"Well, that…could have gone better." Artorias winced as he examined the cuts on Ciaran's forearms where she had stopped the blade from reaching her face.
She snorted. "That's putting it nicely, really. Everyone in New Londo seems to know that there is a cult of sorts in the city, but none can or will say!" She gestured widely with her arms, making her fellow Knight's job harder as he tried to determine the damage done.
"Hold still, would you? I'll admit I wasn't expecting that…suicide run they did. That wound in my gut is still feeling funny."
Ciaran continued to vent. "I have been delving into this awful city for what seems like forever, and yet I'm still practically empty handed! I don't know if it's an issue of society or breeding, but it always feels like pulling teeth trying to get solid information around here." She absently crossed her arms, much to Artorias's consternation.
"Well, I wouldn't have known anything about these lunatics" he grabbed hold of one of her arms, slowly but firmly pulling it straight "and I wouldn't have been able to get the information to find out where they'd be." He pulled the other arm carefully straight. "So, for what it's worth; I happen to think you're incredible."
"Is that so?"
"You can quote me on that. You're sure you don't feel anything off with these cuts?"
"They hurt, maybe a bit more than usual. That might be due to how they're being man-handled currently, however."
"Hush, you like my man-handling." He let go of her arms, letting her wrap the bandages over them until a cleric could look at them. A wince passed over his face as he rubbed at his abdomen.
The motion did not go unnoticed. "You think they poisoned their weapons? Are you feeling dizzy?"
He shook his head. "No, no. It just feels sort of cold, I guess."
She got up from finishing her bandages. "Alright, let's have a look."
"I'm fine."
"Of course you are. I know more about poisons than you, so let me look."
The wound was relatively shallow, his armor having taken the brunt of the thrust. She poked and prodded at it until she was satisfied that there wasn't poison burning in his veins. "Looks clean to me. You said it feels cold?"
He nodded, bandaging the wound up. "Yes, but that's fading. I've felt that same sensation before when a group of rebel humans attacked Sif and I. One got my leg with a spear that seemed to have the same effect."
She placed her mask back on. "Hmm, well it may be that—"
A soft vibration resonated through the ground, and the two perked up. It began to resolve itself into a rhythmic pounding, drawing closer. With a look at one another they armored up, weapons at the ready. It was a futile effort, as the culprit appeared on the scene.
"Hail, young Knights! I heard there was a spot of trouble, and hurried over with great haste!" Hawkeye Gough came to a halt by the pass, minding the drop off as the whole affair was much too small for his frame. Carefully, he began trying to squeeze into the little clearing that the two were occupying.
"Hold, Gough!" Ciaran nimbly leapt off the cliff side to land on his shoulder. "You'll never fit over here, you silly giant! We're all done here anyway."
The Hawkeye huffed. "Already? I hurried all this way…" his shoulders sagged briefly, before he pulled them back up. "Ah, but what a fine team you two make! Truly an excellent pair!"
The Wolf Knight and the Lord's Blade eyed each other humorously. It was obvious that Gough thought of their relationship as another of his many successful matchmaking schemes.
The giant began edging his way back along the cliff face from the way he came. "Yes, treating one another with respect and dignity; that's the way!"
Their shared look grew more and more confused as he rambled on.
"…reserved as well. Some may even say quiet."
Ciaran tapped on the side of his helmet. "Gough."
"After all, who's business what you do behind closed doors?"
"Gough!" Not for the first time, she thanked the gods for her mask. They had already had an uncomfortable conversation with Melda on a similar subject. "It's lovely to see you my friend; but how did you know where to find us?"
"Then there's… what?" He spluttered. "Ah, yes. I spoke to the Captain."
Ciaran nodded; this was what she had expected. "And… how was Ornstein?" After the events following the advent of the Bed of Chaos, he had changed. He had always been rigid and duty-bound, but he seemed to have utterly severed his emotions from his frame. He might as well be a stunning likeness of her friend carved from stone. She and the other two Knights had attempted to coax him from his walking death, to no avail. He would just look at them with those empty eyes…
She shuddered.
The giant cleared his throat. "Not… not well. Or at least no different than the last time, as far as I could ascertain."
Artorias sighed. "I fear he never came back out of Lost Izalith." Sif whimpered and thrust his head under the Knight's hand.
The four of them stood together in companionable silence. In this small corner of the world, at least they had each other to rely upon.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
This nightmare seemed like it would never end.
Cierte scrubbed at his hands in the wash basin for what seemed like the millionth time today. He was learning what he was capable of, and what the consequences for this knowledge were. His face in the mirror looked as though he had gained ten years in the last month.
Their "guest" was the cause of this whole mess. The darkness resting in that creature…
He had resisted passing his vital knowledge in the face of his initial encouragement; withholding of food and water. He had found the tactic distasteful and heavy-handed, until he realized that it seemed that it only irritated the prisoner. He had been under constant guard and supervision, and his company had given him the name "Manus" one day. When Cierte asked them why that name, they had seemed uncomfortable. Apparently, it had "just seemed right".
When the lack of food and water didn't seem to be cracking Manus's resolve, they fell back on the strength for which Oolacile was known; illusory sorcery.
Most of this nation were familiar with a spell simply titled "Boo" that juveniles occasionally used to elicit surprise in others as part of a gag. The Watchmen had quietly adapted a stronger version of the spell years ago to help defend the largely pacifist city, a spell that produced true fear.
The day that he authorized the use for the spell on Manus, he was sick all over his shoes. He had believed that withholding sustenance was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Great Lord, how naïve he had been. He prayed desperately to all the Lords, even Nito, that Manus would finally release his knowledge that would save the Age.
Alas, the wretch grew haggard and his face solemn and watchful. He stared hard at everyone he could see and made no noise whatsoever.
And Cierte was about to authorize the use of more invasive sorceries, ones that would twist Manus's perception.
He threw up in the sink again, but almost didn't notice. He had been running on less and less sleep this last month, and his own perception might have been suffering.
He threw open the door to the washroom and caught the eye of the Watchman nearby.
"Do whatever it takes to get that secret out of Manus, captain. I don't care if you have to start removing fingernails, just do it!" He put his face in his hands, reasonably certain he was damning himself with these actions. But if he could save the rest of his people with this, then that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. "The Lords preserve us, but get that secret!"
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