Seath would be gripped by this unshakeable certainty that Nito was prowling about outside, trying to find a way in."

"He writes of bony fingers, scratching against the windows. He writes of sudden, startling noises in the middle of the night. He writes of skeletal faces, peering at him from the black gloom. It's such absurd imagery, is it not? Can you imagine! A massive dragon wandering through the darkened halls of his library, with a lamp in his claws, searching for a Gravelord hiding in the shadows!"

"Why on earth did Seath believe that Nito, of all people, had a vendetta against him?" said Griggs.

Logan shrugged. "Who can say? It's possible that Nito did not spare Seath a second thought, but Seath himself was terrified of the First of the Dead. He gives no reasons. There are no explanations, just paranoia, and conspiracy. Here, let me read you a piece..."

Logan cleared his throat, and began to read:

"'My suspicions I did express to Lord Gwyn, and his court. They found much to their amusement. 'Tales of the Gravelord be intended to frighten young children!' spoke Gwyn's fool son. 'Remarkable indeed that they doth frighten dragons, also!' The Firstborn's sycophants did convulse with laughter'."

"'Lord Gwyn hath assured me that the Gravelord remains always in his sepulchral realm, never venturing towards the sky, never setting foot in Anor Londo. But I know of his designs upon me. I know of how he plots, seated upon his throne in that lightless kingdom, his mind at work upon my demise'."

"'Each day, come dusk, the Princess of Sunlight, Gwynevere, doth retire to her chambers, and in her absence, the city of Anor Londo be enwreathed in darkness. As Gwynevere slumbers, the Gravelord doth steal into this city. As Gwynevere slumbers, Nito doth stalk these streets, the witless gods deaf and blind to his presence. I alone know of him. I alone know that he lingers in the shadows, his lifeless eyes upon my treasured Archive. I alone know that, when the morn comes and Gwynevere softly awakens, he is gone again, return'd to his tomb, return'd to his dead realm, to resumeth his scheming against me'."

"'He must not gain entry to my Archive. I must keep him at bay, whatever the cost. The Archives must be my fortress. I must bolt each door, and bar each window, and ensur-' – argh!"

Logan howled in pain, putting a hand to his cheek. He chewed a moment, and smacked his lips, and then into his outstretched palm spat out a single, black, rotten, bloody molar.

"Well, fancy that," said Logan, gazing at the tooth. "My years of sugary treats have returned to haunt me."

Logan looked up.

Griggs was not there. Logan was sitting alone in that little library, Seath's book in his lap.

"Griggs?" he called out.

Nothing but the oppressive silence of the Archives.

Logan put the book aside, and pushed himself to his feet. Stepping gingerly over the various tomes he had left scattered over the floor, he treaded outside, and began to search the Archives.

It was the dead of night. Princess Gwynevere has retired to her bed, Logan noted.

Something was wrong. The Archives were darker than they should normally be, at night. Had the others extinguished some of the lamps, for some reason?

As he explored, he could feel a tingle building in his nose. Fishing about in his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief just in time to release a massive sneeze. His eyes watering, Logan waited until his vision cleared, and then he saw: the handkerchief was covered in blackened blood.

There were tiny, grub-like creatures writhing about in the blood.

Crying in alarm, Logan allowed the handkerchief to fall to the ground. He began rushing through the halls and passages of the Archive, calling Griggs' name.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. For the first time, Logan noticed the inexplicable decrepitude of the place. The place was thick with a musty, stale odour. Pulling a book from a shelf, Logan noted the heavy film of dust, and the aged yellowing of the pages.

Whimpering anxiously, Logan brushed his fringe from his face. Entire clumps of hair came free with his fingers.

As Logan wandered, he became aware of the sound of rushing water. Arriving at last in the main hall of the Archive, Logan saw great gaps in the roof, torrents of rain pouring through, pools of water gathering on the carpets far below.

