Ritual of the Abyss
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“If Oolacile is dabbling in the art of Dark magic, I refuse to allow Knight Artorias to even step foot near that accursed land,” Filianore exclaimed, staring daggers into her father’s eyes as the young princess stood before the old man; he was perched stiffly on his golden throne, coughing and wheezing as he brought his right hand to his face, allowing its digits to slowly fall over top of each other as his calloused palm was revealed; in it, the dying embers of a flame sat, screaming for more—for life, for power, for love, and for most of all, humanity. Gwyn gazed longingly down at the Flame, ignoring his daughter’s pained pleas. “This is the Abyss, Father! No Man has traversed its dark wrath and lived to tell its horrible tales!”
“We need Souls to feed the Fire, my child. The more lands that trusteth us, the more aid wilt we cast our eyes upon,” Gwyn began, coughing once more as he carefully closed the palm of his hand. “Oolacile is facing great danger, and has sought out assistance from our land of Anor Londo. Doth thou understandeth, or shall I continue in plain tongues?”
Filianore pouted at her father’s heartless response, turning her back to the Lord of Cinder as she made for the cylindrical, ivory mechanism that pushed and pulled a pristine platform up and down, so as to reach the lower level of the grand hall of the castle. She housed a bitter grin on her face, and muttered a curse at her father as she awaited her way down. “I will not let Sir Artorias walk unto his own grave, Father.” With her final, muttered remark, Filianore made her way down to the main hall, and began for the gargantuan, double doors that stood tall before her.
“I couldn’t help but overhear thine fruitless argument with Father, dear Sister.”
The princess jumped at the cool breeze that wisped past her shoulders, and she tilted her neck as her eyes met Gwyndolin’s own. “Knights die as fast as the dream slithers into a child’s brain. The Wolf will be replaced with another, in time,” he spoke low, placing a cold hand on his sister’s shoulder; he leaned in, so as to not cause a scene in the middle of the grand hall. “Let the Wolf die a fool. Father’s plan shalt not be interrupted, for the Age of Fire will remain everlasting.”
Filianore frowned as her older brother’s words echoed amidst the hollow halls, turning away and pouting in response. “Thou displayeth zero empathy for those outside of our family. It is but a shameless act each time, and I wish thou wouldst care for others the way thou cares for us,” she whispered, fiddling with her frail fingers as a shaky breath passed through her lips. “Sir Artorias is braver than any man I know, and I will not allow thou to sully his name for reasons unbeknownst to me.”
Gwyndolin appeared rather taken aback at his sister’s unexpected remark, and he, too, frowned. “What about Father? Is he not deemed brave in thine eyes, Sister?” he bit back. Filianore glared in response. “He hast resorted to commanding others to participate in his misdeeds and dark dealings, Brother. He will do anything to keep the Flame alighteth. But Sir Artorias puts his life before others. He cares for our well-being. Thou hast simply been blind to his generous deeds.”
Gwyndolin scoffed. “Then my act of generosity, dear Sister, will be seeing to it that the Wolf wilt not accompany the title of the leader of our knights.” Before he could torment his sister with further words of cold and snarky remarks, a pair of Silver Knights burst through the double doors of the hall—stopping dead in their tracks once faced with the two, royal siblings. “Your Highnesses!” one began, “Knight Ornstein hasn’t returned from the night prior, and Knight Artorias has just ran off to find him!” the other exclaimed. “The Lion is apparently in grave danger,” once more, the other began. “Somebody claimed to have seen him amidst the towering hand of a golem.” Gwyndolin frowned once more as the news quickly settled in, and he sighed, waving a hand as a means of immediate dismissal. “The Wolf will be fine,” he started, “if he wishes to charge out into the world like a lunatic, then let him die a fool,” Gwyndolin turned to his sister, before continuing. “We are not babysitters, but we are rather privy to idiocy in our knights.” The two Silver Knights looked back and forth at each other.
Filianore could not believe the words that were spilling from her brother’s lips, and she brushed past the two knights, mumbling an apology beneath her warm breath. She would not stand idly by and allow Artorias to give his life out of sheer selflessness and bravery; no, for she loved the man, yet her and Gwynevere harboured a different type of love towards the Wolf Knight. Hurrying as fast as she could down the grand staircase of the castle, the crowd of citizens were quickly made apparent as shouting and cries erupted from just beyond the stairs. Confused, people were demanding answers from the Silver Knights, yet their attempts proved fruitless.
