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“Thou cometh at this one’s behest? And without even second thought. Curator, perhaps all is not lost.” The Great Feline Alvina padded alongside a human woman, occasionally galloping ahead to part the ferns as courtesy. Despite her girth, Alvina was still rather spry—she was able to vault into the trees with the elegance of a wildcat half her size, and with twice the ease. “Would that circumstances were not dire; that thee, and thine ilk, were not born of necessity. But, such is evil. Tell me, Curator—is thine ilk aware of the wrath they have wrought? The Abysswalker will be most choleric, having discovered his dear compatriot kidnapped.
The Curator appeared stoic. She was a winsome woman, taller than most, having sported black eyes with a gunmetal glare. They were a curse, much like the intricate runes and geometrical markings scarring her swarthy-complected skin. What was most noticeable, aside from her high cheekbones and square face, was her absence of hair. She was entirely bald, having sheared her mane in a ceremony that aimed to show disrespect to the Flame God Flann and announce her fear’s truancy for the pyromancy.
Alvina was fascinated with her exotic appearance, truth be told. The Curators of Chaos were an unusual cadre of men and women, the Triumvirate the strangest of them all. This Curator, the Entropic third of the Triumvirate, wore coin sized disks that stretched her ears, but were glossy like freshly pressed glass. Stranger so were her gauntlets which were heavily reminiscent of a dragon’s claws and likely just as capable of rending flesh from bone.
“I have heard of thine name in whispers, Curator, and I feel title is too cordial. What is it I may call thou?”
“This one is Lachrymose, the Entropic.”
“A fitting title for such a mournful name,” Alvina replied. Eventually their sojourner brought them to a lake choked with mangroves seemingly tall enough to blot out the moon, whose pale, white shafts slanted through the fronds, casting ephemeral beams of light on the water.
“Tell me, Lachrymose. Was it thou who bid the Abysswalker’s compatriot be seized? Surely, it cannot be so.”
Lachrymose made a face of discontent, as if she’d caught wind of something odorous. “The Curators are divided into triumvir—bodies that govern an aspect of Chaos. There is myself, the Discordant Son and Iram of the Second Cosmos—he is the culprit in this. Understand that I only oversee those who share my title, which is Entrope. More often than not, I have no jurisdiction, but there are instances where I am allowed to intervene—and this is one.”
Alvina nodded, abruptly stopping near the lip of the lake. “I fear I cannot go further,” she winced, “The water mislikes my kind, but thou art welcome. A word of caution, Curator: do not engage the Abysswalker. He will be uncontrollable due to his chagrin, and if we are speaking truths, he may be entirely volatile. The Abyss is a mad place.”
“I’ve witnessed it.” Alvina was surprised, but kept it vailed behind her usual flaxen leer.
As Lachrymose pressed on into the shallow waters, Alvina found a haunt in an adjacent mangrove tree. She unfurled her paw, and with a flick of her wrist, launched what appeared to be a ring at the Curator. Lachrymose caught it on the claw of her gauntlet. “If the Abysswalker proves most maddened, present mine ring. Perhaps its nostalgia will prove balm to his insanity. This, I cannot promise.”
Lachrymose smiled, but it was fleeting. “A kind gesture, Lady Hunter. Your aid has not gone unnoticed.”
Alvina cackled in response. “No, Curator! It is thou that has been kind. In means of truth, I have heard naught but foul things. Many claim that thou are uncouth, absent regard and profane, yet thou haveth given this old cat naught but cooperation.”
“They’re not wrong,” Lachrymose grumbled as she vanished into the estuary.
The forest had always been shrouded in the eternal beauty of silent moonlight, bathing down on the leaves and branches not thick enough to completely block out its brilliance. However the silence didn't last long as a shriek could be heard echoing through the woods reaching where Lachrymose would have been. It was clearly not human, nor was it hollow. The sound resembled something like a metal piece bashed by another as the vibration grew louder and louder between them.
A moment later, with a loud splash, a body was dropped into the lake from the high cliffs above and did not resurface. What came down with it however landed heavily near the Curator and caused the earth to shatter beneath its feet. Specks of dirt and rocks were tossed up in the air upon impact, and a large greatsword could be seen reflecting the moonlight.
Knight Artorias, alive but mad, was standing in front of her barely a few meters away, seemingly not noticing her presence at first. He kept his hooded helmet lowered and his tall body hunched over as if burdened by an invisible weight on his back, or his sword, and the weapon was coated in dark, thick blood.