Logan coughed and wheezed. His mouth was swilling with blood. All of his teeth wobbled and came loose when he tested them with his tongue.

Staggering downstairs, Logan called out for Griggs, anyone. At the bottom, he stumbled to a corner, and beheld himself in a mirror. All the life had drained from his flesh, his lips blue, his skin sallow, his eyes black and opaque. Seizing the side of a table to steady himself, Logan's fingernails cracked, and broke off.

It was then that he saw him.

He lurked just in a corner of the mirror. An array of white, skeletal faces; a black cloak of tattered rags; glinting, pinprick eyes; a regal girth of skulls and ribcages and dangling bones. As Logan stared into the mirror, Nito loomed above him, and the entire Archive seemed to be enveloped in trickling, crawling blackness.

And then Logan woke with a start. He looked frantically about, his breathing heavy, his eyes wide with amazement, and then he realized that he had knocked over a candle, and was about to set fire to a pile of books.

()()()()()()()()()()

When Griggs next saw Logan, his skin was pale and sickly, and his eyes ringed with exhaustion.

"Master Logan, are you all right?" he asked, appalled. "Master, as your apprentice, I have a responsibility to ensure that you are giving proper consideration to your health! Are you resting properly? You cannot engage in research very effectively if you take no heed of your constitution!"

Logan's gaze darted about, and he seemingly could not bring himself to focus on anything. From the way his eyes bulged, Griggs got the impression that he was forcing himself, through some great exertion of will, to stay awake. When he spoke, Griggs had to stoop close to hear him. "Young Nemeta...where is she?"

"She left more than a week ago, Master Logan. She set off to the catacombs. To retrieve the Lord Soul from Gravelord Nito."

Some black, cloud-laden sky in Logan's mind seemed to brighten, ever-so-slightly. "Young Nemeta is going to confront Nito?" he asked. "She is going to slay him?"

Griggs nodded. "Yes."

Logan seemed gratified by this. "Good. Good. It's probably for the best. It's probably for the best."

()()()()()()()()()()()

A strange man appeared at the entrance to the Archives. "Ho there!" shouted Laurentius, preparing to unleash his pyromancy. "Speak, and show me you're no Hollow!"

"There's nothing Hollow about me, my friend!" came the reply. As if to flaunt his trustworthiness, the newcomer bounded out into the centre of the hall, in clear view of Laurentius. "Name's Trusty Patches! I'm a jolly Undead! A humble merchant, to boot!"

"Fair enough," said Laurentius, relenting. "What business have you in the Archives?"

"Wellllll, I heard tell that these here Archives are the safest place for an Undead outcast to be. Safety being something that increases in numbers, apparently..."

Laurentius nodded. "You heard correctly, my friend. Yeah, you're welcome to stay, if you like."

"Smashing!" said Patches, clasping his hands together. Apparently, almost every word that left this man's mouth was to be accompanied by a theatrical flourish. "Saaaay, I've also heard rumours that this place is home to a very special Undead..."

"Oh, right you are! Yeah, apparently Nemeta is going to replace Lord Gwyn as the new Lord of Cinder. She saved my life, once. I'm indebted to her..."

Patches' eyes narrowed. "Is this lass here at the moment?"

A straightforward man at the best of times, Laurentius wasn't normally given over to suspicion or paranoia, but in that instant he had the strangest notion that this man might be an assassin, or a spy. "Nemeta is not here at the moment," he said, mindful not to reveal too much. "She set off on business a few days ago. No idea when she'll be back."

"Oooh, a secret mission, yeah? I tell ya, royals and their intrigues, ey?" Patches tapped a knowing finger on his nose. "Oh well, I'll just get myself settled in. I look forward to meeting our soon-to-be new Lord of Cinder!"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," said Laurentius, as Patches sashayed past. "Oh, by the way, Patches: most of the people in this place are approachable enough, you'll have no problem with them. But there's this one individual...well, it's best not to bother him. He's a sorcerer, you see. Big Hat Logan. He's devoted himself to the study of these books, but...to be honest, I think this land has...you know...got the better of him."

