"Meat, meat! Tasty Grahame, tasty treat! Grahame strafes around Sif, drawing his attention while Priscilla lunges forth with short jabs. He jumps back, quickly dismissing Grahame as a minimal threat. Sær dashes towards him, low to the ground, making a slash at his front paws. Sif flips high in the air, plunging downward and slicing through Sær's side, the blade passing through and burying itself in the ground.

Sær rolls away, chugging estus. His wound smokes and pops, sealing up in a matter of seconds, the scar disappearing not long after. Wasting no time, he and Priscilla flank the massive wolf, and Grahame skitters to his front while pelting his snout with clumps of sod. He swings his greatsword at Priscilla, who tailsprings to the side, slashing at him. The tip of her scythe catches his ear, cutting the edge. The ring embedded in it tumbles out, and Sær rolls over it to snatch it. Sif snarls, swinging viciously at Priscilla. She catches the blow with her shaft, but the force sends her tumbling. Sær attempts to cover her, slashing at his snout. Sif deftly jumps back, landing on his hind legs. He coils them, and with a growl he launches high into the air.

Time slows for Sær. He sees the arc, the flash of steel. He sees the wolf plunging down.

He sees his fiancé run through.

The sound she makes cuts through Sær's heart. His entire being feels as if it is dropping through his legs into the ground. Priscilla writhes, clutching her midsection. Her cry is shrill and loud, almost a squawk. Her legs thrash a final time, and she stills. Her panting grows weaker, quieter. There are no tearful words, no goodbyes. No pleading no anger.

Crossbreed Priscilla grows still, and her body bursts into a cloud of mist and souls.

Sær stands still, slowly sheathing hihis sword. He calmly unfastens the sheath, letting it drop to the ground. His stare is blank, his eyes unseeing. Even as Sif pins him to the ground, he doesn't respond. His heart beats evenly, his eyes are glazed. He has hollowed, not in body, but in spirit.

Sif raises his head high, poised to bring his sword down into Sær. "Pull yourself together, you fool!" Vengarl yells.

The ground shakes, and Sær hears the swish of soft cloth.

He looks to the side to see Priscilla charging towards them. But that can't be, Sær thinks. She's gone. She left him.

Priscilla swings her scythe around her head, gaining momentum. She brings it down hard, and the blade glides past Sif's snout, the shaft smacking him in the nose.

"NO!" She cries, smacking his snout again. "BAD! BOY!" She smacks his nose with each syllable, the shaft of the scythe leaving large welts. "YOU-Bonk-DON'T-Bonk-EAT-Bonk-MY-Bonk-HUSBAND! Bonk! BAD!"

The final strike makes a loud smack, and Sif drops his greatsword, cowering on the ground while covering his snout with his paws, whimpering.

Priscilla slams her scythe into the ground, her other hand on her hip. "Eating people is bad!" She scolds him, poking his forehead with her finger. Sær watches the exchange in awe.

"Priscilla? You're... Alive?"

She sighs, mock-exasperated. "Do I look dead, Sær?"

Sær smiles weakly. "You are rather pale."

She flicks his head, then leans forward to hug him. "You think you are the only undead in the world?"

"But I was chosen. The last thing I remember was touching the bonfire and waking up in the undead asylum."

"And dost thou recall how I lost mine fluffy visage?" She asks, playfully using Olde-Speake.

"Fire-eth?"

"Correct-eth." They both laugh, squeezing each other. Priscilla reaches into her dress, pulling out a large slab of meat wrapped in leaves. She holds it out to Sif. "Do you promise to be good?" She asks him. He whines in what Priscilla assumes is agreement. "Good." She unwraps the thick piece of meat, placing it in front of his nose.

He looks up tentatively, Snaking out his tongue to taste it. Seemingly safe, he starts ripping into it with big, hungry bites while Priscilla pats his bruised head with one hand, rubbing Sær's head with the other. Sær hums contentedly, the closest he can get to purring, while nuzzling the soft silk of her dress. "Lean back," she commands Sif. He complies, obediently laying down in front of his new mistress and master.

Priscilla scoots forward, cuddling up to Sif.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Sær asks. "He did just kill you."

"He will not try anything." She pokes Sif's cheek. "Will you, mister Sif?" He whimpers in response. "Good," she says, leaning back down against him. The trio close their eyes, resting after the ardous battle.

Vingarl's mouth hangs open, still attached to Særs shoulder. Rosabeth stares in disbelief. Grahame slowly scuttles up to them, equally stunned.

"What the shite...?"