it would make her happy

Sccccchink! The sound of the whetstone running down the blade of the old sword was the only sound in the armory besides the crackle of the fire in the forge. A look of hard focus and perseverance adorned Artorias' face as he ran the stone down the sword again and again, sharpening its edges and point to the greatest lethality. Each stroke that honed the blade came with a flashback of his mortal nemesis with it; the bastard's sick smile, his laugh, his teeth and claws... But the part that hurt the most was the loss of his sword. Embershard was in the paws of a monster that had terrorized his family, probably stashed away like a trophy, or sold off for whatever the fucker liked to spend money on. His heart wrenched to realize he would never see his sword again. It made Artorias feel useless, powerless, like he'd failed his family. Worse, he'd failed his mother and dishonored her memory when he lost the gift she'd given him on the verge of death.

Satisfied with his work, Artorias set the whetstone down and hefted the sword up in his jaws. The balance was all off, the leather wrapping was peeling away on the hilt, and it just felt... wrong. Artorias gave a couple of experimental swings, then felt the leather binding rip against his teeth and he lost his grip, the sword clattering to the stone floor. The dark-furred brute glowered at the sword as if it offended him simply by existing, then swatted it away with a bang of metal against stone. He growled in frustration and anger, stalking his way out of the armory. No matter what he did to try and replace his sword, nothing fit, nothing felt right, and it just reminded him of what a failure and an imposter he was. He was no knight.

As if the fates conspired to somehow make his mood even worse, Artorias saw the form of the large brown and white stranger sitting before the great hearth, seemingly waiting for someone. No doubt his sister, he was sure. A frown pulled at the wolf's lips, and for a brief moment he considered simply walking by without saying a word, but then what kind of alpha and host would he be? Sure, this wolf might not have been invited into the Hallows per the laws of the pack, but he was still here, the Hallows had been meant to be open to all, and he was someone of importance to Bowen. The least he could do was be cordial. Striding across the stone floor with his clicking claws echoing around the vast empty hall, Artorias regarded the stranger with a nod of his head and guarded eyes.

"Sir," he greeted the stranger. "If you're looking for Bowen, you might try the beach. She's very fond of the ocean."

"Artorias Carpathius" | "Corbin" | "Argent"