Patches ventured into the Archives, and eventually found himself a nice, secluded corner in which to set up camp.

"I'm watching you, fox," came a voice from the shadows. "Do not even consider using your tricks on the innocent souls in these Archives."

Patches groaned deeply. "Have I not been punished enough?" he said, his arms stretching wide in entreaty.

"Careful," was the reply. "We wouldn't want any of your new neighbours to think you talk to yourself, would we?"

Quelana withdrew deeper into the darkness, and found her own, far more inaccessible culvert in which to hide. Surrendering herself to the gloom and the quiet, she waited for the frustration seething within her to subside. Nemeta was not here, but there was no point in rushing back outside and desperately searching all of Lordran for her. Nemeta would make her way here in due time. All Quelana had to do was wait.

()()()()()()()()()()

The Tomb of the Giants was almost unimaginably vast, and progress downwards was slow, painstaking, and treacherous.

One wrong step was all it took. One wrong step in that thick, impregnable nothingness, and Nemeta would plunge into a yawning abyss. She would plummet and tumble through the black void, falling though the darkness for minutes on end, waiting for the sharp, abrupt impact, waiting for yet another Undead life to come to a sudden close.

Nemeta had a source of light, of course. The Skull Lantern, a magical artifact that not only would illuminate the way ahead, but lead her directly to her destination.

But light attracted the skeletons...

Gigantic, towering skeletons, with enormous iron swords that would crush her skull and shatter her bones with a single blow. Gigantic, towering skeletons with great bows, their projectiles soaring silently through the shadows. Once, Nemeta had been creeping her way through the gloom, when suddenly she was impaled by an arrow, and lay prone on the rocks for twenty minutes, waiting to bleed to death.

Worst of all, the skeletons that had seemingly lost every last remnant of their wits. They bounded about on their hands and knees, snapping and slavering, attempting to grasp hold of Nemeta in their jaws...

If Nemeta made use of the skull lantern, she risked attracting the attention of the tomb's inhabitants. And so she crept forward in the dark, inch by inch, feeling the way forward with hands and outstretched toes, fumbling blindly towards Nito.

Sometimes, she lost her bearings. Sometimes, she could not be sure if an endless abyss was stretching out before her. It was on these occasions that she was forced to use the lantern. She would ignite it for just a moment; long enough to regain her sense of direction. She would ignite it for just a moment, and when she did so, she hoped and prayed that its light would not fall upon a grinning, leering, skeletal visage.

Nemeta came to a decision: The Tomb of the Giants was easily her least favourite place in all of Lordran.

That was her opinion. And, because she was destined to become Queen of Sunlight, it would soon become Royal Opinion, and hence more important than anything else.

She dearly hoped that Lost Izalith would prove less tedious...

()()()()()()()()()()()

Corpses.

Wriggling maggots crawling through rotting flesh.

Cadavers mindlessly discharging their fluids and humours.

Swarms of flies coming to rest upon putrefying meat.

Larvae hatching, and bursting to life within festering wounds.

Exposed bones. Twitching limbs. Veins running with pus.

Is it any wonder at all that Seath chose to surround himself with crystals?

Is it any wonder that Seath could not allow a single speck of dirt to settle upon his cherished Archives?

Is it any mystery at all why Seath commanded an army of servants to clean every inch of his lair, to obsessively polish every wooden surface, to prevent a single mote of dust from befouling his books?

Is it any mystery at all why Seath was eventually driven from his own keep?

Is it any secret at all why Seath could no longer bear to surround himself with filthy, pestilent, poisonous life?

Is it any secret at all why Seath retreated to his crystal forest?

Is it any wonder that Seath sought to create for himself an environment that would remain forever pure, forever pristine, forever untainted, forever perfect?

Is it any wonder that Seath sought to create for himself a haven from death, from disease, from the destruction and despoilment of beauty?

