Wind and snow flew about haphazardly within the swirls that decorated the Painted World, it's bruised colored sky momentarily brushed with crisp white as snowflakes continued to thrash and sweep the covered ground beneath. Within the entrance of a pair of rotten doors stood groaning hollows that garrisoned the cold stone walls and littered the snow felled grounds like dead leaves. The wind gave a wail as it squeezed through the gaps and corners of the old tower's that lay broken after many centuries and bled plethora's of undead than ran out from its fallen barricade's, staining courtyards to a crusty maroon.

Above the stairs and roofless homes were perched beasts in man's image. Half crow- half man what cawed eerily atop the curled stairwell of a great cathedral. Their black eyes searching, gazing, roaming the barren surroundings for fresh prey that would never come. One of the feathered beasts jumped from their plinth's, gliding gracefully and landing near the framework of a dilapidated house. It's inhabitants barely stirred from their positions standing guard for any intruders, bloated bodies of poison and mucus breathing in the freezing air that its painted winter brought.

The breeze played with a stray shard of glass from a broken window. The blizzard around it lifted the transparent material like long, icy fingers that flicked it outside as one would a coin. Out it went, passed the hollows who held lit touches, round those hanging from the stone ledges and through the snowy balcony that lead to a vast, cracked bridge. It was quiet there. Empty. The only sound to be heard was the howling sky and the sharp tic-tic-tic of the glass shard on the ground that quickened its bounce with the aid of another gust of frosty wind.

The shard came to a slow stop before rebounding off a meaty body with a dull tuc. The body itself was purplish in color - rotten and dead, yet alive and breathing. A gigantic dragon, cleft in twain, sat against the broken half of the upper bridge that led to a small domed balcony. It stared outward with the holes it had for eyes towards the barren opening before it. Its breath let out wisps of purple gas, and what flesh that remained upon its old skull dribbled putrid saliva from decayed jaws that dripped down, melting the snow with an almost inaudible hiss as it corroded the stone beneath. Another guard that stood ever watchful in this misery of a world shrouded by white snow that appeared more menacing than it did pure.

Below, on the lower bridge, partially damaged on the left, stood a platoon of hollow undead. The wind blew fiercest down there, biting into the shriveled skin of the soldiers, their loincloths doing nothing to shield them from the anger of the darkened sky. Yet the platoon stood unperturbed and stared away from the domed opening behind them, over a dozen pairs of red eyes staring at the pair of looming oaken doors which would never open. Towards the end of the bridge stood a tall figure dressed in clean iron that blocked the way to a dense fog gate behind him. A wall shield decorated with scratches and a faded insignia was held in his left hand while his right brandished a grand mace. A Berenike Warrior. One that stood as the last line of defense toward the fog gate that loomed above them all. He too stood firm, unaffected by the wind that barely made his frame sway. Hollowed gaze fixed on the closed oak of the cathedral's back door. Waiting, anticipating, expecting a foe that would never appear… or so they thought.

At the center of the lower bridge, dropped down another figure, body masked by its surroundings and the sound of its fall softened via sorcery spell. A nearby hollow swiveled its head around slowly, regarded the sound for a moment, and turned its head to face forward again, uninterested by the sudden sound. The figure walked by the smaller hollows as the air shimmered slightly around it before it stepped around the Berenike Warrior, unnoticed. The figure glanced around quickly, and placed a transparent hand through the fog, and then an arm, until it completely phased through to the other side of the domed balcony.

The figure sighed out in relief, gazing at his gloved hand that became visible again as his spell dissipated, leaving behind the appearance of a dark- haired man, clothed head-to-foot in black leather. He raised his right hand to remove the gray ring from his forefinger, the etched shape of a sleeping dragon glinting in the pale moonlight as it slid off his hand before he placed it within a pouch on his hip.