Filianore made sure to follow a far longer path around the crowd, and opted on hastily dropping down onto a golden arch, and crawling up towards the outer windows of the chapel. The princess stole a quick glance into the crystal-clear glass, and saw a young girl seated atop a tiny, wooden stool—gracefully dragging her paintbrush across a massive, white canvas; the starts of large, snowy mountains were splayed across the painting, and Filianore could not help but grin as she mentally commended the young girl for her utter devotion and talent; Gwyn had asked her for a painting of a cool and chilling land, but for what reason, he did not state. Filianore and her sisters retained interest in their father’s intentions for the rather odd request, and stole quick glances into the chapel every so often; this time, the sky had finally been completely painted in—housing a lonely feel to the atmosphere of the painting. Though the royal siblings had not properly met the young girl with long, ashen hair, her uncle seemed well-acquainted with Gwyn, to which the two, older men shared many laughs over grand feasts.
Grinning mindlessly to herself, she continued on. Filianore had indulged in this dangerous climb many times before, and she jumped and ducked effortlessly atop the exterior of the chapel, before finally ending up on the opposite end of the grand bridge that led to the castle. Filianore knew instantly that she would have to look past Anor Londo, and into the cool and unwelcoming lands beyond the golden shine.
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“Get off! I’m fine, all right? I’m bloody-well fine!” Ornstein exclaimed, wrapping his hands around Artorias’ neck as he shoved the man against an old, moss-riddled tree. The Lion’s crimson locks swung messily amidst the fresh air as he grit his teeth and cursed the Wolf Knight—over and over. “I am able to hold my own, Artorias. As a knight, is such a simple feat not expected of us?!”
Artorias slammed his clenched fist against his friend’s golden chestpiece, yelling back in response: “You nearly got yourself killed, Ornstein! I found thou in a drunken stupor, writhing foolishly in the hands of a golem!” he began—the two men practically brushing their noses against one another as they both seethed in intimate rage. “What were thou thinking?” Artorias huffed out an exasperated sigh as he turned his face away from Ornstein, far too riled-up to remain looking at his friend. “I found myself lost in thought with no way out—and it terrified me!” Ornstein cried out, remembering the events leading up to his unseemly encounter with the Iron Golem. “I allowed my emotions to overcome me. It was all my fault.”
“The four of us are supposed to remain a team,” the Wolf replied, staring down at the heaps of grass and dirt beneath them as they stood deep in the Darkroot Basin; Artorias had made quick work in rescuing and removing his friend from the mysterious fortress, so as to flee from the Iron Golem in which he held no prior knowledge of. “If thou art to succumb so easily, what will the rest of them think? Gough? Ciaran? We need you, my friend. Do not die a fool.”
“Are those the only ones you believe me to care for, Artorias? Do I come across as so trite and reclusive, that the possibility of there being another whom I love is so foreign to you?” Ornstein let out, swatting his friend’s hand off his armoured-chest and gripping—hard, on the other intruding hand, which was still wrapped around his neck. “It’s as though no one in this accursed land wishes for my happiness, nor allows it to come to pass, and I loathe my very existence because of it.”
Artorias finally let go of his neck, allowing Ornstein to drop to his knees before him. “Gough and Ciaran are our family, Ornstein. You dare to speak ill of them? What would they think if they knew how appallingly you spoke of thyself?”
A forced chuckle erupted from Ornstein. “If you weren’t so ignorant and selfless when it comes to others, then maybe you would understand that I did not once speak poorly of our dear friends. No, I simply stated that there are others whom I deem ‘family’ that hold a vast portion of my love.”
Artorias cocked his head to the side as his friend expressed his rage of emotions unto him; in those cerulean eyes, Ornstein knew the man wished to ask who it was he spoke of. He chuckled, once more. “You really are blind to love, aren’t you, my friend?” the Lion began, this time, in a far tamer tone. “Have you ever even experienced such a feeling?”
Artorias remained silent.
