Any and all who ventured within this domain sought death; gravest of penalties for such injustices. To tread upon the Valley was blasphemy — futile resistance to the Pontiff’s reign. Still relentlessly Unkindled pursued this land. The eye upon her finger singing to her; melodic words humming within her helm as she strode towards the shimmering gate of Irithyll. Beyond, crossing, she could see a figure walking closer. This is what the eye had sung of. Another restless thing meandering towards death. Knuckles cracked audible as fingers curled about the hilts of her daggers.
Once within close enough range, the Dancer instructed them with a whisk of her hands to remain on the other side of the invisible gate. For if words could pass, perhaps one could be spared.
@embodiment-of-sloth











