The Dark Soul (Work In Progress)

Prelude
The air was cold and crisp, and a cool breeze swept through the ruins of the Firelink Shrine. Once a place of prosperity and freedom, the centuries that have passed leave this place as nothing but a cold, desperate ruin. A home for them, some would say. A dreary, shadowy and abandoned home. A small fire sits in the centre of this shrine, burdened by an infinite flame, of which the source is unknown. He is not the first to pass through here, and he will not be the last. The ‘bonfire’ as the Ashen Ones’ liked to call it, was a way back from the dead. If they are to perish, the fire would always bring them back, no matter what. It’s mysterious source of the infinite flame places a curse on them, a curse of torture and pain. But only the Ashen are the accursed. If the flame burns, they cannot leave this nightmare. Many who try to extinguish the flame end up losing their hope in the process, and sometimes even their minds. Many try not to ill-talk the hollow, as it is not their fault they are trapped here in a never-ending cycle of rebirth and corruptness. Whether they are forbidden by fate, destiny or hatred, they can never leave.
***
An Ashen One sat by the bonfire in the Firelink Shrine, staring deep into the flame. There is a cold silence, only interrupted by the crackling of the flame. The ever-burning flame. He was quietly thinking; perhaps wondering what his purpose was, why he was sent to Lothric, and who killed him originally; if not himself, of course. In an instant, the silence was ended, by a call from one of the many adjoining tunnels.
“Allard! Ye’ weapon is fixed! Come get her!” The voice was rough from probable centuries of making such calls to the previous Ashen Ones’. The man by the bonfire turned his head, before slowly getting to his feet. As he walked towards the hearty blacksmith, his steel armour clanked against the stone bricks below, and his chainmail rattled, creating a familiar chime. The clanking began to mix with the echo of the blacksmiths hammer, probably beating down on a newly forged blade. Day and night, he forged, never stopping for a break; he was determined to be the best blacksmith in Lothric, and Allard was already certain he had reached that goal. As Allard reached the blacksmith, the last step was taken, and the clanking stopped. He looked towards the blacksmith, not opening his helm as to hide his tired face. The blacksmith looked up and noticed Allard, which seemed to put a hearty smile on his face. He grabbed a sheathed blade from beside him, handing it carefully to Allard who pulled the blade from the sheathe to reveal the now repaired steel longsword. He inspected it for a good minute before sheathing it once again, placing it on his hip and bowing.
“My thanks, Andre. You truly are a kind soul.”
Allard Spoke with respect towards Andre, who had been of great help ever since he challenged Iudex Gundyr.
“What made her break so badly this time, Allard?” Andre asked as he dipped the bright orange end of a newly forged blade into an old wooden barrel filled with water, letting off steam and a loud sizzling sound.
“It shattered on a gravestone after Gundyr threw me, leaving me without a weapon. I trust you know what happened next”. Allard sighed, before turning away and walking back to the bonfire he was first resting by. After about 4 steps, Andre spoke up.
“Prithee be careful, don’t want to see me work being squandered.” Allard gave a gentle laugh before setting off once again.
As Allard reached the great wooden door decorated with steel, he stopped. Something was different. There were no guards outside, no hollow for him to go blade to blade with. He placed his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it at any moment. He turned, carefully observing his surroundings. Not one enemy in sight. He sighed and released the hilt of his blade. He took one step forward, and as he did, he felt an arrow pierce the shield on his back. Allard immediately spun around, seeing some hollow archers and soldiers getting to their feet slowly. Allard pulled out his shield, putting it directly in front of him for protection. He could count at least seven soldiers and four archers. This was not a fight he could win. He began to slowly back into the archway for the great wooden door. The soldiers dropped down from the ledge they were hiding on and ran towards him. Allard turned and sprinted for the door, swinging it wide open. As he entered, he spun to try and shut the gap, but the undead persisted in their efforts to take Allard’s life. They squeezed through the gap in the doorway and ran towards him. This was it. Once again, he was going to die, and come back to fight the same battle once more. The undead froze, stopping in their pursuit. All but one of them sprinted back to the door and fled. The one who had not fled was still running towards him. Allard quickly got to his feet and prepared to fight the single hollow soldier. He focused on his target, deciding where to strike first. Allard was not going to lose this fight.
