Striding down the street, the azure cloth across his left shoulder flowing in the wind, Helmet obscuring his face with an unnatural shadow, a towering warrior approached the docks. In his right hand he wielded a massive iron kite shield, engraved with a detailed carving of a great flowering tree. In his left, a blade that looked as if a mountain would be no match for it. Men and women gazed slack jawed as he casually walked through the streets, the very definition of magnificence. He approached the docks, as casually as a man on a summer stroll, massive great sword in hand. The dock master turned to him, stumbling to his feet at the sight of the man. The towering figure stood mere feet away, gazing facelessly at him. A crowd of no less than the whole village was gathered behind him now.

"I require a boat to Lordan." He spoke, his voice deep and commanding, yet instantly recognisable.

The Dock master simply stared at him. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. By now the crowd had gathered broken out into excited chatter. "Jeddit!" they whispered. "What is he doing, where is he going, what's with the armour?" The conversation flowed freely among those who had come to witness the event.

"J-Jeddit? Is…Is that you?" the man stuttered.

The towering knight looked around, facing the crowd, his face a black void, the impossible shadow hiding his features. He looked back at the old dock master and shook his head slowly.

"My name is Artorias."

The crowd fell silent, all of them gaping at the massive man. Oro, the hunters, the Dock master, all stood in stunned silence. The knight brushed past the Dock master, boarding a small vessel and casting off without a word. He stood at the helm, looking back at the crowd as they slowly disappeared from view. Not one of them stopped him. Not one dared. They just stared, unsure how to process this sudden turn of events. He too simply stared, watching as Drangleic faded from view. He was thankful for the helmet. They needn't see his tears.

It had originally been simple curiosity that drew Artorias back to the distant land of Lordran. He landed safely from his voyage at the port town of New Londo. His passage was secured, as his reputation still held true, even after decades of absence. He was welcomed back to city by a lone man, a gate keeper dressed in a traditional red cloak. The two walked through the port, now dead silent. To the knight's horror, he found the underground city in decayed ruin, most of it completely submerged in black water. Towers and spires were jutting form the dead water, houses could be seen under its still surface The man who welcomed him explained that New Londo had become home to the undead curse, a problem in itself. Though the curse was bad, it did not prompt the flooding of a city. No, it was far more dire than that. Something, some horrendous force had found its way to New Londo. Those long thought defeated, by Artorias himself. The poor fools of the city had been tricked by the primordial serpent, and had awakened something evil. The dark wraiths had returned. Without the knight present, the city and its countless civilians and riches had been sacrificed to contain them. Artorias shuddered to think how many corpses lay beneath the icy water. It was here that curiosity became panic. Fearful that time may already have run out, the knight journeyed with haste across the dangerous ruin of Lordran, a fallen land now overrun with countless abominations. His journey was swift, the creatures of Lordan no match for his blade. He ascended the steps from New Londo, reaching the fabled Firelink shrine. He took a moment to check his supplies, warming himself at the undying bonfire. Firelink was said to be the place the chosen undead would someday arrive, a legend Artorias had always kept close to his heart. It gave him hope when none seemed present. He left the shrine, battling his way through the shambling hollows of the Undead Parish. He journeyed through the Dark Root gardens, facing the seven headed hydra that guarded the lake in its basin. He proceeded through to Sen's fortress, navigating its deadly traps and serpent-men warriors. He ascended the great steps up the cliff face, scaled the mighty wall and finally, he came to face the glistening city of Anor Londo. And now that he was here, his fears were confirmed. The curse was far worse than anyone could have foreseen. Lordran's time was almost up.