“It is as though lightning runs through your very veins, and your bloodstream becomes an electrical current for those warm and intense waves. It is a feeling you cannot force, nor fake.” Ornstein was now seated cross-legged, in a rather odd pose that Artorias swore he had seen once before—in a cave, far from the Golden Land of Anor Londo. The Dragonslayer stared up at his friend, only this time, the confusion and curiosity that once filled those cerulean eyes, was now replaced with sorrow. “And maybe you have felt it,” Ornstein whispered.
The Wolf Knight was quick to take to the ground in front of his friend, and, too, crossed his legs in the same fashion as he; Ornstein’s back was straightened, and his hands were clasped upon his lap as he held his head high and looked before Artorias. “It is called the ‘Path of the Dragon,’” Ornstein said softly, smiling as he reminisced on fond memories from a far simpler time. The refreshing, summer breeze that brushed against Artorias’ face relaxed his uptight and defensive demeanour, and he allowed but a brief moment of respite with his friend.
“There hast been many nights where I’ve seen thou conversing with Princess Gwynevere in blatant secrecy. Why is this, may I ask? Does this have to do with the other whom you love?” Artorias asked, stiff and unmoving.
Ornstein let out a genuine laugh. “Gods, no!” He took a moment to collect himself, before meeting his friend’s confused and concerned stare. “No, Artorias… it is not Lady Gwynevere who I love. Fret not.” The Wolf Knight furrowed his brows slightly at his friend’s response, urging him to continue on as he refused to severe his piercing gaze. Ornstein sighed. “I suppose it matters not, now that I’ve foolishly lost the one I speak of.” But the soothing silence between words was suddenly interrupted, once the frightening sounds of something inhuman bellowed in the near distance.
“Surely you heard that?” Ornstein whispered.
“I didst.”
“Bloody lovely.”
Cautiously, the two Knights of Gwyn made their way between the tall, moss-riddled trees and large stones that resided in the Darkroot Basin, before faint traces of a dark-blue substance began to line the ground in the corners between rocks, and the ageing bark of trees. Ornstein’s mouth turned to a frown faster than he could have taken in a breath, and Artorias was quick to flutter his eyes around until he took note of a continuous trail of the odd linings. “Whatever this is, it is pure evil. We are un-welcomed by its presence, and we should report back to Lord Gwyn with haste,” the Wolf Knight spoke slowly, careful as to not even step on a sliver of the dark and foreign substance that had undoubtedly infiltrated the Godly lands of Lordran. Ornstein shook his head, and practically jumped in front of his friend as he scowled.
“Are we not to protect the peace of these lands?”
Artorias frowned. “We have been, and will continue to do so. What art thou prattling on about, my friend?”
Ornstein grit his teeth. “Then we are to further explore this danger, until we at least know where this strange substance originates from.”
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Another sinister roar erupted in the distance—this time, even closer, and the two knights met with each other’s eyes in fear and uncertainty, before Artorias nodded and pursed his lips tightly. “Very well,” he spoke. “Let us follow the trail.”
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What the two Knights of Gwyn did not expect, was to end up in a land unbeknownst to them; here, the grass was much greener, and birdsong sounded far louder amidst the trees. Moss seemed to cover every inch of this forest where rock, bush, or tree did not stand—even more-so than that of the Darkroot Basin and Garden. Artorias took quick note of a rustle in a patch of nearby berry bushes, but before Ornstein could let out a yelp at the sight that slowly emerged from the leaves, Artorias slammed his hand to his friend’s mouth. Before them, a group of Mushroom Children carefully made their way from bush to bush, pittering and pattering in unison as they strode in a single-file line, whispering amongst one another as they failed to take notice of the Lion and the Wolf.
“Why are there living, breathing mushrooms roaming these lands, Artorias…” Ornstein whispered between a tiny gap in his friend’s silver gauntlet, narrowing his eyes on the unseemly sight that were the Mushroom Children. But Artorias only chuckled in response, remembering Filianore’s innocent comment. “I was told of this land,” he began softly, removing his hand from Ornstein’s lips. “I believe we have miraculously ended up in Oolacile.”
Immediately, Ornstein let out a huff of exaggeration, and looked around frantically at the stunning forestry and magical creatures in which he had never once laid eyes upon. Stone Golems stalked the greenland, which sent a violent chill down the Lion’s back, but he remembered that Artorias was by his side, and so, his composure remained. But Ornstein found himself instinctively clutching at his lightning spear as the quick shadow of what he assumed was a dragon or a wyvern of sorts, flew right above the treeline, darting for a vast ravine that sat in the distance.