He had made it. The first safe haven available in this hellish world from which he could not escape. In truth, it had been his fault for approaching the humongous painting within that vast hall, dismissing the reason for all the guardians in white stationed with sharp daggers, and letting his curiosity get the better of him. He hadn't known what to expect after seeing the actual Painting of Ariamis in the flesh - or rather canvas.

He had not, for one, expected the vast height of the portrait itself, that took up almost a third of the wall's height and cast a shadow so tall it would have loomed over any god that had ever existed. The artwork of the painter, Ariamis, was also a sight to marvel at. A painting that captured a desolate city - old as it seemed - crumpled by the assault of Winter and filled with terror as the winds bashed against the now flimsy barricades and walls as the sky above swirled ominously as if the Abyss itself had been poured into it.

Yet, above all the unexpected scenarios the chosen undead had faced - and he had faced many - he had not expected the canvas to latch onto him and pull him into that cold and desolate world. What had baffled him more was that when he had tried to leave by jumping off the broken wooden bridge he had landed on in attempt to be resurrected at the bonfire in Anor Londo, he had died, lost all his souls and humanity, and then been resurrected at a bonfire inside the very same painted world.

For all the unhollowed undeads strategizing and planning, he couldn't fathom how or why he came to arrive in another world as equal to the other in terms of misery and death. What, exactly, did he have of such value that the canvas would seek him out? He doubted he'd find that out just yet.

Now, however, he had made it finally. He had reached then end of the city of what he had hoped would lead to a portal out of this damnable world or at least a passage toward Anor Londo, which was a place that was even more difficult to get in than actually leave. His body was beaten, bruised like the purple sky above, poisoned by those bloated bodies with torches and bleeding from the deep, jagged wounds that undead dragon had inflicted on his person. He hurt like hell, but he was alive. Alive and safe. He breathed another sigh of relief, watching as the air he blew out frosted into a thin steam that left his masked mouth and flew away with the blizzard around him. At least now he could take a very well-deserved rest.

"Thou art a trespasser in this land, human."

Dammit.

"Why hast thou'st cometh to the Painted World?" A soft, but firm voice spoke a few meters from his position near the fog gate. "Art thou another that hath cometh to slay and murder like the many before thou? If so, thou wilt find no victory here."

He lifted his head toward the voice that spoke to him and found his eyes widening behind his porcelain mask. In the epicenter of the domed balcony, stood a tall woman. No - not a woman - a goddess. Her skin was pale and turned silver in the moonlight that pierced through the dark sky above them. She was tall, extremely tall, as most gods in Lordran were, and stood two and a half times his height. Her body was covered in crisp white fur that lined her arms, shoulders and hands and upon her abdomen rested an icy blue gown that clothed her wanton figure and voluptuous bust. Her hips stretched the gown slightly, outlining her curves as her pale feet rested gently against the snow-covered ground of the balcony. In her hands rested a scythe fit for a giant sentinel. Her finger nails pointed into small claws and the undead noticed scales on the back of her neck and hands. He blinked and gazed again to see a slender, fluffy tail poke out from her tailbone that curled in on itself on the ground.

The undead swallowed thickly as he gazed at her pale face, framed by white braided hair that cascaded down her spine and tucked behind her ears. Her beauty left a lump in his throat that prevented him from replying. Her eye's transfixed him most, however, warm, yet cold slitted eye's colored moss green with flecks of yellow in them, akin to a great dragon's. His thoughts travelled for a moment as he regarded the goddess before him.

Not a proper goddess then, but a half breed.

"Art thou mute?" He blinked again, mind brought back to the woman in front of him. He noticed her grip on that terrifying scythe tighten. Thinking would have to wait.

"Ah… no," he started, taking a pained step forward. The cold biting into his wounds that was slowly forming a puddle of his life essence at his feet. He didn't have much Estus to spare either. He couldn't heal himself if the situation called for it.

"The blood of the peoples of this world drip from thine blade, human." She stated to him, the octave in her voice raised as her white eyebrows narrowed. "Thou wilt shed no more from this point."

