#desert-warmth

░ ► Trail of dead hollows lead to the knight, one leaning against a mossy wall with crossed arms. Her chin pointed down towards her chest as if vulnerably asleep. Perhaps, those unfortunate around the floor assumed the same - if they even had any comprehension left.

“Current lord of what?” - the desert woman thought as she lowered her mirror catalyst. “What have you forgot in these lands, Roza Bloodriver? The Harvest Valley isn’t safe for the little ones.”

“Where is she?” 

The last word was spoken with something akin to a growl, the knightess striding forward with the scent of iron and ash accompanying her pace. For those unfamiliar with the woman, it would seem her the aggressor but given patience and time, the mystery would perhaps be unraveled. At least for the current situation...  “I’ll speak plainly: you tell me where my sister is and I’ll forget you exist for the time being.” Her tone had taken an authoritative tone, one would expect from a lordling or someone of similar station. With her helm off, the piercing and violet gaze of Jenessa Mercier bore into the desert sorceress. The scar on her left eyes was thrown into sharp relief with the current light, Jenessa’s brow furrowed as she glared at the woman before her. “Or I abandon restraint and patience, testing how long it takes a flame to reduce someone to ash. What say you?”

“Is that so? Why, I like her now… I’ll will kill her last~”

Drangleic. A land so devoid of gods, of worship, so removed from the old tales that even the Abyss scarred Lord's Blade could go largely un-noticed, save the manic prayer of the occasional cleric, who upon recognizing her shoved themselves into the closest hovel and pleaded to their particular God of choosing for her to spare their life. (Though Ciaran would never admit so, those were her favorite Undead. Though useless and pathetically human, they are a most earnest form of entertainment for the Divine.) Among these praying folk, she hears faint whispers of worship of a Sunlight God. The Sunlight, the incantations of her own ancient tongue, who's prayers invoke the mighty bolts of Lightning which peeled back the stone scales of ancient Archdragons.  Perhaps, a chance at returning homeward to her own Lordran, or simply a familiar face among the endless expanse of dead and dying.

Harvest Valley, she is told, is the source of such miracles, and it is to Harvest Valley she goes, finding nothing save hammer wielding behemoths with stomachs akin to Smough, and massive leviathans, riders atop, flinging perverse sorceries steeped in Darkness. Not a single sentient soul.. how.. dissapointing. The blackened eyes of the ancient Knightess scan around the poison pit, seeing something distinctly.. feminine, moving in the distance. Unsure of friend or foe, her footsteps grow silent, body methodical as she approaches the sorceress, observing.