Atop the Walls

Atop the Walls
Date of Scene:	06 July 2014
Location:	Past Lordran
Synopsis:	The Four Knights of Gwyn, or at least three of them, meet atop the walls of Anor Londo to catch up with one another.
Cast of Characters:	182, 268, 396

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Gough (268) has posed:
Welcome to the abandoned city of the gods, populated by shadows and memories of the brilliance that once dwelt here. The gods have abandoned Lordran, but there are traces yet of its former glory. Sunlight still touches Anor Londo's stones and soaring architecture; still kisses the cathedral at the top of the hill and light its stained-glass windows.

There is silence across the city, as ever, but it is broken today by the rhythmic scraping of knife against wood. It proceeds in almost perfect rhythm -- two short scrapes, followed by a long scrape, followed by the /snikt/ of a blade being withdrawn quickly. It continues in patient perpetuity, the only thing to break the silence.

A great shadow sprawls over one section of the rampart; a towering figure that is currently heaped in the shape of some very large humanoid sitting cross-legged, with the approximate proportions of a mountain.

Sun gleams off of Hawkeye Gough's steel greathelm, and the bow that towers up beside him; glints off the carving knife that he handles so expertly.

He is patient. He has always been patient; gentle Gough, as patient as the earth itself. His companions have not yet arrived, but he has summoned them, so he knows that they will be here soon. He'd told them he should like to speak to them, and that he had a gift for them. They will be here -- eventually.

He does not mind waiting.

Ciaran (396) has posed:
Hawkeye Gough isn't lonely for long. Soon enough, a small, silent figure appears at his elbow as if a shadow given sudden life, standing high on curious tiptoes. The girl's green eyes are two wide, fascinated jewels standing out in the darkness the day's light can't quite penetrate through her mask's carved eyeslits. An errant breeze ruffles her blonde braid, tugging a few strands into childlike disarray, lending a feral charm to her strange appearance.

"What are you working on today?"

The voice is familiar and warm despite its otherworldly echo. Like many of the powerful figures living in Anor Londo, Ciaran is what the lower species consider a goddess -- blessed by the great strength and unique gifts required to defeat the Everlasting Dragons in a long gone war. Outside the city of the gods, her voice marks her for a fearsome creature. Even if she did not wear the mask of an assassin, one of the Lord's Blades dedicated to Lord Gwyn's darker needs, she would be trusted by few.

Here, at least, it is of no concern. Ciaran need not embrace all the intrigue of her Order at all times. The mask is an adornment she must always bear, but today she wears no armor, no clawed and bladed gauntlets, and no strange hook-toed boots. She's in her robes alone. The white mask is strapped into place, but no helmet rests above and around it. Only soft shoes adorn her feet.

She is wearing the garments of a woman at peace, not a goddess of death.

Artorias (182) has posed:
Artorias is nowhere near as silent and hidden as the Hornet. The dark knight's approach is very easily seen and heard, worn armor rattling with each footfall as he makes his way to Gough and Ciaran, heralded by the padding bounds of Sif who arrives first to plop down at the gentle giant's knee. A nudge of his nose is given to Hawkeye's leg before he curls up beside Gough, calm and contented.

Unlike Ciaran, Artorias's armor is something he feels he must wear at all times, even if it stands at such a stark contrast to the gilded architecture of Anor Londo. Where once the armor of dark silver and the mantle of bright azure used to be a mark of his servitude to Lord Gwyn, now the black metal and faded cloth serve to mask whatever his covenant has left of him.

At least the continued acceptance of his fellow Knights allows him to be comfortable, even burdened by armor as he always is these days.

No weapons lie by his side today. His hand is free to be lifted in welcome to Gough as he approaches, falling to his side once he comes near to his companions. His tone is as warm and jovial as ever, even with the ghostly echoes that now lie behind it. "Well met, Sir Gough! How doth this day find thee?"

Gough (268) has posed:
Despite Ciaran's stealth, Gough's head tilts faintly at the assassin's arrival. Her pride may be unsullied, though; it isn't the sound of her that betrays her, but the flicker of movement at the periphery of his vision. The giant's eyes are perhaps the best in Anor Londo, though no one can say what they actually look like. Indeed, even his closest friends in the Four Knights have never seen his face or his head free of that greathelm.

Heck, some people probably think it /is/ his head at this point. Maybe he's some kind of freaky golem. Maybe he's actually made of clay! Who knows? Gough sure ain't tellin'.

