A.N. With thanks to Dead Pann.
"Darling, who is this?"
Priscilla kneels down in front of a small cage set on the rock, just outside the lift to New Londo. Inside rests a gaunt, yet pretty young woman. Thick robes hang off her slim frame, yet it is still apparent that she was quite curvy when she was healthy.
"That," Sær replies, "Is Anastacia, Firelink Shrine's Firekeeper. Her tongue was cut off for questioning her duty. I've since healed it with estus, but..." He shakes his head. "She doesn't like to talk. Whoever raised her as a Firekeeper conditioned her into accepting her fate, and she refuses to leave her ce-what are you doing?!"
Priscilla rolls up her sleeves, grasping the two middle bars. "Hhhhhnggg..." She strains, her cute face turning red with exertion. A groan emits from the bars, and Anastacia scuttles to the corner of her cell, pulling her hood up and wrapping her arms around her knees. The bars make a horrible screetching sound, and the dust falls from the ceiling of the little cave-cell.
Priscilla gives a dragon-like roar, and the bent bars snap from their place in the rock. Adrenaline pumping, Priscilla rips the remaining bars away until there is a large space. Reaching through the bars, she grabs Anastacia around the middle, her large hand almost able to wrap around the girl's skinny waist. The gaunt firekeeper shrieks, convinced that she is going to be eaten by a giant dragon-woman.
Priscilla yanks her through the bars and holds her at arms length. She brings her up to her mouth, and Anastacia squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the end.
Instead, she feels a large pair of soft, warm lips on her cheek. Her eyes open. Is she being tasted? Sampled? Is she playing with her prey, the way a cat would?
Priscilla pulles her lips away and wraps the girl in a tight hug. Her wings cover the girl, and Priscilla cradles her head against her chest. It would seem that Anastacia isn't on the menu.
"I need you," Priscilla says, "to look after our house while we're gone. No more cell, okay? I forbid you from going back in there."
The woman nods frantically, still in shock. The wind blows against her face directly for the first time in years, and she breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of the forest, the shrine, and the pure-hearted dragon-woman who freed her.
Priscilla stomps over to her home, flinging open the large door and depositing Anastacia on the crossbreed-sized bed.
"There's plenty of food in the storeroom," Priscilla says. "And the library is over there." She feels a strange kinship with the firekeeper. Two women, cursed from birth and hidden away, both taught to resign to their fate. Priscilla wasn't about to let the girl spend another minute in that cell.
She tucks Anastacia into the covers, planting another kiss on her cheek before walking out the door.
She pauses, her head peeking in through the door. "No cell!" She says sternly. Anastacia can only nod slowly, still in shock.
The crossbreed is long gone by the time Anastacia whispers quietly into the bed.
"Thank you... Miss Dragon."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Grahame reclines comfortably on his cage-mate, watching the ruined architecture of New Londo amble by. Vengarl rests comfortably on a pillow, while Rosabeth burns passing twigs with her pyromancy.
The squeak of wooden wheels clacking against the mossy cobblestone is pleasant to listen to, and Sif yawns as he effortlessly pulls the carriage along.
Priscilla mirrors him, yawning with a yowl as she lazily cuts Darkwraiths in half.
Rosabeth huffs in annoyance, dramatically flopping down over a sack of rations. "Are all adventures truly this boring?!"
The others are silent, ignoring the irate pyromancer. For someone who was a stone husk for decades, she is remarkably impatient.
The morning sun soon rises high in the sky, and the group settles down for a hearty brunch. Priscilla fishes several fish out of the icebox, puffing frost breath into it to keep the rest of their rations preserved.
Grahame and his cage-mates quickly set to cleaning the fish, their combined sending scales and skin flying. Each time a fish has been cleaned, it is tossed to Rosabeth, who begins cooking it with her pyromancy flame. Priscilla tosses raw fish into the air, and Sif darts forward, catching each of them and swallowing them whole.
Sær readies the plates and utensils before gathering wood so that they may have a fire while they eat.
It takes all of five minutes for them to prepare two dozen-and-one fish. A dozen for Priscilla, seven for Grahame and his cage-mates, one for Vengarl, two for Rosabeth and three for Sær. Sif has a dozen raw.
In another three minutes, the fish have been properly salted and seasoned and Sær has brewed pine-needle-and-mint tea.
The courtyard is quiet save for the sound of clinking metal and the occasional moan from Priscilla as she enjoys her fish. Fish are her favorite after all, and it was rare for her to catch one in Ariamis. Her tail flicks back and forth, and she closes her eyes and smiles as she chews. Sif wolfed down his portion first, with Sær close behind. Tummy full and eyes drooping, he curls up in Priscilla's lap, her ample thighs providing a wonderful bed. Her tail comes around to rest on top of him, and he wraps his arms around the fluffy mass, nuzzling it.
Once everyone was finished and the dishes were all scrubbed, the troupe packed up and set off, making their way ever downward. The light slowly dissapates as they progress, and they are eventually forced to abandon the wagon. The Darkwraiths are clustered more densely in the dark, dismal underbelly of the ruined city, and soon they become too much for Priscilla to handle. Sær joins the fray, whirling and flipping like a madman, his twin Khopeshs' snaking out and hooking his prey, dragging it into his other blade with incredible force. Rosabeth casts a light high above them, disorienting the Darkwraiths and providing aid to the others. Sif flings the humanity-draining fiends around like chew toys, flinging them in all directions.
By the time the last of them is struck down, the group is panting and dripping with sweat. Heaps of bodies lie on the floor, with an errant twitch or a death throe being the only movement.
The group silently trudges forward, weary, but satisfied. In the distance, a dark light illuminates an archway, defying all reason.
"The Abyss," Sær and Priscilla whisper in unison. They both pull Sif's earrings out of their respective pouches. Priscilla slides hers onto her tail, and Sær slides it onto his wrist. Priscilla's tail wraps around Sær's arm, and he squeezes it reassuringly.
The two take a deep breath, and step across the veil of darkness.
There, in the middle of a sea of black, rests the corpses of the four kings. Atop them, a slender, feminine form with snakes for legs below his thighs.
"Gosh," he says, his light, feminine voice harboring a slight lisp. "What took you so long, silly?"
A.N. Wedding next chapter!