The chosen undead felt the weight of his sword in his hand and let it fell from his hands with a loud clatter. The blood that dripped from his fingers tainting the steel from grey to crimson. He wouldn't be able to survive another battle in his condition. He knew. The goddess in front of him saw him as a threat, and quite frankly he didn't disagree. The amount of blood that coated him - half from his enemies and the rest his own - didn't paint a picture of someone docile.

He gave a halfhearted laugh on shaky knees. The half breed thought he wanted her head. He just wanted to rest his head. She would kill him now and he'd be resurrected at the entrance of that bloody bridge again, forced to make the perilous trek back here. He doubted his chances of managing it. After he found that corpse of a servant of Velka in that crumbling room, he didn't think he would make it as far either. It was most astonishing that he had actually made it to the end of the city. He was a goner now.

No. Wait a moment. These weren't his thought's, it was the blood loss talking.

He breathed out deeply again and took another step towards the tall goddess, his body giving up on him, yet he powered through it. He had to leave this place. He was already here! Just a few simple words to disarm any thoughts of battle from the half breed and he would be gone from here. He had to try.

"No… please. I… I don't wish to f-fight." He stuttered out. The goddess' eyebrows relaxed after a moment of silence and she relaxed her tense shoulders.

Good. It was working, he could do this. Just a little further.

"Then why has thou cometh to this land? What dost thou seeketh?" She asked him, hand still at the ready with her scythe but motionless.

"I… I seek…"

He could feel his consciousness slipping, the balcony around them dimmed and he saw nothing but blackness and the beautiful half breed in front of him.

His legs trembled under his weight and blood violently spilled from his mouth, pouring out from behind his mask and creating a larger puddle on the floor. He felt the last ounce of his strength leave him as he fell to his knees. He breathed ragged breaths to try and gain some energy but all it did was drain him further. With a grunt, his face met the soft snow and the last thing he saw was his blood trail away from him only to pool at a set of bare, white and sharp-nailed feet.

The chosen undead awoke with a muffled grumble from behind his mask. His memory was foggy, but he didn't recall his darksign burning, which meant he was still alive at least. He cracked open his eyes and met a pair of slitted orbs in return. He hummed to himself, they almost looked like the ones on that half breed goddess he saw earlier.

Hold on a minute.

His eyes opened fully, and he tried to lift himself up only for a large, white hand to lay against his shoulder and gently force him to lie back down.

"Thou need'st rest human."

He had no strength to deny her and he dropped back down, expecting to meet the cold ground only to feel warmth against his back and head. He blinked and turned his sideways head, eyes gazing down. It was her tail. He was resting against her tail. He frowned but didn't argue, he welcomed the warmth she offered. His body needed it after all that blood loss.

He felt warmth spread through his chest and stomach and glanced down his front to see her hands coated in a warm light pressing against his body.

"What are you-"

He began before freezing and letting out a long sigh of relief at the feeling of the pain ebb away and his wounds knit themselves back together. He felt strength fill his person again and glanced back up as the half breed spoke.

"Hush." She said, and he was silent. Her eye's shifted from their gaze on his mask back to his wounds.

He said nothing as her hands travelled from his chest to his shoulders and back down, towards his legs, healing him. It felt amazing as he lay there basking under the glow of her outstretched hands and he pondered for a moment. She was healing him, but it didn't feel like a miracle of healing or any of the other healing scriptures he knew or felt before. This light was different from anything he had felt before. It didn't just heal his wounds like a miracle did and feed him with power like a swig from his Estus flask, it was like she was literally breathing life into him. The silence between them continued until she was done with her healing and she lifted her hands away from him to rest in her lap as she knelt next to him, blocking the wind from whipping against his torn leather armor.

"I hath healed thou but rest awhile longer."

Her eyes returned to stare through his mask. She did it so intently that he thought she was enjoying his presence.

"Uh-huh," he started, blinking at her, "thank you… for healing me."

"It was not an issue. Thou hath been grievously wounded, no doubt from the undead dragon upon the bridge." She replied, the end of her tail slapping the ground gently.

