On the outskirts of Lordran, in the deep hours of night, Lord’s Blade Ciaran stalked her way back towards Anor Londo after another successful mission. Her target had been a seditious noble attempting to lie low amongst the commonfolk in a town far out of reach of Gwyn’s knights--or so he had thought. Ciaran had cut him down in the middle of the town square. A warning--nowhere is beyond the reach of the Lord’s Blade.
Before reporting back to her Lord Gwyn, The Hornet Knight made a small detour. She had heard reports that a nearby town was being terrorized by bandits. A problem far below her responsibilities, certainly, but she told herself it would be easier to solve things herself rather than burden any of the silver knights with it. Besides, it could take them weeks to respond.
Ciaran spent some time scouting out the town from the shadows before making her approach. She noted their defenses: a wall made of wooden logs with sharpened points and a few guardsmen patrolling the perimeter with torches.
She was moving closer to question one of the guards when she spotted him--a man that towered several heads above the rest. He had a familiar thin physique and a thick mop of hair that reminded her of someone that had been dead for almost three years. And his armor…
Ciaran froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Could it be?
She made a beeline for him, striding straight out of the darkness and spooking a nearby guardsman. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of him, craning her neck upwards to peer into his deep blue eyes. The eyes of a ghost. It was at this moment that Ciaran found herself grateful for her mask. It’s expressionless porcelain obscured her look of bewilderment underneath. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, the Hornet Knight stood motionless, staring up at the face of her dear friend with her hands balled into tight fists.