“Those beasts truly are everywhere, aren’t they?” Artorias mused, watching the tail of the large, black creature disappear into the near distance. Ornstein bit his inner lip as he stared down at the fresh, overgrown grass. “Lord Gwyn shan’t be happy of the news that not one, but two dragons have been sighted since the War of Ancients,” Artorias finished, treading carefully as he did not have his main form of weapon on him: his Greatsword.
“Let me lead,” Ornstein let out, quickly butting in front of his friend as the two continued down the narrow and overgrown trail, before they eventually stumbled across the start of what looked to be a township of sorts. Immediately, Ornstein sighed as groups upon groups of Mushroom Children huddled amongst one another, yet upon closer inspection, they seemed to be shaking in fear of something, and it was not the two knights. Artorias, too, realised this almost instantly, and he wasted no time in finding someone who spoke their common tongue; a large, clearly-ageing mushroom that stuck out from a large rock formation on the edge of the township watched with great intent as the Wolf Knight approached, and the words that spilled from the creature’s mouth shocked the two of them. “Art thou here to rescue Princess Dusk?”
Artorias’ brows raised, and Ornstein once more clutched the hilt of his lightning spear, staring the talking-mushroom-lady down. “And who might we have the pleasure of speaking with?” the Dragonslayer asked, showing no signs of fear as the odd creature stared straight back at him. “I am Elizabeth,” she began in a calm and witty tone. “I am somewhat of a godmother to Princess Dusk, and seeing as she is in grave danger, and I am stuck here, is a terrible burden I’ve borne for the past few days. The odds of her sweet, fragile soul surviving in such a corrupted place… The odds are not in her favour.”
Artorias took a step forward, now standing further ahead than Ornstein. “Doth thou speaketh of the Abyss?” he asked, his voice demanding and his eyes, stern and patient. Elizabeth hummed in response, before bestowing a proper reply; “Yes, indeed, Wolf. I’ve heardst of thou, from the lips of another… one who resides in a land thou art far more familiar with than our little township of Oolacile. Thou art here to stop the spread of the Abyss, yes?”
Ornstein’s eyes widened, and his lips drew into an even thinner line at the impatience he was now showing. “Who? Who spoke of him?” he exclaimed, but Artorias was quick to stretch his arm out and hold the Lion back from doing anything he may have regretted. Elizabeth chuckled, which only threw Ornstein into an even deeper pit of rage as he contemplated shoving his friend’s arm away from his gold-plated chest. “I am privy to the spitefulness that envelops our world, and I wilt not ever choose sides, young ones. Hence, I shan’t speaketh of the one whom it is I refer to. Regardless, I wish thou safe travels, and hopefully we shall meet again.”
Artorias nodded. “I understand, Elizabeth, and I respect thy decision. I promise thou, the spread of the Abyss will be stopped.” He then turned on his heels and whispered, “Come now, we’d best be on our way,” to his friend, before continuing down the path—ignoring the terrified hordes of Mushroom Children. But Ornstein remained stiff in place, staring at the strange mushroom creature that claimed to be called “Elizabeth.” He yearned to unfurl the identity of who it was that mentioned his dear friend to such a foreign creature, for it did not at all sit well with him.
Standing at three-foot-one, one of the Mushroom Children suddenly approached Ornstein—tapping at his gauntlet and tugging at his fingers as it looked up at him through the most innocent of eyes. The Lion found his face softening as his gaze met the odd creature’s own, and he let out a shaky breath and whispered, “You lot are quite ugly,” before quickly hurrying off after Artorias as a violent scourge of unease began to seep into his gut… Something about this place does not bode well with me, he thought with a frown as the dark plume of his friend all but disappeared into the array of bushes ahead. “Artorias!” he called out, but the Wolf had picked up speed, much to Ornstein’s confusion and dismay. “Artorias!” Again. “Slow down, for Gods’ sake!”
