#fm1

Nothing passed through the Crypt without the watchful gaze of the Fenito falling upon it. Not the longest procession trailing from the waters of the shrine above, nor the smallest mite clinging to the filthy rags of a Hollow’s garb. Nothing. Perhaps a particularly stealthy thief could slip past the restless undead, or befuddle the like of the witches of Leydia, but no one escaped the guardian’s watch; not in hundreds of years had the title been relinquished to a younger of his brethren, as this was the duty assigned by the Gravelord. The Grave Warden would be damned before he sullied the name of his kind, or his father, but shirking his ordained task. 

This was why such silent footsteps intrigued him, the sounds almost indiscernible against the soft moan of air trapped in the depths below, trying to escape. No, he might not have heard anything at all, were it not for the brush of fabrics against one another. Clothes, almost assuredly, rubbing together in a noticeable rhythm. Oh, to be a thief in the Castle Drangleic with such capabilities kindred of these.