The chosen undead looked at the appendage with an eyebrow raised. Maybe she was enjoying his company, "yes, as dead as it may be, it's attacks still found its way passed my shield."

"Besting a dragon with flimsy iron is never a smart plan, human."

"Argon."

"Pardon?" He saw her eyes widen, as if he had given her a bouquet of roses.

"My name is Argon. Not human."

The goddess' lips turned upwards slightly as she stared at him before speaking again.

"Argon," she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue, "tis a pleasure to meet thy."

Argon nodded, slowly getting up from the comfort of her warm tail and standing. She copied his actions, lifting her scythe with her as she rose.

Argon stared at the half breed goddess again. As a man, and human, he considered himself to be a few inches taller than the average man, standing at proudly 6 feet and 3 inches. Though not quite as tall as some of the enemies he faced, or the Silver and Black Knights of Lord Gwyn that were easily double his height, he was proud of his stature. Yet as he stood in front of the goddess before him, having to crane his neck skywards just to meet her eye's, and step a few feet away to see her face clearly, he truly felt the meaninglessness of it all.

"I am Priscilla, keeper of the Painted World."

Argon thought of the horrors he had faced since his time arriving in the painted world to the moment he walked through the fog gate and frowned. Something about the way she said that just didn't feel right.

"Keeper…" he mimed out and looked back to the fog gate, "more like prisoner."

Priscilla gave him a said smile, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear. He knew that smile well. It was the same one he had used all those years ago when with his parents for fleeting moments of time. Before his time undead. Trapped, tortured and forced to act like all was well with the world. Argon, like her, had been imprisoned in the very place he had once called home. He had thought those memories of his were locked away but seeing this half breed, this goddess, had unlocked the door to the visages of anecdotes he'd rather forget.

"However, did thou happen upon the Painted World? Is it not sealed away from souls like thine self?" She asked curiously, "And since thine hath entered into the Painted World, how hath it been possible that thy was not slain by Jeremiah?"

"Jeremiah?" Argon replied with a frown, "you mean the phantom dressed up in yellow with the whip and pyromancy flame?"

Priscilla nodded.

"I kicked him of the cliff he appeared at. That ugly turban of his was the counterweight that made him plunge into the Abyss."

Argon watched her pale green eyes widen in shock before her frame shook uncontrollably with laughter, her hands grasping her sides as gasps took her breath away. He liked the way her smile reached her eyes.

"He does often tend to prefer slopes to plains. I shall have to warn him not to appear there again." She said, a small pleasant smile settled on her face.

"Please do," Argon said before reaching into a pouch that held his bottomless box. The item had come in handy for storing a variety if things he had found along the way from weapons, to materials, to artifacts. He would have to thank the undead merchant if he managed to leave this snowy world. "As for how I got here, I've a feeling it's due to this."

Argon picked up a small doll from the box before returning the storage item to his pouch and approaching Priscilla. The doll was just like any other, made from cotton and stuffing, with the exception that it looked exactly like Priscilla - but perhaps a younger version.

He watched her eyes widen proportionality and her arms outstretch to grasp the doll from his hand. She lifted it to eye level, eye's tearing from some realization before hugging it to her chest tightly, softly sobbing as she remembered a long-lost memory. She looked at him through clouded eyes.

"Where did thou obtain this from?"

"It was with me while I was imprisoned in the Undead Asylum."

"Then… why hath thou gifted it to me?" Her voice was shaky and her shoulder's trembled. Argon could tell that taking asking for it back wouldn't be a wise decision.

"Well I don't have any use for it," he replied, his voice warm as he spoke, "besides, if it was once yours, don't you think I should return it? It's only right."

She gave Argon another one of those beautiful smiles and pressed the doll to her chest tighter.

"I thank-eth thou, how'st should I repay thee?"

Argon smiled beneath his mask and walked towards her, "Well, you can start by telling me how to get out of here. It's been one hell after another in this world of snow and decay."