As the soldier reached him, a great silver axe swung from behind it, slicing the hollow in half. Allard looked dead ahead, seeing a great mass of engraved steel armour moving towards him. It was carrying a great-axe, which had to be at least 15 feet in length. Iudex Gundyr. The great-axe was swung once again, this time towards Allard. He rolled, having a near miss with the blade. Gundyr quickly recovered from the missed hit, but Allard recovered faster. He sprinted towards the iron giant, sword raised high above his head, preparing to strike. His armour was heavy, and it clanked loudly with every step he took. Once more the chainmail rattled, this time as a battle tune. Allard reached Gundyr and swung his sword with all the might he had. As it hit Gundyr, a loud clanging echoed. Allard watched as the blade of his sword fell to the ground, leaving nothing but a hilt and jagged blade in his hand. Gundyr simply looked down and let out a mighty, shadowy and deep laugh. He then proceeded to lift Allard and pull him close to his helm. As Allard thrashed, he saw the eyeholes in Gundyrs’ mask turn bright red. Gundyr gripped tighter before tossing Allard aside. Allard slammed into a wall, leaving a dent in the bricks. He hit the floor with another loud clang as his armour and chainmail rattled from the fall. Gundyr walked over, looking down at Allard. The pain Allard felt was immense, every bone in his body felt beaten and broken. Gundyr laughed once more, before lifting his great-axe, preparing the final strike. Once more I had failed, Allard thought to himself. Once more I will be sent back to that damned bonfire in perfect health, just to come back and die again. Over and over. Allard prepared himself to die. He was ready. Gundyr swung with ferocity.
CHIIIIING. The sound of steel on steel rang out and echoed. Gundyr grunted and looked down towards his axe. Allard was holding the mighty weapon back with his own two hands. Gundyr could feel a power being emanated from within Allard, a power of the likes he has never fought before. Allard himself was surprised about this sudden burst of strength. Gundyr pushed harder, hoping to break Allard’s hold on the blade, but he did not falter. Gundyr could hear the blade breaking from Allard’s strength, and to his surprise, Allard rose and pushed the blade, sliding him backwards. Heaving with all his might, Gundyr pulled the blade free from Allard’s grip. He was enraged. Never has someone so small and insignificant shown this amount of power. He lifted the great-axe, preparing a swing strong enough to shatter the heavens. Allard no longer had a blade, so he prepared a strike with the capability of causing earthquakes. They both simultaneously sprinted towards each other. Allard wasn’t going to let some big hunk of fancy steel stop him from his destiny. As they got closer to each other, Gundyr swung his great-axe with a ferocity only hatred could generate. The blade of the axe swung right beneath Allard was he jumped, giving him the perfect platform to leap from. As Allard glided through the air, Gundyr could only investigate the face of what was his certain demise. Allard’s armoured fist collided with the helm of his opponent, letting out a loud bang and a fountain of blood. Gundyr fell backwards, hitting the ground with a loud mess of clanking. As Allard hit the ground, he felt dizzy and confused. Where had this power come from? Will it ever return? Before he could find an answer, his armour felt too heavy to move. Thus, he collapsed, losing consciousness next to his defeated foe.
It was a few days later that Allard regained consciousness. His head was pounding, and he was emotionless; for if he was given a quick glance you would have been convinced he was nothing but a sprawl of dented armour resting against the cobbled stone he lay upon. There was a calmness, a silence that pre-emptively sprung to life only a few moments after Allard awoke. The environment was dead; bland and tasteless, lifeless in it’s secrecy. The walls’ withered stone was a light grey, with an occasional darkening of continued erosion. Allard got to his feet slowly, almost crashing down with a stumble every few seconds. He was contained, trapped perhaps in a constant sense of undeniable paranoia, irreversible insomnia and the comatose feeling of insanity. Allard grabbed his helmet, violently and desperately attempting to pull it off, as though it was limiting his senses. He felt trapped in his armour, as though he was a rabbit in a cage; unable to free himself from the oncoming despair. Finally, Allards helmet gave way, releasing its grip to his cuirasses’ neck brace. Holding the helmet in his hand, Allard investigated the scars it received from the previous battle. A thorough dent in the left side had left very little room between his temple and a fracture of sharp steel. Allard tossed his helm aside. Due to the damage, it was no longer of use to him. A loud thud came from room outside of where Allard was. Until now, he was not aware of his location. There were cell bars blocking his escape and limiting his room. With only 4 to 5 feet between the bars and the back wall, only a bed was contained within the cell. The bed was tattered and torn, dirty and rugged. Dirt covered most of the walls surrounding him, and the rust filled cell bars gave the air a metallic smell. A loud banging came from the distant area ahead of him. Allard had a direct view of the cobbled staircase leading to who knows where. He could faintly hear a door being opened and closed, and as the entrant made their way down the staircase, the footsteps gently rebounded off the empty room’s walls, creating a soft echo. The last step was taken on the mangled stone staircase; however, it was still much too dark for the identity of the entrant to be revealed. The whole place was horribly designed, with barely lit torches so far apart that large round splotches of darkness littered the cold containment chamber. A torch was taken from the distant wall, the soft sound of wood sliding along iron was heard. Allard approached the cell bars, grabbing a hold of them with both hands. His grip was loose, allowing him to react if he were to be attacked through the bars. The footsteps were extremely close now. They continued for a few seconds and stopped. Somebody was only a few feet from his cell, holding a torch in one hand and the other on their blade hilt. Perhaps they were preparing to strike, but Allard could only hope he did not have to fight another hollow. That was the last thing he needed now.

