she burrows her spade, rusted and well - used, into the soil at her feet before she stands. swiftly, she rids herself of the dust. β of you, yes . . . nothing more. β her eyes wander between him and his companion. there is but a short tug in her mind to reach out and let sif take a sniff. she doesn't, though. the wolf seems much to dignified by the knight's side to stoop low enough for these interactions. aryn looks back to artorias, eyebrows rise in question. β the rest is nothing but rumors, i'm afraid. there are no reliable witnesses. β there must be more & he must know. she's sure of it but will not press. the fate of this townstead is none of her business . . . if she manages to flee before the great cataclysm ahead.
it is surprise that takes a hold of her when he speaks again. a knight of his renown would bolster his opinion with her information ? a mere stranger in such a strange place. aryn hasn't been here for long, maybe a few weeks in total, less than two months. still, she complies. gloved hands disappear into the woven bag on her hip and she retrieves a bundle of dried herbs. the luster of them is lost, replaced by a sickening tint and darkened veins across leaves. β the plants are dying, even those i keep within pots. it's not the soil. β dried herbs might not be the best example. their discoloration must surely convey itself even in their current state. β i fear it's the air. β she offers the bundle upon an open palm. β and we're breathing it. β she, the citizens . . . everyone within these forsaken walls.
Artorias regards the woman with restrained curiosity. She wears items known to him; things he has seen carried by others throughout his travels of Lordran. An herbalist, he thinks; the bushel of herbs pulled from a pouch at her waist draws his attention. β You should not carry abyss-touched plants on you, β The knight warns, his metal-plated hand taking the bundle from her hands with an uncharacteristic gentleness. To his eyes, he brings the leaves, inspecting the blight that's withered them. β You an herbalist? I imagine my request of you will not be easy. I understand, that in spite of what is occurring, you must make your living. What I ask is that you be mindful, β
His eyes remain locked on the dying leaves, and what he knows to be the abyss choking the veins of whatever life the meagre plant might have had. Hand lowers to Sif, allowing her a moment to sniff before he retains the bushel in a pouch of his own. β I will keep these. For my own purposes. It is important I understand how far thisβ¦ sickness, has spread. β Artorias stumbles over the word β sickness. In truth, diagnosing what spreads around them with such a term is insufficient; a gross inadequacy. He continues on, carefully, β I do not wish to alarm you, but I must be frank. I have encountered a similarβ¦ occurrence, elsewhere in Lordran. The remnants of it still potent years after the city's collapse. It will not be easy to eradicate this, nor is it easy to avoid. The corruption has started, but it, Gwyn willing, can be subdued. No matter the difficulty, I will see it done. β
As he speaks, he rests his hand on Sif's head; she whines, panting softly as her ear is scratched. Artorias looks to the wolf, a weary smile on his face. Once again, we must face this darkness. His gaze focuses on the woman, now resolute, β What is your name? I am curious what brought you here. β
