Heyo, fam. Hope you're all doing well and staying peachy out there. I just wanted to say sorry for not posting this sooner. The recent rioting, looting, shooting and general racketeering in my area hasn't left me with the best inspiration to write from. Anyways, on with ze story.

Priscilla sat beside Havel as she watched the Channeller's in front of them form a line and raise their tridents to the unending bookshelves beyond. First, a brief clattering of armour and scientific trinkets disturbed the peace drifting about the air. And then, the multitude of voices that blended into one, before a shanty of throatiness rang out like old men from a distant voyage; the notes aged and savoury in flavour.

Seath's subordinates had been tediously conducting this choir for well over three hours now, and whilst the Archbishop to her left openly voiced how the constant sound seemed to grate against his nerves, he couldn't find it in himself to tell them to stop. The crossbreed didn't blame him, she too found this strange ritual captivating, the repetitive melody growing on her as it lulled away her surprise and invited her curiosity in to share in the warm expressions, like a strong cup of exotic tea.

They were rebuilding the wards she and her comrades had destroyed a few days prior. According to Gregory – and further translated by Argon – the hymn sung by the Channeller's was a method of both attack and defence. When they had first breached the Archive walls and ascended the main shaft that led to the ancient study, Seath had not seen it fit to decorate the corridors or entryways with any defensive magic – most likely due to the thought that since none had bothered to brave his hallowed halls after Gwyn's fall, there would be even less of a possibility in the decades to come. The Duke hadn't been wrong in that assumption, either. It had been over seven full centuries since anyone had entered the Archive's, from what the data collected by other scholars of the castle said. Even so, she would have thought that her father, who was far more paranoid than a chef with an obsessive, compulsive disorder, would have had the foresight to at least install countermeasures for incidents that seemed increasingly less than likely.

In any case, after the paledrake had managed to recuperate at a startlingly faster rate than any of them had, his first set of new directives had been for the Channeller's to fortify the halls and bind the doorways and lifts with scrying magic. Subsequently, he had elected a quartet of mages to handle daily traffic of those that came and went from the manor. So as not to repeat his near-death experience, Seath had also chosen to begin replicating more than one of the Primordial Crystal's he was so fond of, in addition to studying ways to halt the spread of the curse afflicting sixty percent of his crystalline flesh.

All in all, Priscilla was happy about the turn of events. Although slightly (majorly) altered in terms of the method, they had managed to change the wicked transgressions of her wayward parent. What had taken her a lifetime to gently sway had taken her beloved a mere day to beat into his albino cranium. Had she been a jealous woman, she would have felt inferior at the comparison. However, that was gladly not the case. She was simply happy, remember? Ecstatic, that the father she loved had been calmed down by the man she adored. And whilst things had seemed bumpy along many ridges, meanders and dips in the winding pathway to peace, they had finally reached it. How could she not exude joy through her pores at the sight of the only main family member she had looking this… composed in what felt like eons.

She raised a had to stifle a chuckle.

It probably had been eons. Now that she thought about it, it sounded insanely silly to her; that all her reclusively insane father needed was a good knock to the noggin to clear away all the bad clouds swirling within that wonderful brain of his.

"And what's got you so dandy?" a familiarly decadent voice called to her and Priscilla swung her head in time with Havel's to peer at the undead she had just been thinking about, a nostalgic set of tight leather wrapping his toned body snug. Instantly, her permanent smirk grew into a sweet smile as her heart began to beat faster.

And there he was. Calculating eyes glinting pleasantly, with that dapper grin plastered onto his mouth. His long hair fanned out around him as the wind blew by, and she couldn't help but notice how long his dark lashes were as he closed one eye.

"That aggravating drawl the dragon's tongue-tied twits keep repeating." Havel spoke gruffly as he rose from his chair and picked up his great shield resting against the adjacent wall. "The detestable magic in that prayer seems to force those nearby into a state of complacency. Whilst she seems pleased by that guttural grumbling, I'd be far more satisfied in drawing away from it." the displeasure on the bishop's expression was clear, though one would swear there was but a hint of fondness in his normally insulting speech.