“Woken up, have you?” The voice was soft and feminine, it radiated a feeling of safety and trust. Perhaps this was because Allard had not heard a female voice for the months he’s been within the undead realm; no matter if it was or not, Allard trusted her.
“Who are you?” He spoke with interest and uncertainty.
“I am Anri of Astora, nice to finally meet you” She uttered the words in a tone of respect, perhaps she had not seen another human in all her time of service here.
“May I ask your name? If that is not too much to ask, of course.” She continued.
“I am Allard, I do not serve a covenant, I am simply another Ashen One.” Allard replied, with the smallest scent of authority in his voice. For another moment they looked at each other, before Anri spoke up once more.
“Pleasure to be of your acquaintance, Sir. Allard. I am quite sorry for containing you within this cell. Tis’ not common of another Ashen One within Lothric. I shall release you from your cell at once.” She apologised, before moving towards the cell and pulling out a set of keys. A few seconds passed as she searched the chain for the correct key. Once she found it, a feeling of relief washed over them. The keychain jangled its merry jingle as she tossed it aside. As she put the key in the keyhole, a little click came from it and the door swung open wide, almost hitting Anri in the process. A quiet laugh squeezed its way out of Anri, but she quickly regained her composure. Allard glanced at Anri, fascinated by her armour. It was an elegant mix of engraved steel and blue robes. A short, dirty blue skirt-like robe hung around her waist, hiding the thighs on her leggings. A small but noticeable amount of wolf skin was draped around the base of her helmet, covering an often-targeted weak spot. Her hand was still by the hilt of her thin blade; not many would go for such a thin blade, only the insane or extremely skilled would choose such a meagre weapon. Allard admired her obvious skill; such talent would surely make this nightmare of a world even a little bit more bearable.
“I see you like my armour,” Anri spoke up, catching Allard by surprise, “well, there’s a set of armour that doesn’t quite fit me in the chest up stairs if you’d like to take a look.” She finished, turning away. “Follow me.”
As Allard swung the chest open, a wave of dust rushed into the air, revealing the armour contained within. It was a strange mixture of smooth and jagged shapes. Dragons were etched into the shoulder plates, and the knee plates. The gloves had sharp ends to the fingers, allowing them to be used themselves as a weapon if worst comes to worst. Little barbs layered the gauntlets, probably used to make targets bleed. A brown wrap covered a little less than half of the cuirass. The wrap was torn and dirty, but still usable. The helm was shaped quite strangely. It was an armet, so if need be, one could reveal their face without removing the helm entirely. It too was jagged, and the visor was vertical instead of horizontal. Even though it was a strange set of protection, it was exactly what Allard needed.
“Tis’ a good set, is it not?” Anri once again spoke up surprisingly. Allard turned to look at Anri, who was looking towards him.
“It’s exactly what I need, thank you, Anri of Astora.” He replied, giving a bow at the same time.
“It’s a little hot in this armour, may I remove my helm?” She asked, waving her hand towards her face in attempt to cool her off.
“Why of course, it is awfully hot around here, after all.” Allard responded softly, as though to not give her a sense of doubt in his words. She nodded in reply and started pulling at her helm, removing it with utmost ease. As she pulled the helm away Allard could feel his heart stop. Long, shiny black hair fell, gracefully gliding its way down to her shoulders. Her face was smooth and mark free. Allard couldn’t find a flaw even if he tried. Her eyes were bright green and they sparkled as she looked towards him. A smile spread across her face. Not even one ounce of nervousness was shown by her, her composure was always there. She had to be the most perfect thing Allard had ever had the complete joy of seeing.
