I recently went online just to double check if my description of Priscilla happened to be accurate or not and I see that I've messed up on two parts: firstly, her gown is made of fur and isn't exactly ice-blue, and her hair isn't braided like I thought it was… sorry about that.

A lone painting guardian sat against the side wall of the Painting Hall, his once white-gloved hands stained red from the blood that leaked from his side - a wound gifted to him by that leather-clad undead the Painting had taken into its canvas. The guardian glanced round the vast hall, eyes first resting on the fallen chandelier before moving to examine his fallen brethren scattered around the ivory pillars like debris. Blood from their wounds seeped out to act as a shallow pool that would have drowned them, were they not already deceased. The guardian sighed gravely.

His foot absently kicked the hollowed corpse of a long-perished undead warrior to his right. He gazed at the body a moment longer through his arrow-shaped visor to remember the name of one of many undead that had fallen to his dagger's through the years - if under forty undead could be counted as many - and hummed silently in the silent room when realization reached his mind.

Iron Tarkus had been most formidable when he had arrived many years ago. His armour had weighed heavily on him that hindered his agility, which many of the guardian's comrades had used to their advantage to deal critical strikes onto his burnt plate-mail, yet the Berenike Knight had powered through and used that thickly-bladed greatsword to slay a fair number of other guardians. He had almost made it to the painting they were guarding too, using that massive shield as a battering ram that broke his brethren's bones and swatted them aside like pesky flies. Eventually though, The Iron Knight had fallen to the many throwing knives that decorated his back like steel scales and crumpled to the floor, all sanity left dissipating with him as his body died its final death. To honour his valiant effort - a reward rarely given to any undead - the remaining painting guards had left his armour and corpse where it had been slain, as a reminder to the guardians of how strong their adversaries could be and - to the other undead - a warning that they would not easily reach what their eyes lusted for.

But that armour was gone now from Tarkus' body. His shield and sword taken, along with all his armour, by that undead that had so easily slaughtered his brethren and left the remaining guardian mortally wounded. At first the guardian had though the slight simmering of light an error of the eyes, but after said shimmer had assassinated the vanguard guards and sent an invisible throwing knife into the neck of another, it was clearly obvious that the Painting Hall possessed another interloper in its midst. Sorcery was wielded in the foes left hand via a short bone-white staff of broken wood, that had summoned orbs of azure flame to circle around his person like pursuing souls that ripped flesh apart and shattered blades alike. After the undead's invisibility spell had worn off - a spell thought impossible to even think of, let alone conjure - he had hefted an Astorian blade in his hand that had instantly slain his comrades. Damn the Way of White for enchanting those blades. The cuts they made never did heal again.

But what was more troubling to the wounded guardian was that the Painting had accepted him. That wasn't supposed to happen. It was a painting after all. He was certain the rumours that the ancient Ariamis crafting the masterpiece they guarded was just gossip, yet thinking back on the matter, who else, if not that deranged artist, could have created artwork that could pull viewers into its fabricated world, if not his?

The painting guardian grunted as he felt his body numbing his sense of touch. It seemed his time was almost up here in Lordran. No matter… reinforcements would be arriving soon, another would relieve him of his duty and take his place. It was ironic for his line of work, yet the guardian didn't have the energy to laugh. He turned his head lamely as his vision began to dim as well, and for a moment he thought he saw two figures emerge from the Painting's canvas. How strange. It seemed even death had a way of invigorating his fleeting imagination one last time. He smiled wryly behind his hood as his eyes drooped…

Argon toppled to his hands and knees as they landed back onto the white tiles of Anor Londo's Painted Hall, vertigo grasping at his body after falling through another dimension. He'd thought that after acquiring and using the Lordvessel, he'd be used to the dimensional nausea.

Guess I was wrong.

He heard a loud thump to his right followed by the clatter of a large object and swivelled his head to see the cross breed he'd rescued moan out in slight pain from the fall. She didn't land on her feet like he did, for her long gown had wrapped itself round her leg and tail, tripping her to the floor again as she tried to stand. Argon allowed a small smile to grace his lips behind his mask. She may be a goddess, but she didn't look graceful in the slightest at this moment.

His eyes caught something in his periphery and he turned, seeing a trail of blood that led to a dead painting guardian, propped up against the wall with a hand to his gut. The undead raised an eyebrow in curiosity, seems he had missed one.

"I… I do not believe my eyes." Priscilla's voice broke him from his pondering and he turned to her prone figure that stood shocked, slitted eye's roaming around the hall, a fascinated glimmer apparent in their depths.