"A little something for thee," Gough answers cryptically, though his tone is warm and good-natured. He tilts the carving away from Ciaran, though, so she can't quite see the face of it. "Methinks thee shall enjoy it. Thou art lovely today," he adds politely, perhaps pleased to see her relaxed and at peace. It's a look that suits her more than that of the vengeful Lord's Blade aspect.

Before he can comment on anything more, the clank of armour announces the arrival of Artorias -- and the scraping paw-pads of Sif, the Great Grey Wolf.

"And greetings to thee as well, Sif." Gough reaches down, patting the wolf more gently than some might attribute to such a enormous creature.

The helm twists to regard Artorias, and it bows forward in a pleased nod of greeting, hand freeing the knife to rise in a gesture of the same.

No ghostly echo mars Gough's tone, but it is deeper than anything human, slow and measured and patient as a mountain. Even if his size weren't a dead giveaway, there was never anything even remotely human about Gough; nothing human in whatever template there was to his creation. If there was, it was only in the broadest sense. His proportions are just slightly off, somehow, even if one could put out of mind his enormous size.

His nature is jolly, at least.

"This day finds me well, Sir Artorias! Well indeed. And how fares thee on this fine afternoon? Well, I hope? Master Sif certainly seems to be." The giant gives the wolf an affectionate pat before busying his hands with his carving again. "I brought thee here because I had wished to catch up with thee after the bustle of thy tournament."

He pauses, thoughtful.

"--Ah. Yes. I also had a gift for thee both."

Ciaran (396) has posed:
If Ciaran is at all disappointed not to see what Gough's been carving, she hides it well. As he moves his hands aside, she can't help craning her head around somewhat in an attempt to outmaneuver him, but then he distracts her by commenting on her appearance and she retreats in shy reaction. Ciaran is certainly pleased, make no mistake, but such personal remarks often leave her bashful, as revealed by the embarrassed way she tugs her braid over her shoulder. "I thank thee, Sir. 'Tis too perfect a day to think of war and ruin, isn't it? Why waste time donning armor I do not need. Ah, if /every/ day could only be so peaceful..."

The other knight to arrive is greeted by a warm and broad smile. The smile is of course unseen, save for the way it lights her gaze a second time, igniting a visible sort of sparkle which wasn't present before. The love she has for Artorias is given proof in that look alone: Ciaran comes alive in his presence. Scarred he may be by his covenant, but her adoration sees past his wounds.

"Greetings, Artorias. Gough is in a rather coy mood today, and will not tell me what he has crafted. Perhaps you might twist his arm on my behalf? Of all of us, you might be able to manage the feat. Sir Ornstein is not here to berate the truth from him, after all." Ciaran looks sidelong to the giant and chuckles.

Artorias (182) has posed:
Sif gives a contented wuff as he nuzzles back into Gough's patting, before the wolf's eyes drift closed and he lazes in the warm sun. Artorias gives a good-natured chuckle before taking a seat beside Gough, with Ciaran close by. "Aye, as well as one could hope. The first round of the tournament hast proceeded well for me, and I am surrounded by my caring companions. I could ask for little better!"

While his own face is hidden under oppressive darkness, it's clear how Ciaran's affection affects him. How straight he sits up, how natural his jovial tone sounds! Even the darkness of his armor seems to fade slightly, letting Anor Londo's light glint off of it even more. The Wolf leans over briefly to give Ciaran an affectionate nudge of his shoulder before sitting up again to look between his two companions as they speak.

Another bright laugh rises from the Abysswalker. "Ah, but the anticipation is what maketh the eventual surprise all the more enjoyable, dear Ciaran! We must be as patient as Hawkeye himself if we art to properly appreciate whatever gift he hast composed for us." A pause, then a vaguely helpless shrug. "...a task even I wonder if I am fit for. Ah, Sir Gough, disregard what I hath said. I pray thou dost not keep us waiting for long!"

Gough (268) has posed:
Although Gough doesn't say anything, one can almost imagine his smile (if they could imagine what his features looked like, too) behind the greathelm as Ciaran lights up. It really is touching to see the warmth between those two, and gratifying in its own way, that he's privy to that. He could ask no greater honour than to be their friend!

"Thy words wound me as surely as thy tracers, Lord's Blade." Gough affects a tone of mock disappointment. "I wouldst never be anything but direct..." To Artorias, he laughs heartily. "Very well indeed, Sir, very well indeed! I called thy tournament for thee, and even I was not certain how it would end. Truly, thy strength never fails to impress me!"