Wandering through the forest, Artorias had been searching for his pup and companion Sif, the only sliver of sane thought he had left. Yet upon revelation by the nymphs of the woods, whom took pleasure in tormenting the fallen knight's sanity, and learning that Sif was kidnapped against its will, Artorias slew any who dared enter this sanctuary, remnant of a kingdom long lost that he had failed to defend, in his blind rage. Find Sif, His thoughts were broken and scattered, a result of Manus' corruption, Kill.... kill them...
Animated again from a brief moment of petrification, he turned his head slowly towards the invader with a faint hint of the Abyss. The knight let out a monstrous howl before he swung the greatsword at her with stunning speed and the intention to hurt.
Last edited by Kaizersosa; 04-25-2016 at 08:53 PM. Reason: changes~
Unlike the other triumvir, Lachrymose's armour was of a moderately light make. Because her grieves were hammered from brass and bronze, she was able to free her feet from the wet earth that sucked at her soles. Despite her balance having been compromised, she refused to unsheath her catalyst as leverage. Much like her brass and niello-themed attire, the catalyst - a fantastically shaped khakkhara that assumed the form of a mancatcher - appeared unsymmetrical. Iram would argue that it was meant to depict the variable change that chaos represented, but Lachrymose rebuked with her reasoning was much less estoeric.
Even as the mangroves warned her off the Abysswalker's arrival, she remained entirely stoic. Around her, the ancient, epoch-eaten tree trunks were dotted in arrows. Some belonged to the Forest Hunters, others clearly that of the Curators - she was able to discern the difference by the brass shafts.
When she drank in his stoop-backed stature, she, too, assumed her own stance. In preparation for the battle Alvina predicted, Lachrymose, drew the fabric of her tunic around her mouth. Although it hit her face from her nose down, one could still discern the frown stressing her lips. Her pauldrons were crafted from the chitin of the Chaos Bugs indigenous to Lost Izalith, and, therefore pliable, despite their origin being questionable.
There was a lapse of silence, save for the gentle crying of the tributaries coursing beneath the roots of the mangrove trees. Lachrymose briefly uttering something in a language known only to her ilk, but Alvina would have pointedly noted that it was profane.
Lachrymose, having been made insane by her quest to unlink the fire, knew a brief sliver of Artorias' madness. Rather than heed Alvina's warning or break words with the Abysswalker himself, she merely braced for battle.
His blade went out, bringing his entire body forward and to the side as he missed the Curator, only to wind up for a second attack as he drew his body back and rushed forward, swinging his blade in a devastating motion as he spun. There were heavy panting under the dark blue hood as he gained on her. With his one bad arm it had been hard for Artorias to perform well in battles, but nevertheless his prowess showed through his mastery. To be able to maintain balance and good footing despite the dying nerves in his left arm... perhaps only the Abysswalker was able to achieve this.
Did he hurt? Yes, the abyss' corruption had a hold of not only his mind, the physical damage it had done unto him was well hidden beneath that famous suit of armor. In between the mad whispers that bantered back in forth in his head about how the gods had forsaken Lordran, about how everything he had done so far was for nought... these messages fired like shooting stars tearing his head apart the more he searched for respite. He must fight on, and dance, for that was the only way he thought physical stress would outweigh his emotional mess.
Fight on, and no mercy. Who were they, the undead, but petty hosts of the Darkness anyway? How dare they harm his companion?
Like the limb of a wanderer caught in the maw of a caiman, Lachrymose's khakkhara caught Artorias' greatsword in its teeth. For those accustomed to Lachrymose's battle applications, seizing a weapon in the mancatcher's end of her weapon was purely defense, if not an outrageous cry for her opponent to cease.
So close, she could hear the Abysswalker's breathing; it was labored. She could nearly feel the madness pouring from his soul like the diseased pus from a festering wound. Indeed, the Abysswalker was mad and Lachrymose, despite her unwavering morale in regards to duty and obligation, almost felt moved to remove him from misery.
"Abysswalker," she exhaled. Her voice, despite the tremendous effort she deposited to prevent his strength from flattening her, was smooth and calm. "I am not your enemy in this." For a deteriorating Lord stripped of his title, he was still a force of nature in his own right. She had to plant her sole deeper into the muck for leverage, but the mire was unkind and held no love for her, no traction, so she slid.
"I've come to put an end to this nonsense; I've come to help. Your compatriate, the Great Wolf - he was abducted by those of my ilk, but understand, they're of a different tutelage. I may only ask of you thrice: sheath your weapon."
She gnashed her teeth together, although her face, still, hid it well. "I'll ask of you twice more." Her eyes, black as the abyss itself, appeared even blacker, "After the last, I'll unmake you."
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