"Have I… truly fled from the Painted World? Or tis it but a dream?"

"If it was a dream, I don't think I would exist in it."

Her head snapped around to Argon, white hair flicking behind her like a frosty wisp of air.

"It is thee," she breathed, her eyes widening further as recognition flickered across her green irises, "then if thou are present hither… thou hath truly freed me."

The cross breed entered a daze, as if struck across cheek before her eye's filled anew with tears that fell down her pale skin.

"I t-thanked thee." She said and wept softly. It was a weeping Argon knew well, like that smile of hers. It vacillated the joy of finally being wrought from shackles thought to be unbroken. He said nothing in reply, instead turning his head to the doorway as a fresh company of painting guardians filled the room like white blood cells to purge a germ from the body they protected.

Argon couldn't stop the grin from splitting his face as he reached into his bottomless box with his thoughts and withdrew a tall silver spear that materialised into his right hand as he made a fist. A small kite shield formed into his left as he paced toward the guardians that had drawn their daggers and pulled their arms back to hurl knives as his person. He was looking forward to another fight against the alabaster-clad guardians. After their last bout, dodging his almost lightning-fast strikes and parrying his thrusts like it was nothing was entertaining to the undead. Now he would be able to fight worthy opponents.

"You can thank my later then, mi 'lady. Right now, I'm in the mood for a proper battle."

Priscilla could only stare at the tiny man that had not only gifted her with an item from her childhood, but also helped her leave that horrid world of endless Winter and insane hollows imprisoned in the same cage as her. If she had had to think about the Painting Lord Gwyn had sealed her into, it would have been no different from the likes of the Undead Asylum. It was almost like living in a dream when she had opened her eyes after technically falling to her death, only to be greeted by the sun's warmth and the cool ivory tiles of Anor Londo, her true home.

Her eyes travelled to his retreating form, armour still torn and ripped from his encounters in the Painted World, as he prepared to face the painting guardians before them. She had tried to stand up and assist him after his statement to her, but her legs couldn't lift her, and her voice didn't listen. The shock of actually escaping the Painted World had made her body unresponsive. She could only watch as he fought.

His strides were quite long for a human, long and confident that made loud thumps under his boots as he walked forth. She gazed intently as his right thigh tensed before he leaned sideways, thrusting that intricately decorated spear at the chest of a guardian. The blade shimmered as it sped forward, breaking the guardians parry and piercing his shoulder.

Enchanted. Thou wieldeth a Silver Knight's weapon.

The guardians burst into action immediately after first blood was drawn, strafing Argon and drawing small buckler's, forming a semicircle around him and slowly attempting to box him in. He saw through their plan as he jerked the spear downwards, ripping the guardian's chest cavity open like paper before wrenching it out with a wet squelch and two-handing the shaft, dropping his shield to the ground.

Two of the guardians rushed in, slashing diagonally in unison to create an X-shaped gash in Argon's spine but were sent crashing into their comrade's shield as the undead swept the spear against their legs. He arched the spearhead around him gracefully before slamming it against a nearby guardians shield that made him stumble, and Argon pressed his advantage by snapping the shaft into the foe's belly.

The guardian made a sound as breath escaped him and the undead slashed diagonally, splitting the guardian's in two apart before twirling the spear around and stabbing another in the throat, sending a shower of red around the entrance of the hall.

Priscilla's eyebrow quirked upwards for a moment. He was good.

A guardian rolled forward passed the spearhead's swing and deftly delivered a double slash of his curved dagger against Argon's flank. The first strike was blocked by the undead, but he wasn't fast enough to dodge the second that sliced across his calf as he rolled sideways. If the cut was deep, it didn't seem to faze him as he charged another of the painting guardian's that twirled on the spot, building momentum as he brought his daggers though the air at Argon. The undead saw it coming however and jumped back at the last moment. The twin blades cut nothing, but air and Argon twisted the spear around him as his momentum carried it across the guardian's chest, forcing him back a step. Argon lashed out with a slash in the opposite direction that cut the guardian's right arm, severing the tendons and making him gasp before the undead twirled his spear a final time and opened a red slit under the guardian's chin. He gurgled blood and died before his head hit the floor.

Argon turned to face the remaining three painting guardians, his porcelain mask splashed with blood. The guardians observed him quietly and strafed him from a safer distance outside the range of his spear. The closest one hurled a throwing knife at him which he dodged, skipping to the left as the second guardian ran and lunged at him with dagger's raised. The undead let him come and lifted his spear almost lazily, watching as the spearhead and prongs bit into the guarding, impaling him airborne. The other two decided to press their opportunity and rush forward.