A yelp and a pained growl suddenly filled the air, and Ornstein was quick to stop dead in his tracks as he immediately gripped at his lightning spear. And the sound of Artorias letting out his own pained howl, was enough to bring a shocked gasp to the Lion’s mouth as he watched his friend swing his dagger around like a primal wolf—afraid of no creature, nor man; and there, behind the freakish and lanky, malformed being—clearly a spawn of the Abyss—lay an injured wolf pup, no more than a few months of age; there was a long and thin line of crimson that spilled from the pup’s side, and it attempted to howl once it took notice of Ornstein: another potential predator. The tall and grotesque creature lunged at Artorias once more, letting out a deafening shriek as the knight’s silver dagger pierced straight through its dark, coarse skin; it swung its freakishly-long arms around as it wailed out in pain, through that abnormally large and rounded head—which resembled that of a bloated monstrosity. Ornstein watched as the vile creature fell limp to the ground, bleeding out from multiple slits in its abdomen, and the Lion could all but stare mindlessly as he realised his friend had done all that damage with a mere dagger; the weapon was to be used as a last resort, if his Greatsword was not present. Artorias grit his teeth as his azure hood fell from his head, hanging loosely at his neck, and he made quick effort in wiping the blood that seeped from his bottom lip. The Bloathead had managed to land a grand swing and a scratch to the Wolf Knight’s mouth, resulting in minor swelling and a thick trail of blood down his chin. But Ornstein fell to the injured wolf’s side, knowing his friend would be all right.
“He’s wounded. Terribly so,” the Lion let out in a breathy voice.
“She,” the Wolf replied, “and I am going to take this poor pup back to Anor Londo, immediately.”
Ornstein furrowed his brows at his friend’s words, and quickly rose from the young wolf’s side, as Artorias took his place, across from him; he ripped a piece of his blue tassel, and gently placed it over top of the wounded pup’s deep gash. “We’ve only just begun our grand exploration of this supposed ‘Oolacile,’ and now you wish to return home? As kind as you are, my friend, I strongly advise against letting one life potentially endanger the lives of many if we are to cease our efforts in–”
Artorias drove his dagger into the ground—just beside Ornstein’s feet—as he huffed out a loud sigh. “I expected thou to show a little more compassion,” he began, clearly frustrated as he refused to look up into Ornstein’s eyes. “The Dragonslayer who loathes slaying dragons, for the very concept brings tears to his eyes.”
The Lion, too, grit his teeth, before his eyes softened and he found his cheeks had begun to sting. “Something terrible is perched on the horizon, Artorias,” he spoke low, watching as his friend tended to the wolf’s bloody wound as it writhed uncomfortably beneath the knight’s touch. “I would hate to see Anor Londo in ruin, simply due to a trivial blunder on our behalf.” Ornstein sighed. “I’m going to press onward.”
Artorias looked up to his friend, quickly composing himself as the soft whimpers of the pup managed to somehow ground him. “Art thou certain? We do not yet know the dangers that lurk in this foreign land.” Ornstein smiled—a genuine and heartfelt smile—and he gripped his lightning spear, once more. “Don’t worry, my friend. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, if I must say… I learned a thing or two during my personal training—away from our knightly duties,” he replied, grinning even wider at the fond memory.
“Then I cannot stop thou.” Artorias, too, grinned.
Ornstein nodded. “I will do anything in my power to protect our home and the ones I love.”
The Wolf Knight carefully drew the tips of where his fingers resided amidst his silver gauntlet, through the pup’s grey and white fur, which felt oddly soft, given the harsh circumstances. “There, there, girl,” he spoke in a soothing tone, almost as though he were attempting to lull the creature to sleep. “You have nothing more to fear.”
“My Lord?” Ornstein let out—shock and disbelief blatant in his tone.
Artorias looked up from his tender caring, and there, standing a few feet further down the narrow, dirt path, was the Dark Sun Gwyndolin—bearing a look of pure terror as he stared at the two Knights of Gwyn. “It is far too dangerous for you to arrive here without an escort,” Ornstein continued, taking immediate notice of the odd and sporadic movements that had suddenly begun to transpire beneath his long, white gown. Ignoring them, he added, “What are you doing here, Your Majesty?”
Gwyndolin averted his eyes from the Lion, and glared down at Artorias, who remained by the wolf pup’s side; his golden eyes told an entire story of loathing and disgust as the Wolf Knight reflected in his enlarged pupils. “I was taking care of weighted matters, my Knights. The two of thou shalt return at once to Anor Londo, until ordered to return to Oolacile. My father will be hearing of this,” the Dark Sun exclaimed, clearly attempting to hide the frantic rustling beneath his pristine, white cloth. “And that pup is not to step foot near my home. The chance of a potential infection from the Abyss is far too likely, and I will not bear any hurt to my family.”
