[center][h2][color=Mediumslateblue]Arghast, Herald of the Abyss[/color][/h2]

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The crust of Lordran is thick. It suffocates the blinding light from the ill-gotten sun, envelops the bones and the pasts of those who've treaded its breadth. When its threshold is crossed, however, it can be observed seizing much more than these things physical. In New Londo, time seems further distorted than it does in the remainder of the ancient land of the lords. Light appears where none should exist, and sometimes renders itself abysmally dark without reason. As Arghast waded into the elevating contraption from New Londo, and saw that no light from the sun had flooded down the shaft, he knew that the glorious night had come.

Stepping aboard the otherworldly platform, the recognizable shift of the pressure plate triggering the timeless cogs was heard. Arghast always savored this ascension to the surface; not because it brought him to the Shrine, but because it so closely resembled his visions of entering the Abyss. The chains and the earth tugged the elevator platform upwards, past enumerable rows of small, disintegrated statues. First slowly, then picking up to a breakneck speed that truly impressed upon its rider how far below the surface the ruined city lied, as if in another realm.

The platform shrieked to a stop, a fine mist of dust and debris flying through the uneven crevices of the platform as its velocity ended. Arghast hoisted his hatchet over one shoulder, and his foul blade over the other, trapsing lackadaisically outwards and up the first flight of stairs to Firelink Shrine. The moon was bold tonight, hanging over that foreboding wall far above here, over the gaping ravine below. Reaching the first landing, Arghast observed the glow of the bonfire on the tree that hung over it, its tone was a far deeper orange than most nights, its embers rising higher into the air. 

Voices were not uncommon - the sentimental Firekeeper, the guileless priestess, and some wretched undead, staring into the flames, hoping to find purpose within those failing flickers. There were, however, several voices. Wholly new to him. And a [i]smell[/i], somewhat unlike the mad butchers of below would concoct. Arghast had not been to the shrine for some time, had not been to the surface, in fact. These would be new souls, to him. His cruel, metallic greaves creaked lightly as he leaned against the second set of stairs beneath the shrine, decidedly eavesdropping before making himself wholly present.