Argon grunted under the weight of the impaled corpse and opted to fling it from his spear, the body sailing through the air like a ragdoll before crashing into the two guardians and they fell with a crash. Argon chuckled behind his mask, lit a black firebomb and tossed it at the tangled guardians, watching as they caught alit and screamed. The flames burnt them to a crisp.

He let his shoulder's sag a bit as he swung the shaft, flicking blood off the spearhead and prongs as it gleamed wickedly in the sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows.

Priscilla blinked as he retrieved his shield and hung the spear on his back, turning to her, attitude indifferent as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"That was fun." He stated to her and sighed in mild ecstasy as a multitude of soul's darted into his body, the sound they made like whirling wind being sucked into a vortex.

She grasped her scythe and stood, fur and skin glowing in the sunlight as she padded towards his smaller form, manoeuvring around the blood on the floor around him.

"Thou fighteth as though a beast hath consumed thy soul."

"It's hard not to when the world is trying to kill you."

"Perhaps, but thou findeth much pleasure in the sight of thine fallen enemies." Priscilla responded as she gestured around the expansive hall, "tis not chivalrous of a warrior like thine self…"

He raised a gloved hand to smooth out the ruffled strands of his dark hair as he thought. A moment passed before he nodded and raised his masked face to look at her. She couldn't see his eye's through the double-slitted eyeholes carved into the mask, try as she might.

"Then it's a shame I'm not a knight or even close to a warrior," Argon replied still staring at her pale features, "perhaps then chivalry would have applied to me the same way it did to these guardian's."

"But if thou art not knighted nor of warrior status, then what art thou?" She pressed, her eye's narrowing in mild confusion and irritation. This undead was ambiguous in his speech, illiterate as it may be, "and what of thine spells? How can'st an ordinary undead manipulate the light to an illusion almost as precise as mine own, and what would'st thou answer to the enchanted jewellery in which thou hath pocketed upon entering my chamber? Truly, what art thou if not one of warrior or knight?"

Argon crossed his arms and stared simply at the cross breed. Head tilting to the side and dark hair hanging like a torn curtain against the side of his head.

"I am simply undead. Nothing more, mi 'lady."

Before she could retort further, the sound of many pairs of feet rumbled along the entrance catwalk and the two glanced at a nearby doorway as more painting guardians entered, armed and waiting. Argon immediately drew his Knight Spear and took a stance.

"More guardians to pique my interest," he said adding a deepness to his voice Priscilla had never heard before, "how interesting."

The painting guardians regarded him before glancing at the taller of the two. From their ranks, a guardian gasped in shock, stepping back and whispering out from under his hood:

"Lady Priscilla! How can this be?"

"Balderdash," another said from his side. His hood held silver piping across the visor that marked him as Commander, "the Lady Priscilla was taken many years ago. Here stands an imposter, slay her!"

There was a slight hesitation from some of the guardians, their visored gazes flitting from their commander to the cross breed. Argon turned to gaze at her, the cogs in his mind turning as he watched the interaction take place.

"Why do you just stand their soldier? Erase the imposter from my sight, or have you all forgotten your purpose?" The Commander leered at his subordinate's before shoving a stationary guardian back and drawing his curved dagger.

"Thou art wrong, loyal garrison," Priscilla spoke softly, catching the Commander's attention. "I am the Crossbreed Priscilla, Princess of Anor Londo."

"As I said, impossible. The Lady Priscilla could control the wind around her and freeze the rain with her very breath. If you were she, can you prove your abilities?"

The goddess said nothing, instead raising a pale hand that shifted the air around her. With a twitch if her finger, the air became a swirling blizzard that nipped at the guardian's clothes and frosted his breath. She cut off her magic and the room returned to normal temperature.

"But h-how?" Sputtered the Commander, his subordinate's acting no differently. "We were told you had been taken away from this land, far away."

"Tis the truth, but nay, not far away. Imprisoned in the Painting of Ariamis of which thou and thy ilk protect."

"I-Impossible! My Lord had given us orders to protect the Painting from thieves and-"

"Then the Lord Gwyn hath failed to explain the true importance of thine painting. The hands of Ariamis twas always used to twist the innocence of simple objects, as was his visage of art."