"I actually don't think it's the magic that makes the sound that endearing, really." Argon replied as he looked toward the marching line of Channeller's. Havel raised a furry eyebrow in reply, shoving his pinkie into his ear.

"And what makes you say that?"

"Listen closely to the melody. As foreign as it may be, you can hear more than just an uttering of an incantation. If you look for it, you can almost hear what feels like a song of reverence."

The older undead squinted at the mages waving their tridents in the air pointlessly, wisps of cerulean energy gathering around them and flooding the chamber in magical streams. "What would they be worshipping, exactly? I thought followers of Seath were all agnostics."

"Perhaps not venerating a deity then," Argon reiterated with a shrug, "but respecting their fallen comrades."

At this, Havel turned to fully face the Chosen Undead, steely gaze observing the appreciative look in his compatriot's eyes. "Well, we did chip away at their numbers significantly." the seasoned undead offered, and Argon scoffed loudly, a grin lighting up his features.

"Obviously not enough to cause them any concern, but it's nice to know they cared for their dead. You don't find many beings like that anymore."

Priscilla blinked, her eyes sliding back to him as he sighed out softly. It wasn't a curiosity that he held such acts of brotherhood in such high esteem. It was more of a habit of hers to carefully observe him when he was in moods like this one. True, he didn't hide himself from her anymore, and he was growing to be more forthcoming with his words – his detailed and partially confounding explanation of how he cheated in their games of Go-Fish was a prime example – but when it came to the short, silent moments where he would keep his words to himself, that was when she found herself truly wanting of his elaboration.

"Hnggh," the Archbishop snorted before stepping into the undeads personal bubble, "what's with this sudden rush of compassion, eh? And when did you suddenly become a lyricist in your spare time lounging around shirtless and playing fixed games of chance?"

"Pfft, the only thing that's gotten soft is your potbelly, old man." Argon countered flawlessly and ran a finger under his nose before looking up at the bearded man. "Besides, I know more about music than your dusty psalmody could barely fathom."

"That a fact, boy?" Havel took a step closer to the Chosen Undead. He looked determined to prove a point.

"Better. It's a promise, old man." Argon retorted and took two steps toward the ex-compatriot of Gwyn. The bishop allowed the corner of his lips to quirk into a salt and pepper smile.

"Okay then. Name me a tune, anyone you'd like."

"Ever heard of Dance Monkey?" Argon quipped, earning him a frown.

"That's a made-up title."

Argon shook his head slowly. "it's pretty famous in a far-off country, actually. One supposedly more advanced than Lordran itself."

"Firstly," Havel lifted his index finger, "it doesn't count if you name a song from a domain that I barely know about, and secondly," he lifted his middle finger before jabbing both digits into Argon's chest. " Every kingdom is now leaps and bounds more modernised than Lordran. This rock had been inactive for who knows how many millennia."

"Well, I do agree with point two." The monochrome undead nodded in agreement before staring at his father figure, "but don't try to blur me from the main topic. You said name any song and I did. It's not my fault you were stuck half hollow at the base of a tower for more than half your sorry life."

"Oh, you just had to go there, now didn't you." Havel grumbled, a tick mark forming on his clean scalp. "I'll have you know that just because I'm nearing the better part of the next revolution…"

The crossbreed stared on as the two of them argued. It was commonplace at this point, and she would possibly need to step in soon before things became more heated, but for the life of her, she could help but smile cheerfully at the sight.

Really, she felt warm inside as she stared at them. Havel, the dutiful rock – both figuratively and literally – of their trio, who had acted as mediator, mentor, adult, caretaker and the father figure to both of them since his revival from near hollowness. And then there was Argon…

She smiled wider and cupped her cheeks as they grew flushed at the thought of him. So much had occurred since his visit to her painted otherworld. And after more than a few close calls, he was right beside her, awakening all the beautiful emotions and facets of herself she hadn't known existed within her unknowingly small frame.

She had been scared not long ago. Terrified, in fact. The sight of him, half possessed by a defeated creation of pure dark, had made her worries fly to the surface of the crystal cave she had been imprisoned in, only to shoot into the bright sky and explode into a shower of a million pleas for him to return to her. Indeed, he had saved not only her, but her father as well, but when it came to the cost of his own self, she had to question whether she was just being selfish in her age-old wishes of peace.

