Of eons past, my dear

We grow old and

"What is it? Fear?"

It sounds the Orellee

And a beat or two, and the

Spider queen is...

beat.

We push forward, 'cross the chasm.

Quite bereft, Paul the Bard.

Will make it true, that as we fight

It does not matter, try as I might.

Three powerful Souls came from the dark.

The first of the Dead, named us so

And so we hold, as days grow cold.

The Second was claimed, by witches of Gwyn.

Forbiden magic, Izalith within.

As the Flame does fade,

And Myths shall win.

It's Dark, it's Dark, is all I hear

But a plea for help, from Artorias

Who walks the Abyss.

Unpus your hand, and here's your shield.

Artorias, you're kinda, sorta...

Like me...