Ornstein furrowed his brows at the prince’s response. “She is hurt,” he let out, looking down to his friend, who had not stopped staring at Gwyndolin, yet. “Can we at least bring her to Sir Gough? He is extraordinary in tending to wounds, and she clearly needs our help, otherwise–”
Gwyndolin emitted a sound that was similar to that of a snake’s hiss. “No. Thou shalt follow my orders, and leave the wolf at once. My father would never accept a creature from a foreign land to roam our clean and sacred halls. Thou art a fool for speaking of such a perilous request.”
Artorias huffed out an aggravated sigh, before standing up and bowing his head to the Dark Sun Gwyndolin. “Then let Sir Ornstein escort thou home, my Prince. It is a grand relief thou art safe from the sinister evil that stalks this land of Oolacile, and it is I who has been ordered by Princess Gwynevere to cleanse this suffering township of the Abyss,” he began in a slow and steady tone, keeping a close watch on the Grey Wolf that remained whimpering at his side. “A forbidden ritual has clearly been cast upon Oolacile, and I refuse to let the spread of the Abyss seep any further amidst Lordran. There is Dark magic at play here—incantations and spells that only corrupted royals and beings of Dark legend practised… It is peculiar, and I wish to seek out the caster of this terrible mess. Doth thou understand, my Prince? My intentions are pure, I can assure you.”
Gwyndolin sucked in his bottom lip, and bit down—hard enough to draw blood, before nodding in response and clicking his tongue. “Fine, Wolf. I refuse to argue with thou, for it would be a plain and simple waste of breath.” He smirked, before finally stepping forward and placing his cool and pale hand against Artorias’ armoured shoulder. “What it is my sister sees in thou, I cannot say. Nor that poor Lord’s Blade,” he whispered against the Wolf Knight’s tassel. “She really does fancy thou, Wolf. Ah, but it is rather crude of me to speak of such intimate matters, especially ones I share no part in,” Gwyndolin continued, before letting out a tiny chuckle and looking back towards Ornstein. “Come now, Lion, we have much length to cover to return home. Tell me, that heavy armour will not slow thou down, I wonder?”
The Dragonslayer’s brows dropped even lower as he tried his best to force a civil grin. “Of course not, Your Majesty. I have much experience with manoeuvring in this… protection of mine. Fear not, I will get you home before sunrise.” Gwyndolin looked unimpressed at his knight’s attempt at consoling, and he sighed. Ornstein and Artorias shared one, final look, before Gwyndolin set off with the Lion; the Wolf Knight’s heart nearly stopped as his eyes widened. His assumption proved correct: The Dark Sun Gwyndolin had contracted an evil and grotesque curse from the Abyss.
There were two known ways of being cursed with such bodily amalgamations, and those were to either be seduced by the Dark—which required its bearer of such a curse to show great vulnerability in either body or soul—or, to have called upon the very Dark itself; a ritual.
There, left in the dirt path as Gwyndolin walked closely behind Ornstein, lay a fresh trail of a wavering line, accompanied by a faint hissing that dissipated as the two disappeared further into the treeline. Artorias clutched his silver dagger as he stared at the trail, while his other hand remained against the warm and frantically rising-and-falling chest of the wolf pup. Something wasn’t right, and the Dark Sun Gwyndolin was clearly lying about his true reasoning for venturing to Oolacile. Fearing for Ornstein’s own safety—even though Artorias was certain his friend had, too, become privy to the odd movements beneath the prince’s gown—he stood up, holding the pup beneath one arm, as he held the dagger for dear life in his other; Ornstein’s diversion seemed to have worked, and Artorias could now safely bring the suffering creature to Anor Londo for immediate treatment, beneath Gwyndolin’s nose… But he would also make sure Ornstein remained safe on their way back, so with a plan now set in motion, Artorias slowly and secretly made his way back the way they came—being sure to avoid any Mushroom Children at all costs. In short time, he would return to Oolacile under Princess Gwynevere’s orders, and only then would he combat the true Dark itself, face-to-face.