But then, realisation had struck her like common sense dished out onto a silver platter. He had only been risking so much for her because he cared that deeply. And whether someone redirected it to the fact that his hold on his sanity was waning or not, she would proudly proclaim otherwise. That was one of the reasons she had fought so hard to bring him back to her.

They had not promised themselves to one another. Heck, she hadn't even confessed that she loved him yet, and even so, that silent agreement only they knew existed had spread its premature wings and allowed what was unsaid between them to flourish. A voiceless, yet amazingly loud creature, this shared bond was. One that promised they would be there for each other, should one of them face a devastating fall into the unknown. And oh, how they had acted on such an unbreakable vow.

The corners of Priscilla's eyes crinkled in delight as she giggled.

Yes, they were closer now than ever before. Thanks to that former brush with death, they had solidified what had previously been nothing but subtle, suggestive what-ifs and maybes. Of course, that didn't mean it had been entirely pleasant. After all, the memory of him out for more than just blood, intoxicated by mindless fumes of murder and a lack of humanity, still made her shiver slightly, but she was not afraid of it happening again. And the last resort she had made to return his senses by mercilessly wounding and killing him had not been an experience she was fond of, but even so, she knew that he didn't hold it against her – and quite frankly neither did she.

Their relationship was one befuddled by magic, misery, mystery, tragedy and complete deformity, after all. They were both bruised fruit upon a perfect tree that demanded uniformity. It was only natural that they would fall from their respective branches to strike the cracked ground below and merge in the tangle of thick, twisted roots formed by fate or any other unjust system of universal law. Nevertheless, they had made sure to stick together. Those seeking the pure, unblemished surfaces of attractive pods had reached out greedy, manicured hands to grasp at those still tethered to a biased world, and were washed in disappointment by the bitter taste of the deceiving skins surrounding the so-called perfect jewels hanging on the tree. Whilst those who were wise, humbled and knowledgeable had bent over on sore spines to reach out their weathered fingers and pick up those fruits, that had been damaged by the gravity of their world and the monsters living in the soil below. Those small few had found the sweetest of nectars and had forever cherished the memory of such a simple boon.

Priscilla gazed tenderly at the Abyss covering Argon's right side. Whilst he had managed to somehow circumvent the spread of that atrocious scourge, it had still left him disfigured. Even now as he argued with Sir Havel, the uncountable conglomerate of black veins cross-crossing his face was like a deep scar on the surface of a pristine countertop, and his violet eye almost always reminded her of the terrors he had seen not only in Lordran, but during his time as a human – yes, she had wept bitterly when he had told her of his childhood, but had not retracted from the tight hold she kept around his bare torso. For even scarred, deformed and mangled, she promised to love him dearly; until the end of time itself…

She shook her head. The spread of the Abyss was nothing but a small inconvenience. She knew they would find a way to help him be rid of it. Just like she knew there was a time when they would be even happier together, with all their friends and family alive and by their side. After all, if this unforgiving land had not taken them away when the worst had already come to pass, it just meant that they were meant to live out the end of days and breathe in the sweet aroma of many years soon to come.

She stood from her chair and swiftly pushed it into place before a nearby table. Turning on her heel, she merrily skipped toward her pair of lovable undead, ending their petty confrontation by draping an arm around each of their shoulders and speaking in clear, concise words that only exuded how blissfully enthusiastic she was feeling today.

"Perhaps moving things along and actually seeing these countries Argon makes us drool over would be better than heatedly discussing them, don't you think so?"

Both undead stopped and turned to stare at her radiant face that almost looked to be glowing like her mother's. The they looked at one another, not a word shared but definitely a singular thought echoed between both minds, old and young.

Her logic was razor sharp.

Havel shook his head and huffed. Argon smiled sheepishly and chuckled. And Priscilla beamed in joy as she squeezed them both tighter. She wouldn't trade moments like these for the world.