“Is something wrong, Sir. Allard?” She asked with a voice that was smoother than one of Andre’s blades. After a few more seconds of staring, he decided to respond.
“Oh, uh, no m’lady, I’m sorry.” Anri smiled and laughed in reply, before finally speaking again.
“M’lady? Fancy, am I your queen now, Sir. Allard?” They both laughed, before silence hit once again.
“It’s getting late, we should make a fire before dark.” Anri just stared at the ground for a minute before replying.
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”
The fire crackled and popped. The air around them was already extremely warm, fire was only useful for light. By nightfall, Lothric was almost pitch black. The type of blackness that is just sickening to consider what lie beyond the safety of the light. The night often held a plethora of instruments for madness; guilt, sorrow, terror, insanity. But now Allard could only feel the warmth of the fire; the light that brings safety. The calmness of the air around them was soothing, and the feeling of companionship brought determination. “Tell me, Allard, why are you here?” This caught Allard by surprise once more. Anri was staring into the fire, patient and waiting. The fire seemed to glisten in her eyes, the image seemed to be captured within them. Allard sighed, “I’m here to stop the lords of cinder,” he continued, “They’ve been driven insane by something. I need to stop them before they finish what they started.” He finished, staring directly towards Anri. Now she looked up, locking eyes with him. For a moment Allard’s heart stopped. He had a strange feeling when he saw her, even when he heard her speak. He’d never felt like that before. “I am here to slay the members of the Black Hand.” She spoke sternly, and to the point. The sense of nobleness, loyalty and determination radiated from the way she spoke. Allard could tell she wasn’t one with which you wish to trifle. “The ‘Black Hand’?” Allard replied, filled with intrigue and questions.
“Yes, the Black Hand,” Anri spoke on, now twiddling a coin between her fingers. The coin was rusted, and it seemed to have a green spot of decay towards the top. There was a face on one side, and a serpent on the other. It was a mixture of brown and gold, and Allard recognized it, but he wasn’t sure why. He had no memory of such a coin, but perhaps his mind could just be fooling him. Anri continued, “The Black Hand is an elite group of 3 soldiers who were ordered to kill the king of the Boreal Valley. Many have found and fought them, none have returned. I have been training for 20 yearly cycles to take down at least one of the Black Hand.” She smacked her fist on the ground beneath them. Allard, still filled with interest asked, “Then why are you down here, in the realm of the dead?” She looked at him, eyes filled with tears, replying “They took…” There was silence. Anri started sniffling. She wiped the tears from her eyes, but they kept filling back up. Allard knew he had made a mistake, but before he had time to rectify his error Anri spoke. “They took everything from me… not one thing was left. Not a single thing.” Now, getting angrier, she started to grit her teeth and yell, “They took my family. I was 7 years old when I had just returned home from church! They took my mother, father, brother and sister all because my father served the order of Astora! Because he did what he could to protect people from the likes of those who would wish to harm them! They were innocent!” Anri was screaming now, and her sobbing was understandably loud. She retreated to a calm voice and sitting position before finishing. “And I will take everything from them.”
The dawn of a new day set in. The sun was gently kissing the horizon when Allard woke. The light seemed to flood Lothric, as though it were on a mission to banish the dark. The fire that was burning the night before was only ash now, and a few embers lay nearby. It was cold, and a chilling silence gathered on the wind. The cobbled stone he slept on was withered and broken; perhaps beaten by the hooves of the horses that carried the high kings of Lothric. Allard’s ears finally adjusted. His surroundings weren’t silent, he could hear Anri fighting. Her voice expelling battle cries with each hit, and not even one seemed to miss. Allard jumped to his feet, sprinting towards the grunts and shouts. He reached a corner, flinging himself around it. He saw Anri slashing and stabbing a scarecrow. It was made of dark straw and rotted wood, in fact Allard could see some of the firewood used for the stand. Anri threw one last blow. The slash was so mighty it cut straight through the thing, sending a gust of wind towards Allard. Covering his face, the winds passed him safely.
