The ground felt damp beneath Eralynn's feet.
The ground here was always damp. The soft dripping of water was the only sound here, save from her own footsteps. The air felt cold, too, an ever-present chill that always hung in the air, felt even through the thick layers of leather she wore. And always a feeling of being watched, that the being in this place knew of her presence and was watching her, although it never once stirred. To another, perhaps this place may have been uncomfortable. It certainly did not seem like a place befitting of the name tomb. To her, however, the rocky, damp surroundings made her feel at ease. There was almost a calmness in the silence, a faint sense of peace. It was cold and unforgiving, but a place of quiet faith to the right people, should one know where to look.
Faith was the thing that had led Eralynn to stand before the great coffin near the center of the room, time and time again. Kneeling before it, she made her offerings as she always did. Her blade was often stained red with the blood of those she had put to it in the name of her Lord, the blood of enemies laid to rest.
Even at these offerings, he did not stir. The only sound was the water dripping, echoing through the silent room. There were only her own movements. She wondered if he knew of the events that took place on the surface. She wondered if he was aware of anything at all, slumbering in this forgotten cave.
"That serpent wants you dead." The words slipped out before she could give thought to it, and for a moment, cold panic clutched at her. Glancing up at the slumbering mass above her, she waited for a reaction. Waited for something to happen.
It was so still here. So silent, save for the dripping of water. And her. There was no anger for her words. In fact, there was no reaction at all. Slowly, she allowed the panic to seep away, slumping to the ground.
"They want me to link the flame." Her words this time were hesitant, slow and quiet. Still, the skeletal figure did not move. There was only that feeling of being both watched and ignored, and only the silence.
Eralynn wondered if any of the other servants ever spoke when they came here.
"They call me Chosen. They want me to battle the Lords, just to face Gwyn." She found herself continuing, the fear slowly fading. Her Lord either didn't hear her, or her words weren't as offensive as she first thought.
Anything to break the silence. It pressed on her, bringing with it a lonely feeling. Everywhere was always quiet. Desolate.
She spoke of Anor Londo first. She spoke of the glory of it in the light of the sun, of Gwynevere's words to her. She spoke of Frampt, that primordial servant who had tasked her with the quest that played on her mind so. She spoke of New Londo, and the scale of death that had piled up at the floodgates; the bodies of perhaps thousands of people, desperate to escape as the water climbed. She spoke of the First Flame, of the burden placed on her for simply not hollowing when she had been captured and left to rot.
She found herself speaking of everything, from the battles against those her duty pitted her against to the impossible tasks forced upon her. When she finally finished, she looked up, waiting. The water dripped in the background. The silence, disturbed by her voice, quickly settled again. There was no reaction at all.
And yet, when she finally pushed herself to her feet and made for the exit, she could have sworn that the watchfulness of the tomb did not feel quite so empty as before, nor did the silence feel so desolate. It simply felt like the place was listening.