The quiet in the Great Hall was like the rolling hills of an untouched settlement, the wind pleasantly howling to the deaf blades of grass below. The air was its usual crispness, a perfect harmony between warm and cool that barely formed sweat on a labourer's brow. In any normal instance, one would find it pertinent to utilise the brilliance of the day by diving headfirst into the activities of the outdoors, or smother themselves deeply in the rich Bibliosmia of well-kept books, whilst under the shade of an oak tree.

However, some found conditions like this to be more fitting for deep venturing's of the mind. And who was anyone to judge, really? Were perfect days like this also not proper for intense studies of the past? If so, then why did the thought of thinking making his head grow ever fuzzier with unease?

Gwyndolin sighed out as he thought. Perhaps the problem was that he had spent too much time thinking. In addition to the weather conditions almost always being as perfect as today, if not better, maybe the cause of his distress was in the fact that he had remained idle for this long in a single spot.

Then again, he usually spent most of his time sitting in solitude anyways, it was one of the reasons the Darkmoon Tomb was obscured by an illusion and an insert of silvery fog. Even before everything that had occurred in recent events, the god had served his days just like this doing naught but thinking, and his nights spent in restless sleep – his mind ablaze with even more opinions he preferred not to dwell on.

Oh, but then… he had not been idly staring into space for these past few weeks, now had he? No… he had been actively extending his range of sight around the kingdom. Sending out his Blades' to recover information, the batwing demon illusions to act as his mobile scries. In recent days, his mind and body had been most active doing something other than dwelling on past events; just take his tussle with the Chosen Undead, for instance. That had been quite the exercise. He still had a few healing abrasions on his skin to prove it.

He blew out air from his nose in irritation. Was it that he was suddenly lonely? How absurd. A god that craved company, how despicable!

However…

Gwyndolin turned to stare at the snakes that served as his feet. That short encounter with his niece and his champion, not to mention his father's comrade, had been the most engaging action he had undertaken in quite a while. The memory of him bitterly describing his gross mistakes and Lordran's fall aside, the movement of talking with someone other than himself had been… energising, to say the least.

He knew he could have just simply spoken to any member of his covenant if what he craved was attention but… that idea hadn't sat well with him. How would his dutiful Blades react if he suddenly called them to order, only to begin hypothesising the avenues Argon and his party would take? It was plainly ridiculous, that's what it was! Perhaps his knightess would have found it natural coming from him. For some reason, that woman knew more about the maelstrom of internal conflict within him better than himself. Even so, he didn't wish to trouble her. And this was not the time to begin pleasing his own selfish desires, however innocent they were.

The god focused on his magic as a distraction. He closed his eyes, summoned that raging pool within his core and caused the waters to stir. After a few moments, a brief flicker of light flashed about the castle, and Gwyndolin tensed as he tried to maintain the paper-thin ward he had put up – only to suddenly exhale loudly and hunch over. The translucent barrier let out an audible crack, like the sound of glass being stepped on before the solidified magic shattered around him.

He had yet to recover fully from his last battle, it was plain as day. Whilst his physical wounds had all but healed, his magical reserves were less than half of what he normally possessed. A truly feeble display of the greatest magic user in all the world.

At first, it had taken him time to slowly reconstruct the broken interior of the castle, and he had been forced to dispel the various illusionary sentries he had set up. But after a few hours, his control had grown, and he had been able to divert his attention to multiple variables as he did on a daily basis. The re-establishment of the various wards, however, was a different matter.

Repurposing his magic to repair buildings and create non-existent guards required little use of enchantment and leaned heavily on his imagination and focus. Erecting barriers to repel enemy forces and subvert invasions, on the other hand, required a healthy amount of his near-bottomless reserves.

He was protecting the entire city of Anor Londo, after all. And the continuous cycle of day and night contributed to the cap on his maximum output. But nevertheless, he was still fit for the majority of his other duties. If it came down to it, he still possessed enough power to repel an entire army if need b-

Gwyndolin stiffened as someone entered his radar. Now this was a surprise. The signature was entirely foreign to him.

"Who dares disturb the Dark Sun?" his voice flowed out in a wave of authority as he shifted his visor to peer at the entrance of the Tomb. What greeted his sight next caused an odd rush of exhilaration to fly through his veins.