“Allard! I didn’t see you there!” Anri puffed. After such a powerful blow, one would be understandably exhausted. She held her nimble blade in both hands, enabling a more still and thorough grip on the weapon. She controlled it perfectly; watching her fight was like watching the women of the Bright Mire dance. So graceful, movements smooth and firm. It seemed to glide through the air without resistance. However, with a blade so thin, it was clear how easily it would glide through the sodden air. Anri stood straight, sheathing her weapon. It clicked when it was fully holstered. “My apologies, Sir. Allard. I did not mean for my training to disturb your rest. Please forgive me.” She said sincerely, bowing. She grabbed her helm from beside the broken scarecrow, wiping the sweat from her brow before placing it on her head. Once it was on, she seemed like such a different person. At least; to Allard she did. Her beauty no longer shined like a beacon of light in the oncoming darkness. Her eyes no longer sparkled like a slab of titanite. She seemed cold and distant, ready for all that would come her way. She placed her hand firmly on the hilt of her sheathed blade. “We best be off, shan’t we?”
***
A canyon ran deep through the outskirts of the Boreal Valley. It was hundreds, maybe even thousands of feet deep. It seemed man made; such perfect precision made Boreal Valley nothing but a kind of island. An island surrounded by endless pits of demise. One slip and your fate would be set. Allard and Anri stood on a narrow ridge on the edge of the Hollow Forest. The journey had not been easy, but it had not been for nothing. They were determined to get into the Boreal Valley. Allard kneeled, analysing his surroundings, while Anri stood tall, watching for danger.
“Anri, over there! Look!” A large, withered bridge stood, acting as a sort of causeway between the two locations. Anri turned and gazed towards it, filling with hope as she did. The bridge was run-down and broken. Large gaps filled parts of it, and broken bricks covered the rest. It held together; barely. The sky was dark, but a bright blue light also filled the sky. It was an extremely different environment to Lothric, as it was freezing cold and dark. This did not deter either of the two; they had a mission, and they were going to fight until it’s done. Allard looked up at Anri, who held her blade in both hands, just as before. She held it at shoulder height, prepared to strike and any moment. She was not one he wished to trifle. She spoke up, stern and steady.
“So? How are we to get across?” Allard, confused, asked
“What do you mean? We walk across.” Anri pointed towards the tattered remains of their only hope across.
“The side we’re on is disconnected; we’d have to jump to get across the bloody thing.” Intrigued, Allard directed his gaze towards the start of the bridge. It was broken, leaving a three to four-foot gap between them and it.
“We’ll have to jump.” Allards words were sudden and stern. He spoke with authority; the likes Anri had never heard before.
“Surely there’s another way, for the Sun’s sakes, what you’re considering is impossible!” Anri replied, heavy with angst. She looked to him for a reply, but he simply nodded. Allard stood up, grabbed the hilt of his blade and continued. Anri followed closely, watching their backs.
The gap was bigger than they first thought. The path to it was crooked and slippery, dirt covering most of it. Anri just sighed and spoke up.
“This is madness, are we really going to try this?” Allard glanced back, staring Anri straight in the eye.
“Well, if we fail, we’ll just be sent back to the Firelink Shrine. We haven’t much to lose.” His voice was calm and serious. Anri nodded in reply.
“I’ll go first, then.” She said, her voice quaking. She moved back a couple of feet, kneeled and gazed dead ahead. She jumped from her kneel to a sprint. Anri seemed to have an immense amount of speed for someone wearing as much armour as she was. She reached the edge, took her last step and leapt. Everything seemed to slow, from the air around them to time itself. Allard feared for Anri’s life, even knowing she would come back, just like all other Ashen Ones. The fall would surely take hours, perhaps even days. Allard did not want to be alone again. Time returned, and Anri barely made it to the bridge. She pulled herself onto the ledge and laid among the broken bricks. After a few seconds, she stood up, looking towards Allard.
“I made it! Come on, I’ll catch you.” Her voice was filled with glee; as many a person would be after such a feat. Allard didn’t doubt her word in the slightest. He prepped himself for the jump, kneeling and preparing for the leap. He was off. His sabatons clanked and strained as he ran along the awkward pavement; but these broken paths would not break his soul. It all went by in a flash, the next moment Allard saw himself being pulled up by Anri, who was strangely easy with his weight. He thought pulling someone up would be straining, but not for Anri. She gave one last heave and pulled him beside her, hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Anri”.
