#soulsfromfire

“‘Tis true, then? By thy ability thou can weasel one’s truest intent?” This caused a broad grin to span beneath the Darkwraith’s billed mask, having to choke back a guffaw at the very notion. Not that she believed against such, but why be honest? Why, with characters as theirs, surely they hadn’t a truly honest bone in their bodies!

This place--in truth, her mother’s creator’s dominion was not one she’d ever wished to venture. But, even with her appointment a Filianore’s handmaiden, she’d been coldly informed that morning of a change in staff and subsequently exiled from the princess’ tower where the maid remained. If her absence was mourned, Yuria couldn’t say. The Duke’s Archives seemed a most hidden place, deep in the belly of Anor Londo and buried where the sun’s light couldn’t even begin to creep. She supposed it was fitting to return to the place of Shira’s making, bastard she was of the Pygmies who were scorned, who crawled from the depths of the earth. 

Channelers and other scholars gossiped scandalously as she approached, vowing to ignore them despite catching snippets of ‘Shira,’ and ‘Midir’ as though those names stung as much as one from the profaned Ringed City could. Her heels clicked upon marble, cavernous as the the gossiping dwindled to near whispers, nearly starting when she saw the sight of the Paledrake himself, looming powerfully and bright in this gloomy place. 

Yet, it was the sight of a king she recognized nearby that started her, taken aback.

Yuria recoiled and gasped dramatically, a clawed hand held with feeble reminiscence of those maidenly ways to her breast. “M’lord, deny it thusly! This maidenly heart mine cannot think hither of such repugnance!” Yuria declared dramatically, feigning a swoon the pardoner would surely see as naught more than dramatized satire.