And here he was. Clinging to a tower, overlooking the great city, thinking back over his journey. Free of his thoughts, he leapt from the tower, plummeting towards the street below. The plates of his great armour clanked together, the azure cloth about his neck and waist lashed in the wind. He hit the ground, a soft explosion of magic cushioning his fall, cracking the stone beneath him and sending rubble and brick dust into the air. Approaching the citadel at a stride, he raised his great sword in greeting, as the few citizens that remained had fallen back to guard the great spiralling Citadel. The weapon was huge, a beautifully crafted blade, designed as a two handed weapon. But to Artorias, it was weightless, built in his name, the immense great sword had been crafted using techniques that were usually reserved for divine weapons only. The blade was long, wide and detailed with ornate carvings that had been forged into the steel. The core was pure magic, blue light softly spilling through a line in the centre of the blade. It had been designed this way, exposing part of the powerful magic core allowed him to focus its power against ghosts and demons alike. The guardsman that once watched the gate were absent, likely claimed by the curse. No problem, he thought, forcing the great doors of the citadel open by hand. The slowly opened, a brilliant light pouring from within. He strode in, his steps measured and his stride deliberate. Every aspect of the man emanated power and control. His steel armour, the flowing azure cloth, his well-paced step. Not one thing was out of line. He ignored the magnificence of the citadel. Great artworks and flowing tapestries adorned every wall, weapons and treasured lined the vast hallways, secured in equally well-crafted displays. The heads of countless foes slain by the legendary heroes of Anor Londo adorned the walls, the heads of giants, drakes, demons, but most of all Dragons. He even ignored the dead silence too, as he walked down the centre of the great open hall. He reached the end, met with the doors of the chamber of the princess. Placing his great sword upon his back, he took a deep breath, then forced them open stepping into the room.

His eyes were met with a familiar sight. The smaller, yet no less impressive room was as richly adorned as the one before. A great stained glass window overlooked the city, paintings and statues lining the walls. A vacant throne sat at the back of the chamber, a statue of the mighty lord Gwyn behind it. The princess Gwynevere had deserted Anor Londo sometime before, crossing the sea to the distant land of Drangleic with Artorias and the fleet. But her presence was not required and the chamber was now the meeting place of all operations condoned by Lord Gwyn. Once again, the knight ignored the spectacular artworks. For in the centre of the room stood a figure. She was tall, feminine, dressed in a loose suit overlaid with several steel plates. It was the same azure material that adorned Artorias' gear. The two blades at her waist, the gold and silver tracers, were thin and elegant daggers. She was a warrior no doubt. As she moved the suit seemed to pulse and ripple, a feature designed to be used in combat. At the user's command, the armour would explode into shadow, extinguishing all light and concealing the wearer. This armour was incredibly rare, they were usually presented as a gift granted to only the highest ranking of the Dark moon assassins. Standing before Artorias was none other than the appointed commander of the Dark moons. Ciarin the King's blade. Artorias' friend and lover.

"Ciarin!" he called out to her, his voice cutting through the silence of the room.

She turned to him, her beauty instantly apparent. Her pale face was smooth and stern, her features well defined. A strand of her long black hair fell across her forehead, drawing attention to the deep, purple eyes that were a mark of the Dark moon assassins. Artorias had never seen a more perfect woman in all of his days. To him, she was the most beautiful woman alive.

"Artorias!" she replied, running across the room to meet him. They embraced, holding each other tightly.

"Artorias my love, I had heard you would be joining us, but still, to see you again after so long…it's good to see you." She trailed off, staring at the black void of Artorias' helmet. His helmet was a unique design, two metal fins on either side of the face, merging into a rounded cap with a long black plume atop it. However, unlike most helmets, there was no face plate. Instead, the azure cloth about his neck was joined to the base of the two plates, and his face was merely obscured by an unnatural shadow. She put a hand to his face, stroking gently.

"You still insist on hiding yourself? Should you not allow the world to know the face of its greatest hero?"

"You know how I work. I like it this way. Besides, by order of Gwyn my identity is to remain unannounced to those outside of the four knights."

She gazed at him with a bemused expression.

"We are the knights, Artorias."

"Yes"

"And I have seen your face before"

"Yes"

"So…"

Ciarin slowly slide back the helmet, revealing the mouth of the warrior, a light skinned, emotionless feature. The light stubble beard and a heavy chin, his thin mouth set in a solid line. She was more than familiar with his features. Despite his apparent lack of joy at seeing his lover, Ciarin smiled and gently kissed his grim lips. She pulled him in deeper, closing his eyes and caressing his face affectionately. Artorias submitted, raising a hand to the back of Ciaran's head. He wanted to remain here, by her side for the rest of his life. Little mattered to him with her, his problems dissipating every second they were together. He had missed her presence in Drangleic. Despite his young appearance Artorias had been alive longer than he would care to admit, and in his time he had faced horrors and defeated foes that would have broken the will of most men. He had rarely a chance to admire the things around him, for duty would have him thrust head first into some new peril day after day. But the one thing that mattered the most to him was Ciarin. She was incredible, a powerful warrior and a deadly assassin, but most of all his closest friend. She and Artorias had spent many nights sat atop the roof of the cathedral, lamenting over their pasts, and the many undertakings they had performed together. But she was more than just a partner to him, they were lovers with the deepest respect for each other. He allowed it to continue, a feeling unlike any other consumed his senses. He ran a hand down her spine, pulling her close. She in turn placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled, leaning in for another kiss. He was enrapt with her, but knew it had to end. He let it go on for a little longer, savouring the feeling of her lips on his, her tongue resting in his mouth, then gently pushed Ciaran away, replacing his helmet to obscure his face. There was no time for affection in Lordran.