More and more, Logan developed the habit of exploding with anger. He would suddenly appear, red-faced and bellowing. "Who is caring for these Archives? The books must be dusted! The carpets must be cleaned, the tables and chairs polished! Who is responsible for this? This, this wanton neglect!"

Griggs sighed deeply; his Master's temper had become impossible to predict. "Master, there are six of us! Seven, if you count our new guest, and I can't imagine he would appreciate having cleaning duties sprung upon him. We have far more important matters to attend to than housekeeping!"

()()()()()()()()()()

Ahead, Nemeta could hear the clanking of armour. Not long after, she could see the faint, bobbing light of an approaching lantern.

Evidently, someone in the Tomb of the Giants did not share Nemeta's zeal for caution. She tried to conceal herself in the nearest crevice, but it did not hide her well enough. The light from the lantern fell upon her, and the stranger studied her a moment.

"Oh, hello," came the familiar voice. "Fate seems determined for us both to cross each others' paths, again and again, wouldn't you agree?"

"Solaire?" said Nemeta, squinting to see him the better. "What are you doing here?"

"In the great Tomb of the Gravelord? I'm glad you asked! Not long after we last parted ways, I confess I was at a loss as to where my much sought-after sun could be found. Suddenly, inspiration struck, as would a particularly enlightening bolt of lightning from the sky! Where else could the sun be, but where it is needed most? Where else could one find hope, but where it is least expected?"

He seemed so thrilled that he had found someone with which to share his epiphany. "You think your sun is in the darkest place in Lordran?" said Nemeta, said darkness obscuring her raised eyebrow.

"Indeed! What better use for the sun than to banish the darkness?"

That makes a sort of sense, thought Nemeta. However, as the soon-to-be Queen of Sunlight, may I just state that this is not my natural setting.

"While you're here," said Nemeta, "mmm, do you think you could help me slay the Gravelord?"

Solaire put a fist to his shoulder. "As a servant of Lord Gwyn, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fight at the side of his brave, virtuous heir."

Nemeta beamed. The Tomb of the Giants suddenly seemed a lot less forbidding. With her trusty Solaire of Astora, Nemeta would storm Nito's crypt, and obliterate him.

Solaire began to cough and gurgle, and Nemeta cursed herself for being so gullible, so easily deceived. As Solaire fell to his knees, gagging and choking, trickles of blood falling from his visor onto the rocks, Nemeta shut her eyes tightly, and tried to wake.

()()()()()()()()()()

In Nemeta's dreams, her Mistress invited her to reach her hand out, and push her cowl away. Quelana's skin was all gone, replaced by desiccated silk, large black spiders with bulging red abdomens crawling in and out of her mouth and eye cavities.

In Nemeta's dreams, her mother and father and brothers were all Undead, and all lashed to posts, positioned far apart. Bizarre creatures, with the heads and wings of ravens and the bodies of human beings, descended from the skies, pecking at their eyes and tongues as they screamed and struggled. Nemeta raced about the snow-covered field, shouting and waving her arms, trying to frighten away the monsters, but each time she protected one member of her family, the raven-things set upon the others.

In Nemeta's dreams, Quelana and Rhea and Sieglinde and Laurentius and Solaire and Andrei were all Hollow, all trapped in a pit filled with a roiling, tumbling mass of maggots. They struggled, and slashed, and clawed, and swiped, snarling mindlessly at one another as they were devoured.

When, at long last, Nemeta shambled into Nito's inner sanctum, her instincts were dulled, and her limbs were weighted with lead. The rush of battle joined quickly seeped away, and Nemeta found it taxing even to run and maneuver. As though intending one final, parting insult, Nito fought in an unmistakeably leisurely manner, sweeping unhurriedly around the chamber, taking long, measured swings with his great Gravesword that, had she been fully rested, Nemeta would easily have been able to evade.

