Like the limb of a wanderer caught in the maw of a caiman, Lachrymose's khakkhara caught Artorias' greatsword in its teeth. For those accustomed to Lachrymose's battle applications, seizing a weapon in the mancatcher's end of her weapon was purely defense, if not an outrageous cry for her opponent to cease.

So close, she could hear the Abysswalker's breathing; it was labored. She could nearly feel the madness pouring from his soul like the diseased pus from a festering wound. Indeed, the Abysswalker was mad and Lachrymose, despite her unwavering morale in regards to duty and obligation, almost felt moved to remove him from misery.

"Abysswalker," she exhaled. Her voice, despite the tremendous effort she deposited to prevent his strength from flattening her, was smooth and calm. "I am not your enemy in this." For a deteriorating Lord stripped of his title, he was still a force of nature in his own right. She had to plant her sole deeper into the muck for leverage, but the mire was unkind and held no love for her, no traction, so she slid.

"I've come to put an end to this nonsense; I've come to help. Your compatriate, the Great Wolf - he was abducted by those of my ilk, but understand, they're of a different tutelage. I may only ask of you thrice: sheath your weapon."

She gnashed her teeth together, although her face, still, hid it well. "I'll ask of you twice more." Her eyes, black as the abyss itself, appeared even blacker, "After the last, I'll unmake you."