"It's been far too long" He smiled.

"Are you two quite finished?" A crisp, loud voice sliced through the room. It was tinged with a slight accent, the vowels extended to some degree. Artorias recognised it instantly. The two turned to see who had joined them, and were each met with a familiar sight.

A man had entered the room behind them, dressed head to toe in armour. And what magnificent armour it was. The whole suit was gold plated, perfectly reflecting the light of the sun. The leggings were smooth plates, spiked at the knee and toe, a large plate skirt worn over them. The smooth torso consisted of several interlocking metal plates, designed to give the wearer increased mobility in battle, without lowering the effectiveness of the armour. Sweeping shoulders flowed seamlessly into the plated arms, a chainmail under layer visible between the gaps. But it was the helmet that drew the eye. It was designed to resemble the head of a lion, a design that snarled forward at its foe, crafted in striking detail. A large red plume swooped from the back of the head, traipsing down the man's back. Its heavy plate design was very similar to Artorias' own armour, though his was wreathed in the azure cloth he valued so much. And whereas Artorias had left his armour the colour of steel, the knight before him had plated his gold, creating an image of grandeur. And it worked. The suit of armour was nothing less than spectacular to behold. It looked like it belonged in a museum, rather than on the field of battle. It was elegantly detailed, the helmet so striking in its design. Clutched in his hand was a long gold staff, tipped with an immense winged spearhead. This was a weapon of glory, the spear of the dragon slayers, designed to tear through a dragons heavy scales once they had been brought to ground. For the man before him was a legend in his own right. Captain of the four knights, this was Dragon slayer Ornstein.

"You know, it's funny" he said, striding towards the two, carelessly swinging the spear about himself. "I thought I was meeting the great knights of Lord Gwyn. Yet all I see are you two fools."

"Ornstein? You..." Artorias trailed off, shocked at the sudden appearance of the supposedly dead dragon slayer. Ornstein walked straight for him, looked Artorias up and down and then embraced him, their armour clinking together. Ornstein patted him on the back and they released each other.

The dragon slayer backed away, looking between the two of them.

"The blade of the dark moons, The Abyss walker and the dragon slayer. It has been too long since we were together, my dear friends. I hope the world has been kind to you."

Ciaran stepped forward, a look of anger on her face. She raised a hand, stared at Ornstein, then lowered it.

"I mean not to be rude, Dragon slayer. But you owe us a damn fine explanation!"

"What do you mean?"

"You vanished! You disappeared without a trace nor word of warning. That was years ago, and now you expect to stride back in here as if nothing happened?"

"Correct."

She opened her mouth to reply, but instead consigned to silence. Arguing with Ornstein was an art form, it required time and patience to master. Two properties Ciarin had always lacked.

"I apologise for my discretion" Ornstein continued, his magnificent armour catching the sun again as he paced back and forth.

"I truly am, but there was reason enough behind my leaving that you need only understand it was of the utmost urgency. By appointment of Lord Gwyn himself. But it is with a heavy heart I was forced to contact the two of you. For my mission ran foul and I am afraid I returned in failure. I apologise for being the one to deliver such dire news"

Artorias turned to his companion who grimaced, shook her head then looked back to Ornstein. "What news is this, my brother?" She questioned.

Though his emotions were obscured by the cat-like helmet, Artorias could sense the sadness in him. Ornstein reached to a pouch on his hip, drawing from it a ring. It bore the sigil of a hawk upon it.

"Hawk-eye Gough, the legendary giant archer, member of the four knights and most of all our brother, has fallen."

There was a long silence. The two knights stared through their masks at each other, Ciarin's face going from inane anger at Ornstein to a stone cold and emotionless expression.

"Oh..." Ciaran muttered. "How…did he fall, Ornstein? What took him from us?"

Ornstein turned away from them, walking towards the throne of the princess. He ran his hand across its arm, admiring the carpentry of the long vacant chair, the gems inlaid in its intricate design. A throne for the ages, no doubt about it. Suddenly, without warning, he hurled his spear across the room. It crackled with lightning as it flew, smashing into the wall beside him, burying itself deep in the stone and releasing a burst of electricity. He looked over his shoulder at Artorias, clenching his fist and shaking angrily.