The Commander stuttered again before kneeling, immediately followed by his ivory-clad subordinate's. "Forgive us, we knew not of your Highness's imprisonment. Surely, we would have rushed to your aid immedi-"

"Do not bother with the past, brave guardian," she cut him off gently, smiling that sad smile of her's again, "thou should not have to worry thyself over an abomination."

"Mi'lad-"

"Please, let me leave this place, I hath business to attend to."

The Commander said nothing for a minute until uttering a "Mi'lady", and the ranks of guardians parted as she strode passed them and onto the catwalk outside. As Argon began to follow, the Commander turned his head to him and gazed at the many bodies of his subordinate's that littered the floor before raising his hand to point at the undead.

"Seize that undead!"

The other guardians moved swiftly and surrounded him, four blades pressed against his neck before he could react. One wrong move and he'd resemble a Dullahan. He sighed dispassionately and dropped his spear to the ground where it clattered uselessly against the white tiles.

"Leave him be!" Priscilla bellowed, her voice raising an octave that rattled the sturdy glass above them. The guardians positioned with their blades at his throat hesitated before removing their curved daggers and stepping aside. Argon coolly flicked the spear back up with the tip of his boot and caught it in his grasp, and turned to stare at the Commander who faltered, hands pointing at the blood and bodies on the floor.

"But, Mi'lady, this undead has slaughtered many of our brethren. He cannot be allowed to live!"

"Twas he that rescued me from the Painted World," the cross breed replied calmly as her eye's flickered to Argon, "please forgive him for his actions."

"I... I see," the Commander murmured, "as your Highness wishes." At his signal, the other guardians cleared the way for Argon, some leaving their ranks to neatly lay their fallen comrades along the wall whilst others collected their fallen weapons. They worked like a well-oiled machine as the remaining guardians stood with heads bent to him, hands still gripping at their blades in the case Argon were to pose a threat.

The undead bore them no ill-will, they were just there when he happened to approach the Painting. It didn't matter how many times they had stabbed, cut and sometimes made him bleed almost to death; they had just been doing their duty to protect the Painting at all costs. With a sigh, Argon turned to the Commander and raised a hand to chest level.

"Sorry about all this," he started, and the Commander hesitated for a moment before he shook the undead's hand, "they didn't go easily, however, if its interest's you. You guardians are very… formidable." Priscilla flinched as he took that tone again. It went unnoticed to Argon.

The Commander simply nodded but shook his hand a little firmer, before letting go and watching as Argon joined the goddess's side and disappearing as they ascended the spiral platform.

The sun shone upon the Shining City and painted the arch beams bronze as the bright, but warm light made Anor Londo glow in its splendour. Priscilla truly enjoyed the fresh breeze on her face as the warm sunlight melted the coldness from her shoulder's.

"What dost thou seeketh now, Sir Argon?"

"Just call me Argon. I haven't been knighted to be addressed as such."

He was indifferent once again. It frustrated the cross breed to no end. He had appeared to her and treated her with kindness and humour not long ago before they had left her prison and now he acted as if she was nothing more than some unneeded annoyance. Furthermore, what was with his need to degrade himself? It was infuriating to say the least.

"Why dost thou speak ill of thyself?"

"Why do you speak like every other god here? It's odd."

She frowned, "Tis the speech of all beings, human and god. Tis thee that speaketh odd."

"Old-speak is a language not used for many centuries, Princess."

She peered at him through those slits for eyeholes trying to figure him out but failing. He was just too ambiguous, even if his words did ring true with her. The depth of language she spoke was almost ancient compared to the way the Commander of the painting guardians had addressed her. Maybe she should try to speak a tad more modern like her human saviour. It might be possible that others out there in the world were too dense to understand the proper way in which she spoke, should she had conversed with them. It was a wise decision to adapt at this point. With a sigh, she twirled her scythe and followed him as he began to walk towards a spiralling lift.

"Very well, I shall attempt to speaketh like tho- I mean, speak like you do...eth."

"You'll get there in time." He replied, not turning back as he walked inside the spiralled chamber, climbing up a long set or ornate marble steps and waited patiently at a large open space with a hole in the centre of the platform. Priscilla caught up and stood beside him, about to question why they were waiting when she noticed the tall, spiral-shaped iron pillar rotate in front of them for a while before a large ringed dais fitted snugly into the gap in the platform. The cross breed quickly followed him onto it as it lifted them up a deep tunnel, also carved from gleaming white marble.

They stood in silence, Priscilla watching him stand slightly hunched as he lifted a small black sprite in his hands, gazing at it intently for a moment before crushing it in his fist. The sprite burst into a splash of blackness that shot into his body with a hollow sound of deep voices groaning.