Nemeta loosed all of her most powerful spells; the pyromancies that Quelana had imparted to her, and the potent sorceries that Logan had passed to Griggs. Finally, to Nemeta's pathetically grateful relief, Nito fell to her assault. His immense bulk crashed into the water that pooled on the ground, and disintegrated to nothing, his Lord Soul glowing where he had once stood.

If Nemeta's wits had been any less frayed, perhaps she would have made a quip about never provoking a sleep-deprived pyromancer. But no witticisms came to her, no clever little remarks. She took possession of the Lord Soul, and teleported out of the crypt.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The bonfire guttered and swelled, and Nemeta materialized in the flames. She grimaced, and waited for her eyes to adapt to the light.

Firelink Shrine was as she left it.

The Tomb of the Giants was behind her. No more interminable, unpitying darkness; no more ravenous eyes following her as she blundered through the shadows; no more laughing, cadaverous faces melting out of the gloom; no more bony fingers reaching hungrily for her. Just the trembling of her hands, and the rattling, clutching unsteadiness of her breath, and the ghastly, stomach-churning imagery waiting for her each time she closed her eyes.

Seizing two handfuls of her tunic and clutching them to her chest, Nemeta began shuffling her way out of Firelink. As she trudged down the stairs towards New Londo, the Fire Keeper, Anastacia, summoned every ounce of strength and bravery in her being, and uttered a single, faint word.

"Hello," she said.

Nemeta did not hear her. She disappeared from view, and Anastacia bowed her head, her brow furrowing in anguish. How conceited of her, how selfish, to think that the Chosen Undead would want to speak with such a feeble, contemptible little beggar as she.

()()()()()()()()()

Down to New Londo, and from there to the Valley of Drakes.

Nemeta wondered how many weeks she had been in the Tomb of the Giants. When you spend long enough immersed in absolute, unyielding darkness, time begins to lose all meaning.

Nito had not destroyed Nemeta. Nor had he quite destroyed the little girl that still existed within Nemeta, though he had done lasting, irreparable damage.

The little girl was still there, and though Nemeta would never, ever be able to acknowledge it, the little girl now wished to crawl into Quelana's lap, and cry and snivel while the witch stroked her hair, and whispered comforting banalities in her ear.

Through the Valley of Drakes, and across to the gigantic wooden contraption that bore its passengers to the bowels of Blighttown. Reaching the bottom, Nemeta plodded her way across the mire, to the base of one of the enormous buttresses that kept the city above from collapsing into the gorge. There was a little patch of land here, where Mistress could usually be found, and as she drew near, Nemeta escaped her melancholy for a moment, and became filled with an irrepressible, childish excitement.

Quelana was not there.

Nemeta searched around the sides of the buttress. Quelana was nowhere to be seen.

Nemeta investigated the region at the entrance to Queelag's silken domain. She examined the area around the roots of the Great Hollow. She searched near the great drain that deposited the effluence of Lordran into the marsh. Quelana was not there.

Nemeta walked the length and breadth of the swamp, calling out her mistress' name, not caring what vile, misshapen creatures her cries attracted. Quelana did not answer.

Nemeta was not worried. She was too young, and too immature to worry. Nemeta was angry. Nemeta felt sorry for herself. Nemeta began to fill with the impetuous rage that came whenever a spoiled young girl didn't get what she wanted for her birthday, or whenever a socialite was upstaged by a prettier dress at a ball.

She was meant to be here!

I did my part. I killed Nito, and I took his soul. I killed Seath, and I took his soul, too! I did my part of the bargain! So why isn't she here? The least she could do was be here! All I wanted was for her to be here for me! All I wanted was for her to listen to me!

Nemeta did not realize that her fists were clenched. Nemeta did not realize that she was breathing heavily, forcing the air through her nose in graceless, inelegant snorts.

Nemeta stood in the middle of the swamp, the walls of the gorge towering above her, the poisons in the sludge seeping through the leather of her boots. She took a deep breath, and began to scream.