" Wraiths," he hissed at the group of mindless husks casually walking through his fog wall, white skulls gleaming against the sunshine. Gwyndolin rose as his snakes snapped in anticipation. To say that he wasn't expecting some form of interference would be a complete lie. "Come then. Demonstrate to me the might of a repulsive hive. Run into the arms of thine unmaking."

The soldier ants of the Abyss didn't waste any time with talk. perhaps they were all too dead to respond, or maybe they were trained to remain silent in battle. Either way, Gwyndolin didn't care. They were sullying his halls with their filthy presence.

His bow appeared into the palm of his hand without so much as a thought. The sleek Moonlight arrows rubbed against the side of the elegantly crafted metal and wood before his fingers registered pulling back the drawstring. At once, the first three Darkwraiths crowding the unending corridor dropped dead on the floor, pin-cushioned with arrows before anyone could so much as twitch.

Still, the rest of them surged forward. Whether out of duty or blind devotion to their master, he couldn't comprehend. All he saw was red.

Two more unsightly foes intercepted him and decided to divert his attention, one going low, the other using its companion as a ledge to leap high into the air, abnormal sword poised like a black fang. The god met both with equal ferocity. Whilst his snakes' bit and wrapped around the one attempting to impale his stomach, the Darkmoon Lord lowered his bow and flung his left arm outwards.

Golden darts, the length of his white forearm shot out from his billowing sleeves, sinking into the airborne wraith with pin-point accuracy before its body slammed against the far wall and stayed there. He looked down at the wraith struggling with his snakes and knocked another arrow against the shaft of his bow. Just like he had ended Argon, his arrow plunged straight through the being's forehead, scoring a symmetrical hole through the ivory mask it wore. Gwyndolin watched with indifferent eyes as the wraith dropped its sword, went limp and tumbled to the ground. Its blood formed a pitch-black lake his snakes refused to indulge in.

He looked up and exhaled calmly. There were still four more atrocities left.

He took aim and fired at the next wraith, who raised a clawed gauntlet quickly and tensed before a dark ripple of vile magic extended into a circle in front of its hand. His lightning quick arrows glinted in the sun as they impacted with the gross shield, only to rebound off. The god's eyes glinted behind his crown. It might have been a shield, but he distinctly heard the sound of flesh being pierced.

Very well then, he thought, it is time I too relinquish my reservations.

He slung his bow over a shoulder and held out his other hand, where a thin sceptre that glittered gold and silver rested within his fair fingers. The Darkwraiths acted in accordance, rushing him in their quartet as the stylised end of his catalyst formed an impressive glow of azure light. The Darkmoon god watched as they neared before sniffing in disdain and flicking his wrist.

A stream of a dozen fireball sized spheres travelled silently toward the incoming wave of wraiths, prompting them to raise those grotesque shields as they ran, but it hardly did any good. Especially when the god's magic could be remotely controlled.

A loud grunt echoed from one of the nearest wraiths as Gwyndolin's magic swerved under its dark veil to punch into the thick armour below. A hiss of melted metal and the stench of rotting flesh being burnt to a cinder returned to the god and he twirled his sceptre, a shroud of blue forming around the object as the other wraiths were met with similar fates.

One by one, they all fell to the floor, like lifeless puppets with their strings cut. Gwyndolin released the magic he had been constructing at the end of his sceptre and sighed out. "To think these foul drones of the underworld would begin their advance after Anor Londo had just disengaged its wards…" he looked at the wraith he had shot in the head and extended one of his snakes to wrap around the lifeless husk, bringing it to eye level. Another snake rose and bit the edge of the corpse's mask before tugging. There, behind the mask that so many feared, lay the face of an undead, the curse of the Lifedrain doing much to deplete his body's nutrients and strength. If Gwyndolin had to make a fair assessment, these vile creatures most likely had to use the twisted power they were given in order to survive as the destructive gift ate them from the inside out.

He breathed through his nose and dropped the corpse. What a poor testament to living. What sort of desperation required one to fall so far that they would rely on the very same power that threatened to devour both gods and men alike? He growled as he discovered the answer softly dancing like a black flame in the wraith's open palm.

Humanity.