She didn't question it as the dais stopped at a large domed platform that spat them out onto clean cobblestoned ground that forked into three directions. Argon wasted no time in striding toward the middle pathway also covered in an entrance of white marble and she followed quietly behind, taking in the beauty of her hometown and enjoying the newfound freedom she had acquired. A smile broke out onto her face as she felt the cool air play with her hair and tug at her gown playfully.

Toward the right and left sides of the forked pathway, she noted the presence of sentinel's clad in shining armour. Priscilla tensed and glanced to Argon. He either didn't notice the giant figures taller than her or didn't seem to care as he started to pick up his pace towards the stairwell that appeared at the entrance to the middle path. He was slightly limping as he walked, and her sharp ears could pick up the almost inaudible pants he let out as they descended the stairs.

She had to hunch over as she entered and noticed how the light inside glowed orange from somewhere deeper in that bounced off the walls, creating a sense of warmth as she descended behind Argon's ragged form. She saw him leap over the last five steps, land with a loud grunt and rush forward. She hurried after him and saw a bonfire lit in the centre of square, marble room; the flames that expelled from the ashes and bones below raising to the ceiling and curling like hot finger's around the coiled blade that rested at its epicentre.

Priscilla caught movement to her right and turned to see a brass-armoured figure leaning against the wall that turned its head as they entered.

"You've returned, I see." The voice was feminine and neutral. She seemed to recognised Argon immediately. The brass-clad woman then regarded Priscilla for a moment, visor raising up and down as she examined the cross breed. "And you've brought company to my bonfire."

A Fire Keeper then.

Argon ignored her. He rushed to the burning flames and grabbed the hilt of the coiled blade, the flames bursting out around him as he fell to his knees, his other hand reaching down, lifting a handful of flames from the base carefully and squeezing his gloved hand into a fist as an ethereal glow began to surround him.

The cross breed stared out in awe as the flames enveloped him but didn't burn him. Instead, it appeared as if the flames were healing him, renewing him almost. He sighed in relief as his shoulder's seemed to grow slightly. The skin that showed from the rips across his back changed from a dull purple scab into fairer skin, almost as pale as her own.

"You haven't rested for a period of time after hollowing, have you?" The Keeper questioned that sounded more like a statement and Argon made a sound at the back of his throat before reclining on his haunches, nodding at Priscilla to sit. She complied immediately.

"The bonfire I returned to didn't allow me to warp back here," he began, a lot more life in his voice as he spoke, "what's more, I couldn't restore my humanity there. It was a twisted world in its own right."

The Keeper 'hmm-ed'.

"The Painted World is a most vile world indeed."

"Wait, you knew about it?"

"Of course. A Keeper of the Bonfire must know all things within her given domain."

"I'm guessing you wouldn't have told me even if I did ask?"

The Keeper said nothing. Argon sighed again.

"Well, let me introduce you at least", he raised a hand to the cross-breed goddess as he spoke, "this is Priscilla. Princess of Anor Londo. I found her imprisoned in the Painted World."

He looked at Priscilla, the bonfire casting shadows across the white porcelain of his mask. For a split-second she thought she imagined an orange glow behind those slits in his mask. Argon pointed at the Keeper.

"Princess, this is the Fire Keeper of Anor Londo."

Priscilla turned to the Keeper and gave a small smile.

"Tis a pleasure to meet thy."

The Keeper merely pushed off from the wall, stood upright, and bowed before returning her posture to being apart of the wall again.

She heard Argon sigh again and the cross breed turned her head to him. His arms were folded, and he stated at her though his mask.

"Still with that old-speak, huh?"

Her cheeks dusted red that went unnoticed by the undead due to the light cast off from the bonfire that tanned her skin and she replied shyly, not used to the sudden cheeriness he now possessed.

"My apologies Si- Argon. I will try to adapt to this era's modern colloquial."

"That's all I ask." He mumbled and turned to the stairs, noticing the light from the sun dropping down into the horizon. "It'll be dark soon. The Princess requires refuge. I was thinking she could stay here for a while before I continue my journey?"

It was obvious that he was talking to the Keeper. The brass-armoured woman in reply simply shrugged and spoke to the cross breed.

"If you require rest, now is the time. That is what the Bonfire is for."

Argon snorted behind his mask, obviously humoured by her reply before the Keeper strode toward the base of the stairwell. "I have a task to do anyways." She said and left them, her clinking armour growing fainter and fainter until it was replaced by the whistling wind and crackle of the bonfire.