"The abyss" He spat the words as if they carried a bitter taste, striding across the room and wrenching his spear free of the masonry.

Artorias stepped back, shocked at what he heard. No, there was some mistake. There was no way Ornstein's words were true. The Abyss? Artorias thought the abyss long banished. His name, the Abyss walker, had been officially sanctioned to him by Gwyn when he had halted its deadly spread in the city of New Londo. No mortal could survive in the abyss, and it was only by mastering dark magic long thought lost, placing a transient curse upon himself that Artorias was able to strike the darkness at its heart. But in truth, his memories of his time in the abyss were few and fleeting, a side effect of the ancient magic. All he truly remembered was fear, bleak and all consuming, like the dark itself.

"The abyss?" he repeated. "But…how can it….where?"

Tearing it from the wall, Ornstein proceeded to rub the brick dust from the end of his spear. "Oolacile. A small town south of here. No one knows why or what happened. The rumours are that the foolish sorcerers of the town attempted to awaken the tomb of primeval man. Though what could possess them to do such a thing is beyond imagination. Perhaps they sought his power, perhaps they were deceived into the act. Maybe…that damned serpent... Never mind, the cause is irrelevant. All that matters now is that the Abyss has been awakened once more. Gough and I were dispatched to deal with it. But the citizens of Oolacile have been warped, transformed into horrific beasts. They overwhelmed us, taking Gough from right before me. I tried to save him, but they were too great in number. I barely escaped with my life."

"That's why you called me here? To stop the abyss?"

"Yes"

"I can't"

"Yes you can"

"Damn it Ornstein! I can't do it again! I can't go back into the darkness!"

"Then why bother calling you Abyss walker!?" Ornstein boomed, his voice shaking the room. "What are you if not the man that the beasts fear!? What are you if not your name and title!? The man who strides darkness, who can crush evil with a swing of his blade!? You exist to honour your own name. Now do it damn you!"

There was a moments silence between them, Artorias and Ornstein staring each other down. There was no emotion, their helmets obscuring their features. But the men knew how the other felt. Only Ciarin was left to bear her feelings upon her features, as a look of anger annoyance crossed over her.

"Live up to your name, Knight of Gwyn. Unless you aren't up to the challenge."

Artorias looked at the shield in his hand and the blade upon his back. Damned Dragon slayer. He was right.

"Not up to the challenge?"

Artorias drew his almighty blade, swinging it in a flourish, a demonstration of his immense skill with the tool. It was no blade to him, but an extension of his soul, his very existence. He planted his feet, the blade arched over his head, a classic combat stance. He bowed his head and rose to a stand, sheathing the blade upon his back once more.

"I shall face the abyss, and halt its accursed spread. I swear by my knighthood."

Ornstein nodded and turned to Ciarin.

"The abyss may be the largest threat to us at the present, but is by no means the only one. Kalameet the Black, the last of the dragons has finally been located. With Gwyn no longer present, protecting Anor Londo falls to me. I am to deal with the threat before it gets out of hand. As I am sure you are aware, if but one dragon were to make it to Anor Londo, the destruction would be immeasurable. As the last dragon slayer, I must fulfil my duty. Kalameet will fall, but I am afraid this means I cannot accompany you to Oolacile."

"So then Ciarin is to be my partner?" Artorias cut in.

"No, I am afraid not. She is to accompany me. Usually, Gough and I would travel together. His talent as an archer was invaluable to me. When the dragons were a very present threat, his arrows would halt them mid-flight, forcing them to ground, in range of my spear. But at Gough's loss, Ciarin's proficiency in soul sorceries will be of equal use against Kalameet."

Artorias considered arguing. She had no experience fighting dragons and Kalameet was dangerous by even their standards. But without Gwyn or Gwynevere present, Ornstein's word was law amongst the knights. Ciarin seemed un-phased however. She bowed to Ornstein.

"Yes sir. It would be an honour to aid you in battle, Dragon slayer Ornstein."

"Though you flatter me." Ornstein mocked, "But it's rather wasted on me I'm afraid. I need only your strength and resolve."

"In that case, you better show me a good time, Ornstein. I heard your one hell of a demon when it comes to dragons." She cracked a smile, flicking her hair back, her cloak pulsing and rippling.