Gwyndolin had observed and desired the very same currency from humankind long enough to also understand their frustrations. The Undead Curse was the cause of this depravity. When people had first started to become undead, it had grown alongside the great human kingdom's going to war with another over petty squabbles like land and resources. At each battlefield, with tens of thousands of soldiers slaughtered and mercilessly cut down, the First Flame had sparked as it resurrected those who's will overpowered the excuse of death, thus bringing about the need for Allfather Lloyd to begin his hunting of those on the verge of hollowing.

However, whilst the vast gap in information regarding the ritual to become undead had been lost to the wind, there were some humans that were unfairly turned. Farmers, handmaidens, children and even infants, had all been documented by Seath's dutiful mages when they turned undead. The unfortunate part was that they lacked the advantage of battle training like those turned warriors and soldiers. Those young maidens, mother's, daughters… how could they hope to fend for themselves when their parents and breadwinners had most likely already turned hollow?

That was where this pathetic covenant of Dark came in. For how else can the shadowed half of Man truly grow in nature, if not from the suffering of its ilk? Promises of infinite humanity, food and shelter, protection from the horrors that plague the land. That was probably the slogan used to corrupt those undead who couldn't hope to survive on their own, and as clueless as those poor souls were, they latched onto the false lifeline not aware of the severity of their situation.

It had been a question that gnawed against his better judgement from the time these beasts invaded. How could they have been felled so easily? And where was the oppressive terror they were known to exude, that all undead and even demons had learned to fear the sight of?

The answer was as plain as the robes on his person. These foes were not the true Darkwraith's. whilst they certainly attained the right to be classified as such, with their minds squashed to putty and their desperation stronger than any depraved hollow, they weren't of the initial scrouge that took the ancient lands by storm. No, these were merely the foot soldiers, scouts, pawns sent to test the waters. The real threat was yet to come. He could see it now.

"Even so, their march against the Shining City is unwarranted. For what purpose would a covenant of Dark choose to overwhelm an empty city… unless it was planned by minds saner than a sage." Gwyndolin mused, mulling over the details when another soul passed through his fog wall.

"My, my," spoke a voice tilting on sweet and malicious, yet incredibly raspy. "I would expect no less than a prompt deduction from the Lord of the Darkmoon. But even so, one has to wonder whether all that presumption is simply a trail leading to pure acatalepsy 1 . After all, when has the brooding lastborn of Gwyn ever been correct about anything pertaining to the things around him?"

Gwyndolin glared as a tall figure, dressed in Black Knight armour stepped out of the fog, clapping his gauntlets mockingly, a diabrotic 2 smile growing on his familiar features. The Darkmoon god clenched his jaw as his sceptre was flooded with magic. He would be loathe to forget the foe that had got the jump on him in a previous encounter. Of course, the fact that he possessed the exact same structure as his Chosen undead didn't help to ease his nerves. For one, he was quite aware of the capabilities of this particular wraith, whether he was a newcomer to their ranks or not. That said, it didn't mean he would keel over and wait for death to take him. He had just been reunited with his niece. His champion had shown him how to live for himself instead of walking in the shadows of his predecessors. And for the love of the Darkmoon, he was still the current monarch of the Great City of Sunlight. His father would be rolling on his back in the Kiln of the First Flame if he fell to the blade of this reprobate!

"Art thou the leader of this swarm against my land?" he asked menacingly, snakes snapping and hissing, eager to sink their fangs into the enemies of their master.

The Darkwraith grinned wider as he lowered his hands. Then, on either side of him, came flanks of wraiths. Not a few, or a couple, or a small dozen, but scores of them. They lined the entrance of the hallway like black ants scurrying over one another, red gleams staring back at him through angry skull-shaped masks. Gwyndolin snarled in reply. More of the lesser wraiths. This Argon look-alike was insulting him.

"Perhaps leader is too strong a word for my… position," the wraith scratched the side of his vein-riddled face, heterochromatic eyes looking down to a moment in thought. " Nevertheless, for the time being, that doesn't matter. What does, is the extinction of divinity."