The events after the Keeper's departure were brief at best. The cross breed had said she wanted to watch the sun set and Argon had waved her off, stating he needed to mend his armour and weapons as well as manage his souls for reinforcement - whatever that had meant.

The sky had erupted into an array of different blues, reds and yellows as the sun slowly dipped into the ground as the bright moon rose to take its place, bathing the Shining City in silver moonlight. The cross breed admired how much more beautiful the moon looked here as opposed to in that hellish world but missed the glorious rays of the morning sun that warmed her soul and eased her mind.

After the last flicker of bright light had faded from view and the breeze had turned cooler, the goddess had returned to the safe haven, bare feet slapping against the cool marble as she descended to a warmer area. As she reached the last step and looked out at the room around the bonfire, her eyes caught the sight of Argon as he began to replace that porcelain mask of his.

His skin was pale, almost blue in complexion. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a square jaw that didn't have a trace of stubble. There were deep lines carved into next to the bridge of his nose and there were light rings under his eyes. He had an ordinary nose that fit well with his pink lips, straight and narrow. His brows were as dark as his hair. What took her by surprise though were his irises. Deep amber orbs reflected against the flames as he pressed his mask against his face, securing the clips along the side and adjusting it slightly so that he could see through those slits he had for eyeholes.

It took him awhile before he noticed her and called her over to sit. She turned her gaze to a large bed roll, twice the size of his, neatly set against the opposite wall. She thanked him before settling into the roll, propping her scythe against the wall.

"I've been meaning to apologise to you." He said, and she gazed at him. She noticed the gashes in his leather armour were mended now, and the small nicks his Silver Knight Spear possessed had all but vanished from sight, as if it were forged anew.

"Oh, you have?"

"Yes," he replied, sighing softly as he rested his back against the wall, watching the flickering flames of the bonfire, "back at the Painted World I was cheerful, exuberant."

Priscilla nodded.

"I was still half-hollow back then. My darksign had triggered the undead side of me after dying so many times without being able to revitalize myself with a shard of humanity." He gestured to a small black sprite in his hand that writhed like a lit candle in his palm. He crushed it like he did the other and his body absorbed it before he continued.

"When I met you, an actual living, responsive being other than myself, the side of me that was alive triggered again."

"You mean to say that the reason for thy- for your coldness in the Painting Hall was due to the influence of the darksign tainting your sanity?"

Argon nodded vigorously, "I wouldn't have lost my sanity if I hadn't rested at this bonfire, but my mind was losing the memories of my former self. During the time we left the Painted World and up to the point where we met the Commander of the painting guardians, memories of a slightly… darker time resurfaced." He said, gaze never leaving the flames in the centre of the room.

"And that was the reason for the ill words spoken against your person?" She enquired, eye's glinting as she stared intently at the chosen undead.

"A darker version of me, yes. A side that favoured aggressiveness over all else." He muttered to her and raised his head, facing her.

"The curse of the Darksign is unlike any other. It can warp one's mind beyond insanity, and as such, it's a good thing undead like myself are locked away in that Asylum in the North."

"Surely not as horrible as being a cross breed, I assure you."

"Having a scaleless dragon for a father is a tough break, I must agree with you."

Her eye's widened at his reply.

"H-How? Whence did thou find out?"

The chosen undead merely chuckled behind his mask. "Still stuck with that old-speak, I see." He got up and walked to his bed roll, easing himself into it and turning to face the wall.

"Get some rest, Princess. We can talk more in the morrow."

"Priscilla." She replied softly.

"My apologies, what was that?" He tilted his head an inch in her direction.

"Please refer to me as Priscilla."

"Priscilla," he mimed, rolling the word around in his mouth slowly.

"As you wish," he said, not turning back.

"Priscilla it is."

I must say, I'm really enjoying how this is turning out. At first, I just wanted to make a simple one-shot of it but looking back at the title and how the first chapter ended, I figured I just couldn't do that to all of you.

I meant for this chapter to go a tad further, with Argon taking Priscilla back to the illusion of Gwynevere before I ended it, but… it just didn't happen.

For those of you wondering, our MC will have a partner in his undead mission now (however, I'm not sticking to the Canon version. Otherwise what's the point of this being a Fanfiction).

Please R , I'd love to hear your thoughts, question's, and flames - although I also accept praise… I'm not entirely masochistic. (*awkward laugh)

Thank you for reading. Merry Christmas and have a great New Year!