The streets of the Boreal Valley were empty. Bright lights still flickered in lamps, long abandoned. The city was washed with white and blue, from the church to the bridge outside. Dead leaves and rubbish littered the area. The paths on which Anri and Allard walked were perfectly laid bricks. It filled Allard with relief to no longer be suspicious of the ground beneath. Anri was next to him, hand on the hilt of her needle blade, as it usually was. The city was drenched in an unnatural silence; not even a crow caws this night. It was freezing, as cold winds blew silently but unrelenting. This bothered Allard, but Anri did not care. She was focused on her surroundings; listening, analysing the environment. She stopped, putting her hand in front of Allard.
“Halt, something isn’t right here” She said steadily. Allard did as she said, but he now too had his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at any moment. There was silence. Nothing but cold, dead silence. Anri sighed, releasing the tension from her body. “Come, we mustn’t waste time,” she said, beckoning him with a hand gesture, “Pontiff Sullyvahn shan’t give us much time.” This confused Allard, but he put no questions against her. They travelled onwards to the church, the daunting silence behind them catching up. Not even their armour chimed here; it was as though a spell was cast to silence those who would perhaps speak out against those of the high church. The lack of noise, while peaceful, filled Allard with fear. Perhaps they would be snuck up on. Perhaps they would be surrounded. Regardless, he kept his hand steady on the hilt. Fear would not cost him his life, and he would not let it cost Anri’s. He felt a strange desire to protect her at all costs, and he refused to ignore that desire. While these thoughts ran through his head, Anri stopped him, crouching down.
“Hide!”

Allard was pressed against the wall, making no movement. He was just listening. A loud clanging and scraping shattered the previous silence, filling the air with fear. It rattled the very bones of Allard; he was terrified. The scraping got closer and closer until it was right next to them. It ceased, and the silence returned. Anri gripped Allard’s shoulder tightly as he peeked around the corner. He saw nothing but the empty streets they were walking. Allard breathed once again. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath this entire time. Anri turned to face him, before being distracted by a distant clanging that seemed to coat the town.
“I won’t let ye bastards take my daughter! I’ve fought ye before and I shall do it again!” The voice sounded familiar, but neither of them could recognise it. Anri faced towards Allard, sliding her blade from its sheathe. “We have to help them Allard, we don’t have much time.” Allard could see a slither of Anri through her helmet, and her eyes were wide open with either fear or desperation. Allard glanced down, tightening his grip on her shoulder. This decision wasn’t just up to him, but Anri clearly made her choice. Releasing his hand, Allard stood up, grabbing Anri’s hand and pulling her up with him. He released her hand and gripped the sides of his helmet, pulling at it. Eventually it came loose, and he removed it, holding it against his hip with one hand. He reached out with the other, beckoning Anri’s hand to be placed on his. She complied, gently resting her hand on his. Looking deep into her eyes, Allard whispered “I’m sorry Anri”. She began to mutter something, but it was stopped as Allard raised his hand above his head and stabbed something into her wrist. Anri waded in and out of consciousness as she fell to the floor, noticing a tiny sewing needle with some sort of sleeping powder had entered the arteries within her wrist. She hit the floor with a loud clang, muttering the words “But… I….” Allard lifted and heaved her onto his shoulder.
***
The familiar crackle of a fire rung within the dark stone room as light bounced off of the walls and shadows danced playfully on them. A strange scraping noise sat right beside Anri, and it grew louder and louder. Anri was flickering between consciousness, before finally regaining her senses. The scraping next to her was quite loud by now, and the crackling of the fire was louder than before. A small stream of water flowed beside her, with small droplets flying out every now and again. Anri sat upwards, holding her head. It was as though somebody was hitting a hammer ferociously against it. There was an audible sharpness piercing her ears, and they felt like hell. The scraping stopped for only a second before it begun again. A voice spoke beside her. It was familiar, and she instantly recognised it. Allard. Anri quickly jumped up, reaching for her blade. Her hand felt no blade or sheathe. She pounced towards Allard, grabbing him by the throat and lifting her fist.
“What did you do to me? Where is my sword?” Allard raised his open hands, removing his helm as he chuckled.
“I’m so sorry for all the confusion m’lady, your sword is behind you on the crate.” She turned only her head. He was right, the sheathe and blade was right there behind her. Anri turned back towards Allard, asking another question, “Why did you inject me with sleeping powder?” Her voice was filled with confused and anxious anger. Her mind was racing with thoughts, looking for the answer.