A pained howl cuts through the cold night, followed by a swift crunch of steel and the ever present tearing of flesh.

A howl that shatters the silence. It echoes through the air, the sound sending a chill crawling up the spine of brave men. The beast roams tonight.

A mad howl tears through the air, a sound born of sorrow and fury. A beast that was once man awakens, his blade heavy and rusted by blood. The Abysswalker is waking, his mind further cracking and vanishing into the darkness.

You ever think the reason Artorias' arm is always limp is because some part of him is still kicking around in that helm and is giving the Chosen Undead a handicap so they can kill him. That probably doesn't work with the more, but I think about this.

The crunch of steel buckling inward, another soul's armor torn aaunder under the wieght of his blade. Blood pools to the ground as he draws free of his latest opponent, leaving their body to fall to the ground. He continues on, shambling back into the mist once more.

A low growl, the Abysswalker still stalking around. There are no undead to challenge him, no undead to either fall to his sword or release him from his torment. So he continues on, as he always has.

Hmm! Ah, oh… hello there. Forgive me, I was just pondering… about my poor fortune.

A low, rumbling growl. The Abysswalker moves through the mist like a phantom, a monstrous shadow bound to life through the darkness and enslaved by its mad call. He continues wandering. He knows not where he goes. All he knows is that he must move.

[Sudden desire to make a Ser Alonne account . . . hrm . . .]

How things go: *See Artorias. *Fight Artorias. *Quickly learn that fighting Artorias is not a Fun Time.

To never die, engulfed by darkness. He waits for the Chosen Undead, doomed to kill them and die by their hand. The Abyss takes and keeps all who dare stand against it.

A mad howl splits the air, the crunch of steel as his blade cleaves another in twain. How many have died to his blade today? He cannot remember. All he knows is that he must keep fighting. He must . . .

The darkness consumes more of him. He dies to only be reborn, he kills only to find no triumph. The darkness consumes all. The Abyss consumes and soon he will have nothing more to give, nothing more to have devoured. What then?

Sometimes . . . he remembers . . . warmth. Companionship. He cannot remember their names. Their faces. It slips away from him, back into the shadows.

Now there is only the Abyss. He drifts in and out of it, pulled out by the harsh singing of clashing steel and drawn back by the spilling of blood. It does not matter if it is his or his enemy's. He must fight. He must . . . but he cannot remember what he fought for.

Knight Artorias. Artorias The Abysswalker. Names means nothing. His past means nothing. His sword, once the bane of the dark, now spreads it like a plague. The darkness call and he must answer. He must . . .

A roar, a howl of anguish and the scream of another soul slain by that cursed greatsword. He continues on.

He pauses. There is silence, hanging in the air like a hangman's noose. However, soon the fallen knight moves on. Onwards, ever onwards . . .

He moves like a phantom, wandering through a dense fog that mever seems to lift. It is quiet, the undead having not dared to come seek battle with him today. There is only the sound of his footsteps and the creak and groan of his armor.

A scream. A roar. Madness eating away at the vestiges of a mind long lost to the Abyss. Yet, deep within the darkness, within that mire of black tar, struggles still a flickering light. The beast roars, but it does not silence the man's screams of defiance. Not yet.