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Travel Log
Day One
Time of Snow, Twenty Sixth Day, Year Unknown (1)

Your traveler awakes in a prison cell in the North. Temperature is above freezing but still hardly comfortable. She hardly takes notice of course. She could hardly be expected to because she is already dead. Undead. That is what you call her. That is, of course, the word for one in her position. When she rises she scans the room. For what, she cannot be certain, but for now the hilt of a broken sword and a key the 'coroners' missed will have to suffice for the assets column. It will begin growing soon, she believes. The cell door opens easily. It is in disrepair like any other part of the prison. Asylum. That is what it is called. Undead Asylum is the term, of course, for the dilapidated pit of brick and mortar in the northern mountains. Free roam to all inside so long as they stay inside. A more slovenly system she cannot conceive. But she takes no notice. There is work to be done. Much work.

As your traveler progresses through the crumbling path of failed repairs and ancient stone she sees others. Her fellow tenants she supposes. But they are different from her. She can tell instantly. No fire in them. Just husks. Shallow, empty shells of quickly disappearing flesh. She looks down at herself. In time she would probably come to look like them, be like them. She pushes the thought out of her head. It will be a long time yet before she shambles aimlessly and hungers for unrotted flesh and is parched for souls. It will be a long time indeed. So she puts them out of their misery. Can it even be called misery, though? Living on less than instinct, living as less than animals. Disgusting. She would retch and heave at the thought if her post living anatomy allowed it. But thankfully, being dead comes with some perks. So she presses on until she reaches an open courtyard. There is sword struck straight through a standing stone and into the ground itself. Removing it would be quite the feat. One that your traveler is assured that she will never be able to accomplish. But she does recognize the marker. A bonfire. That is, of course, the word for it. A place where the fire of life can spring forth for even the Undead. She might have smiled at this sight once. But instead she sets to work gathering tinder and preparing the flame. She had heard talk of the mystical properties of the bladed beacons but having no experience she could only hope that a normal fire would do. Much to her surprise the tinder catches light without the help of a flint. The touch of a fingertip, brushed against the soot blacked steel was enough. Now she does smile. Quite an interesting spell.

As much as she would like to bask in the warmth of her flame, she knows that the day is not yet over. Indeed, it is far from it. She looks to the grand double doors of what was probably at one time a congregation area or chapel. She opens the doors gingerly and finds it empty as the rest of this place. Some vases scattered about pointlessly, but that appears to be all. It is as she is drinking in her surroundings with great interest that she is finally given a proper greeting to the Asylum. From above drops an enormous demon. That is, of course, the word for it. A being many times hungrier and meaner than the husks of mere slaves. This rotund beast was formed from the regrets and hunger of many more. But strip away that size and it is the same. Just another lost soul. Just another lost cause. She momentarily plays with the idea of fighting it. Testing the weight of the hilt and remaining stub of sword. No. Now is not the time. Not at all. So she digs in her heels and makes a break for it. Going back would be pointless, but going forward might be her salvation. She notices a door ajar. Perfect. Your traveler dashes through it and closes it tight, stealing a last look at the engorged enemy and spitting at it. Without saliva the effect is much diminished, but she felt better for it. But it was time to move on while the beast raged blindly and impotently. Disgusting.

Deeper into the Asylum your traveler goes. As she stalks around the chapel and peers through crumbling windows she sees the beast still. Later. She acquires a real weapon finally. A knife, a long jagged piece with blood deep in the metal. Serviceable. Next she picks her shield. A mere training toy, but it will have to do for now. The husks are growing smarter. Less like tools of hunger and more like wolves. They have even set up traps. Foolish, ill prepared traps, but traps nonetheless. It is almost a shame to slaughter these. Almost. Not once does her blade err or her spirit pause until she passes through a collapsed wall and sets her eyes on the only thing in the Asylum that reminds her of home. A knight. He is not much to look at. On the verge of Hollowing. That, of course, if the word for it. Becoming like those husks. But he is in his own right a beauty to behold. He speaks into the darkness at first. Mouthing nothing to nothing. But upon making her presence known he seems to focus on your traveler. He seems to clear his head for a moment. He is a sad figure. She wants to look away at first. She wants to run and leave him there. For he is the fate of all Undead. He is where she will be at some point. Alone. Weak. Pathetic. It is almost too much. But she stays there. He deserves last words. Everyone does. He comes from a long line of Undead. A long line of people waiting for a prophecy. A long line of people dying for nothing. She frowns as he holds out a hand and she grudgingly takes it. She senses the smile beneath his visor. He probably looks awful under there. Probably almost as bad as he is about to look. In his hand is a small jug. She does not know what to make of this gift at first but her puzzled look must have tipped him off as he started explaining that the estus flask is a container for the flame of life. It will help extend an Undead's sentient life. Prevent Hollowing. Her fingers close tightly around the precious cargo as his slip from it weakly. He tells her that there is no more time and sends her away lest he Hollow there and hurt her. A knight to the end. She thanks him for his kindness and then finishes him. Her knife creeping between the plates of his mail, just beating his last breath. He might not have even noticed it. But she was at least sure that there would be no visitors from behind as she trekked onward.

Finally, she is ready to face the demon. This time, it is she who will make an entrance from above, however. She stands atop the ruined chapel and surveys the demon, now milling about with an air that almost mimics boredom. Filthy beast playing at being human. Just a failure of nature. She spits nothing again. Demons are probably the worst. The lowest of all the hollowed beings. Made from multitudes of lost souls crowding around a single idea or feeling. Following in death as they would in life. Sheep. Cattle. Whatever you call them they are just weakness embodied. Without another thought she jumps down, driving her knife and a good bit of her forearm into the cranium the of the creature. Making sure to twist and rip on her way out. The beast is crippled now. It flails its weapon about helplessly. It leaps up and down and kicks up a fuss, but it is on its last legs. Several careful strikes later and it can no longer even walk. Your traveler stares it right in the eyes before she ends it, tearing its throat from its corpulent neck. Rather than leaving its slovenly heap of a corpse the demon disintegrates into the lost souls that formed it. She frowns contemplatively and then leaves.

Free of the walls of the Asylum your traveler finds herself at the peak of a ridge. The only other occupants of the craggy pass seem to be large crows gifted with speech. They want something soft. Your traveler has nothing of the sort. From the black leather of her armor to the dented metal of her shield. Nothing soft about her. So she presses on, without consorting with the odd birds. When she finally reaches the very edge of the cliff she sighs. All that fighting, and what for? Freedom? No. There is no such thing as going back once you are Undead. She knows that as well as anyone. What now? King of a small hill inhabited with nothing but worms? She contemplated jumping, ending it now. But a black shape catches her eye. It is far off yet, but it is visible even at this distance. It must be huge. Before she has time to confirm the shape zooms up to her.

A crow.

...

She awakes in a patch of grass this time. Rather than getting up she looks around and to her pleasure finds another bonfire. Within reach at that. With the faintest touch it sparks to life. It is warm.