"That's more like it. I suggest then, in the essence of time, that we depart on our respective tasks once business is concluded here. Ciarin and myself to the Gulch of Omen, the resting place of Kalameet, and you Artorias to Oolacile. To the heart of darkness."

Artorias grunted still attempting to come to terms with the news. The abyss…how was it even possible…

He snapped out of his thought and shrugged. "Ornstein is correct." He muttered sadly. "No reason why we should delay any longer, I shall depart for Oolacile immediately."

"Not quite, Artorias, though your eagerness is admirable. The abyss is different. It has changed. They say…"

Ornstein leaned close to Artorias, the snout of his helmet placed by his ear.

"They say Manus, Father of the abyss, has awoken, deep within the chasms of Oolacile."

He stepped away, Artorias remaining resolute, silently digesting the news.

"However" he continued. "I have some interesting gifts for you, tokens of Gwyn's appreciation for your actions in New Londo those long years ago. They may surely prove of some aid."

Ornstein reached once more into the pouch on his hip, drawing out an amulet. It was a well-crafted silver pendant hung on a gold chain. Its design was intricate, two snakes intertwined to form a ring. Staring at it, it almost appeared as if the snakes were moving, slithering and pulsing before his eyes.

"Take this. A fitting gift for the abyss walker. It is a charm that will repel the dark magic of the abyss. It was forged shortly after you halted it back in New Londo. Gwyn asked me to give it to you. It will likely provide no small amount of aid on your quest."

Artorias took the large pendant, slinging it around his neck, tucking it underneath his armour. It was weightless and he could not feel it even against his skin.

"There is one last thing, Artorias. All knights require a companion. So we found someone who we thought you would favour over a hired hand."

Ornstein snapped his fingers, and moments later something entered the room. To Artorias' surprise it was not a man who entered, neither was it a woman. A large, grey wolf stalked into the room, its focus on Ornstein. It approached him, rubbing its head against his armour. It turned its head, catching sight of Artorias. They instantly recognised each other.

"Sif!" Artorias exclaimed, amazed to see his former companion.

Sif, the great grey wolf, had long been a companion of the knight, their friendship predating his ascension to knighthood. But as Gwyn had tasked him increasingly dangerous missions, Artorias had been forced to leave Sif in Anor Londo until he had grown enough to take care of himself. Sif ran to his side, fondly remembering his old master. Artorias bent down and ran his hands through the wolf's thick mane.

"I couldn't have you going alone now, could I?" Ornstein smiled beneath the mask "It was clear he missed you as much as he missed the thrill of combat at your side. Its time you two get back into the flow of things. Sif will accompany you to Oolacile, as he is as capable of surviving the Abyss as you are, it would seem."

Artorias was overwhelmed. Sif, his oldest friend, by his side again.

"Sif, oh my dear friend! My, you've grown!"

"Then it is farewell, Knight Artorias." Ornstein said, already walking to the doors of the citadel. "I leave you with my most sincere hopes of success. Come back to us Artorias. We don't want to lose another Knight."

He waved over his shoulder and exited the Citadel, walking slowly through the street.

Artorias turned to Ciarin. To his surprise, she looked upset, genuine sadness upon her face. It was a look he had rarely seen upon her features.

"Ciarin? Is there a problem?"

"Be careful. Please just…be careful. I have a bad feeling about this. Kalameet, the abyss, all of it. Promise me Artorias. We've only just been reunited. Promise me by your honour we'll see each other again."

He took Ciaran by the hand, slid his helmet off and smiled.

"I promise we will meet again."

She smiled back, then lightly pecked his lips. She drew her blade, the Golden tracer, and held it to her chest. This was a common sign of respect amongst the knights. With a sweep of her flowing armour, she exited the cathedral at a brisk pace so as to catch up with the now distant Dragon slayer. Artorias gazed after them until they crested the hill and vanished from sight. He slide his helmet back on, checked his sword and fastened his shield to his forearm. He bent down, scratched Sif's ears and rubbed his fur. The wolf cocked its head towards Artorias. He stood up and raised a clenched fist to his heart, a signalling Sif to follow him from now on. But the great wolf needed no prompting. This was his master, the man who saved him years prior and adopted him as a companion. Sif would follow him to the ends of the Earth and to Hell itself. And so the two departed, Artorias eager to prove himself to Lord Gwyn and the other knights, his heart driven by honour, his blade ready at his side. Be it the Dragons or Manus himself, all would fall before the knight.