There's a snort as Artorias takes Ciaran's side, but it's a playful sound; he had expected as much. "Bah. Thou as well, Sir Artorias? I should have known. Very well, then, if thou cannot learn patience..." Gough adds, good-naturedly.

Carefully, he unfolds a wooden carving from his huge palm, lowering it so that both Artorias and Ciaran can get a good look at it. It is, in a word, breathtaking -- a perfect rendition in the wood of an archtree of both of them standing and holding hands, clad in their armour; for even he does not know what Ciaran looks like without her mask, or Artorias, without his helm. Even so, the details is breathtaking, and each stroke of the knife remarkably evocative.

"Woodcarving is a nuanced art," he says cheerfully. "Go on. Take it. 'Tis for thee. I though it a fitting tribute for thee. Consider it my blessing, if thou must."

Ciaran (396) has posed:
"Should Artorias make it past the second round, we will have to celebrate properly." Ciaran chuckles again, but her grin fades away into awe whenever the carving is produced.

The carving is beheld in reverent silence. Ciaran takes her time in absorbing the details wrought by Gough's careful and attentive hands. Through the glide of a fingertip across the carving's polished surface, she feels the contours and edges of her armor and Artorias's, from the sharp tip of a tracer to the unrelenting force of a greatshield raised in eternal defense. The depiction is one of equals, but also of two whose love has surpassed bloodshed and darkness to outlast the ages.

For as long as Ciaran's gratitude holds Gough's patient gaze, the gentle giant shall feel like he is part of that love -- like he is no longer merely one who protects it, but one who fuels it, too. Ciaran rests her hand on Gough's forearm, and has no adequate words beyond the simplest: "Thank you."

Perhaps her gifts are not all given to the killing of the wicked.

The moment fades to a more bearable sort of heart-wrenching whenever Ciaran looks over and up at the towering Artorias. "A blessing indeed. How ever could we repay you, Gough?"

Artorias (182) has posed:
Artorias is actually struck into silence when he beholds the carving offered to them both. The craftsmanship is excellent, certainly, and it's always incredible to see the level of detail someone as large and strong as Gough can manage to engrave with such minute attention, but that's not the main reason Artorias is so struck.

The trip to Priscilla's iteration of their own world had swiftly informed him of his eventual fate and even the location of his own grave. It was not only the fear of failing in his life's task that weighed upon him then, but the fear of leaving those closest to him. Would he be ended by his pact? Would he harm those close to him? Would he be the first to leave them, and would Ciaran have to live without him by her side? The Wolf endured his unanswered questions and put them aside, but that did not make them weigh any less heavily.

To be granted an image of everlasting endurance in the face of such fears brings a dearly needed reassuring warmth to Artorias's soul.

He finally manages to come through his surprise and accepts the carving, cradling it in his hands as if he were afraid it might break. His voice, when he looks up at Gough, is remarkably quieter than usual. "...an incredible gift indeed. I thank thee, Gough, with all my sincerity."

The Wolf takes a breath, then glances back to Ciaran in turn. "...ah, yes, Ciaran is correct. Thou hast granted us such great blessings, and yet we hath done little for thee. Surely there must be something we may do in turn?"

Gough (268) has posed:
The giant watches as his carving is beheld, and he seems inordinately pleased by the awe in both of his fellow Knights' tones. He can't see their faces, but that's alright; he knows them well enough to read them like an open book by their voices alone.

Every detail is represented faithfully. There are even notches on Artorias' miniature greatsword where the blade had been scarred in battle. To see the carving produced by his own hands, Gough's eye for detail is nothing short of amazing. How such a great big creature can render such minute detail is a mystery, but he seems to do so with just a single large knife. His self-control is nothing short of incredible -- one might expect a creature like him to be a smith, or perhaps a mason; or even a sculptor of bronze. Certainly not something as soft and delicate by comparison as wood!

"Hmmmmm."

It's a thoughtful sound Gough makes when they both implore him to name some kind of repayment. He seems to give the question due consideration. What would a creature like him want? He seems to have everything he needs, and contentment in service to Lord Gwyn and in upstanding, good companions whom he is honoured to count as his friends.

What, then, would he possibly need? He tilts his greathelm-clad head as though he were actually puzzled by the question.

In reality, he's smiling a broad smile behind that helmet. They can't see it, but they can hear it in his voice when he speaks next.

"May I respectfully say thou art foolish, both?" He laughs, then. "Why, what else would I want? Be as thou art. And be happy in one another. That is all the repayment I need ask of thee!"