Gwyndolin cracked a smile in response. He had heard this all before. And like before, he would readminister his judgement, rectify that which was unjust and remove that which polluted his homeland. He was the strongest magic user in the world, after all. Half weakened of his reserves didn't mean he was incompetent either. If he so wished, he could fight an entire war right now and win.

The god of the Darkmoon gripped his sceptre tighter as he levelled it at the cacophony of wraiths standing before him. The magic in his body jumping in excitement. He was going to enjoy this little tussle. And he had been complaining about being lonely? How fate made a way to ease his boredom.

"Come then, filth of the undergrowth. Discover how truly feeble your might avails against the personification of the Dark Sun. Stride confidently into oblivion."

Argon and company emerged from the Duke's Archives later than they had planned. After Havel had had a few words with the other Channeller's that partially spoke in the common tongue, Priscilla's return to her father's study to wish him a happy farewell and Argon's talk with a now stuttering Logan – which had involved more than one good shot to the melon in order to get him to snap out of insanity – the trio had departed on generally good terms with everything that had happened.

Although the Archbishop had refused to speak with the Everlasting Dragon since the events in the Crystal Cave, the mood had not been any less boisterous for the three of them as they simultaneously made peace with their demons and eased their respective burdens off their tired shoulders.

However, it seemed that whatever force had removed the stress from their lives, it had seen fit to delegate the strain unto another weary soul, so as to keep the balance in a land too damaged to bother fitting with an equilibrium.

But this time, perhaps that shift of tension had been a universal undoing. A gross error in the grand scheme of life, a misdirection of whatever universal law would have mischief run around unchecked. Because sometimes, the Hand of Destiny comes up short. Occasionally, there is a miscalculation in the masterplan of Fate. A fatal flaw that ends in a butterfly effect that could devastate an entire nation.

It was just a shame that this happened to be one such mistake of time and place.

For when a thief finds himself unintentionally knocking at the door of a strong man, given certain parameters, that interloper could find his target knocking back.

And thus was the scene Argon, Priscilla and Havel found before them as they left the Observatory of Seath. Their eyes registered the lack of Sentinels usually dotted around the city, felt the sudden emptiness of the kingdom swallow them in its open maw. An unsettling feeling crossed over the trio as they glimpsed the body of an armour-clad warrior dead at their feet, and the thick trail of dark blood leading down the path and around the stairway they were to walk through.

But what worried them more than the sight of an obvious irregularity in the Shining City… was it was not shining any longer.

The two undead drew their weapons hastily as the crossbreed snatched up her scythe resting across her spine. Carefully, they raced down the pathway, ignoring the many corpses littering the corridors of the main passageway of the city, as the Dark moon glittered above them eerily, washing the entire kingdom in obsidian.

Finally, they reached the main entrance of Anor Londo, but where they expected to be greeted by the sight of an impassive Knightess reclining against an alabaster wall, they instead found hordes of silent warriors dressed in uniquely sinister shades of black, white masks looking around menacingly as pairs of red eyes shone like lighthouses amidst the surge of battle being waged against the companies of azure phantoms fighting back this oppressive plague.

As if they had been hard of hearing this entre time, the roar of battle rushed into their ears, causing Havel to take step back in shock as Priscilla gasped breathlessly. Whilst this was going on, Argon stared dead ahead, eyes glaring at the form of wraith dressed in black platemail, skin half covered by virulent veins the colour of pitch, whilst his identical heterochromatic eyes absently gazed at the blood-stained Darkmoon Bow resting in his gauntlets.

Suddenly, as if sensing the malice directed at him, the Darkwraith raised his head, gaze locking on the trio of newcomers a few meters away before a grim smile made its way across his repulsive face.

"Oh… good evening," Lithecore said slowly, dropping the bow he held to the floor before outstretching his arms. "I was beginning to grow worried. You arrived later than expected."

Word Bank:

1. Acatalepsy – (n.) the impossibility to truly comprehend anything.

2. Diabrotic – (adj.) corrosive.

I really enjoyed writing this one up. I don't know why, but the thought of crafting the Darkwraith's attack on Anor Londo makes my fingers tingle in excitement, however overused the plot really is.

My favourite part was the confrontation between Lithecore and Gwyndolin. I can't wait to expand on that in the next chapter.