She nodded solemnly, all informality gone and motioned for him to follow her to the walkway behind her. Argon followed, taking in the view of the dark forest beyond that blocked out all sight of the horizon like a boundary of blackness. They stopped at a sudden drop that held a stream of dark water below a long, long fall. Argon frowned and turned his head to Priscilla.

"So, I just jump?"

Priscilla nodded, "A portal to thine dimension lieth beneath. Thou need'st only leap…"

They stood in silence for a period of time before Argon cleared his throat, breaking them from their respective thoughts and straightening.

"Well… thank you, Priscilla. I wouldn't have made it out of here if you hadn't healed me and not attacked me. It's refreshing after fighting so many undead."

The half breed gave him another sad smile and took a small step back, leaning on her scythe as she watched him go, "I am glad I hath met thy, Sir Argon. May thou findeth what thou seeketh."

He nodded to her with a heaviness in his chest. It was one thing to be the one imprisoned and tortured in your homeland, it was another thing to know what it was like and leave someone in his prior situation behind. He glanced at his broken Crest shield and cracked Astorian straight sword with a nostalgic smile. Those armaments had taken him so far since his departure from the Asylum. Now, here they lay, broken and mangled, unsalvageable even if he had given it to the giant blacksmith. At least it would be able to rest here, unaffiliated with the new set of horrors Argon would undoubtedly face along his journey.

He glanced at Priscilla one more time, the beautiful half breed staring back with a sorrowful smile. He was partly glad that peculiar doll had landed up in his cell. It had brought him to this hellish world, yes, but more so it had allowed him to meet someone that knew his pain, that felt his anguish and burned with the same flame to be free. His heart grieved at the thought that he couldn't give her what she had so easily given him. A way out…

Wait… wait just a goddamn moment…

Argon turned his body back to Priscilla and she frowned at him, not understanding the hesitancy in him.

"What art wrong, Sir Argon?"

"That doll was what allowed me to traverse this world, yes?" He asked breathlessly.

"Y-Yes… it hath ties to me, which in turn bound you to the Painted World." She replied, slowly explaining it to him. She furrowed her eyebrows further when she heard him laugh.

"I do not understand why thou rejoice-eth…"

Argon laughed even harder and spread his arms out wide as he spoke.

"Don't you get it? With that doll as the effigy to assist in crossing this dimension, it means anyone holding the doll can leave this accursed world!" He strode to Priscilla's side, grasped her larger hand in his, casing her cheeks to dust themselves with red, and began to pull her towards the ledge, "it means you can leave with me."

Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead and he suddenly jumped, pulling her with him and she let out a scream as they fell towards the portal. She tried using her scythe to dig into the stone wall behind them to stop their fall, but the momentum was too great and her scythe so sharp it split the stone in two, breaking the great rock, ejecting her scythe out as they fell faster, the wind rushing passed her face.

She tried to swallow back her tears but failed as she wailed, the fear of death filling her as they plummeted towards the coursing stream below.

The end is near, I'm going to fall to my death! Foolish undead, what hath thou done?

She closed her eyes waiting for the hard impact that didn't come.

This… is my first Dark Souls fic. I was reading about Priscilla and the awesome fanfics people wrote about then when I thought about an idea. I put it to paper - or rather word document - and watched as it slowly took shape.

I wanted to create a proper DS feel that embodies the horror and adventure and stuff while still having a modicum of humility and humor. I kind of messed up with the dialogue between Argon and Priscilla whereby it feels a bit too friendly and childish but hey, trial and error. Also, if I messed up the old-speak, I do apologize. I was - and still am - an A student in English and Shakespearean Literature but I suck at old-speak. I intend on making Priscilla speak modern English however, since most of the NPC's except the god's speak modernly.

Anyways, please do R . I'd like your feedback on what you thought about this and any errors I might have made. Like I said before, I like flames, they help improve my stories.

Hope you enjoyed, have a swell Christmas and a cheery New Year!