Ciaran (396) has posed:
Ciaran laughs. "Your price is too easily paid, brother. No one brings me happiness like Artorias." Despite Gough's protestations regarding his fee, the Hornet climbs up atop the wall, lays her fingers to her mask's carved lips, and carries a kiss to Gough's helmeted cheek. Another smile shines in her green eyes before she turns her head to survey the wide world visible from Anor Londo's heights. The winds are high, and set both her braid her skirts to fluttering, but she doesn't seem inclined to keep either from misbehaving. The view is worth a little muss.

The world below is a darker place. Humanity sprawls in its chaotic ways, branching wherever it can. From here, she can see the distant peaks and spires belonging to the Parish and the Burg, the green mass of the Royal Wood, the glint of sunlight on a river's snaking tread. It is not without beauty. While nothing should compare to the calm and comfort she finds in Anor Londo, she realizes now -- thanks to her glimpse at Priscilla's timeline -- that what she once disdained truly could be far worse.

Ciaran's legs fold beneath her, forming a cross-legged seat. She leans back into Gough's broad chest, and listens to the air rumbling in his lungs. The thump of his heartbeat is like home to her.

"I will find a way to repay thee."

Artorias (182) has posed:
Ciaran's laughter is echoed by a softer chuckle from Artorias. With one hand still cradling the carving gifted to both himself and Ciaran, he pushes himself to his feet, steadily rising to his full height. He is still small in comparison to Gough, even when the giant is sitting himself, but at least here his head just crests Hawkeye's shoulders. "So too hath I found no other happiness to compare to that which Ciaran bringeth me. 'Twill be simple as breathing to fulfill thy repayment, dear Gough, that I promise thee."

With a quiet sigh, the Wolf steps over to Gough's other side and lifts his free hand to the giant's shoulder. He is far to small to embrace the massive man, even if his wariness of reaching out so much would permit him to do so in the first place. Indeed, for as outgoing as Artorias is, he is notably protective of his personal space, and reaching out to /anyone/ is something he nearly never does. Certainly, then, even that small gesture should be enough to show his gratitude and appreciation of a dear friend.

Artorias looks over to Ciaran, smiling softly under his shadows as he observes her relaxed contentment. His tone, however, shows a more teasing amusement. "I suggest thou dost not protest, Sir Gough, and prepare to be repaid to Ciaran's satisfaction. Surely thou knowest that she will not rest until her will is carried out in full."

Gough (268) has posed:
"I know. Even were I blind, I would still see that, Lady Ciaran." Gough gives his affirmation with no small amount of amusement. It's obvious in his great big voice; as though he were just on the verge of another one of those hearty laughs. When she presses two fingers to his helm with a kiss, he lets that laugh go. "Ah, thou art generous and kind, Lord's Blade."

He looks out as she admires the view for a moment, but where she might find it a normal view, this is his solemn post. It's here that he's taken potshots at Kalameet for the past... however long it may have been. His sense of time is different from most. He tends not to note its passing quite so keenly as the impatient mortal man; even compared to his fellow Four Knights. It's obvious he's not human, one of the god-like race of Anor Londo's peoples. Maybe he has a bit of the mountain in him! It would certainly explain a lot of details...

"Is that a challenge? Very well, then. I welcome thy attempt," Gough states, with good-natured humour. "Even I would not be able to deter thy path, in any case. Hah hah!"

His helmeted head turns to watch as Artorias steps up to his other side, reaching out to lay his hand on one enormous shoulder. That gesture in and of itself seems to touch Gough; he's silent for a long moment, big head bowing low. For a moment it almost seems as though he can't speak. Few things indeed can reduce even the jovial Hawkeye Gough to speechlessness.

"Thou art of course correct, Sir Artorias. She will find a way, will she not? Ah, dear me. I am almost worried to know what her will in full may be. What dire punishment shall she find?" Still, his words are teasing, and meant in entirely good humour.

Contentment practically radiates from the enormous archer; carefully, he reaches out to rest a big hand over Artorias' shoulder (but gently, for he would not wish to violate personal space) and over Ciaran's shoulder (but gently, for he would not wish to inadvertantly crush the much smaller Lord's Blade).

"Even if the great city of Anor Londo is abandoned," Gough rumbles solemnly, "and even if we still await our Lord's return... I am glad to wait with thee, fellow Knights. Truly, I am blessed to know thee and count thee as my friends. Thy company makes any ordeal bearable; any vigil patiently waited out for knowing that my companions stand with me."