An unsettling wind passed through the Firelink Shrine, fanning the bonfire into a wild dance of flame that licked at the bottom of the cast iron cauldron seated upon it. A mouth-watering aroma of braised beef stew wafted through the crisp, cold air. A woman dressed in a pitch black shawl that gently wrapped over her head stirred the pot slowly, watching the thick consistency of the broth practically cling to the spoon. Delwyn couldn't help but notice that the stew looked less than appetizing, but the smell was enough to bring back memories. The woman who he had come to know as the Masked Firekeeper, named after her porcelain mask in the shape of a crow's beak, turned to him and spoke in her gentle, foreign accent.
"I know that look, lad," She spoke whilst scooping up ladles of stew into a clay bowl, "Thinking about the past are we? Heed my advice and savor those memories. Consider yourself lucky to still be able to hold onto them in this wretched land". She handed the bowl to Delwyn. As he stared into the stew it only reinforced his memories of home. Without a moments hesitation he quickly put down his bowl and began scribbling notes down into his catalyst. The Firekeeper chuckled.

"There you go again with that journal of yours. Part of me considers prying into why you're so adamant about it. Though to be perfectly honest, such an exchange would be interpreted as a desire to grow closer to you. I'd prefer to avoid that if possible". After Delwyn finished writing down his recollection of memories into the catalyst, he stared up at the Keeper whilst indulging in a mouthful of stew.
"I believe sharing a meal with someone would constitute as a sign of companionship. This is delicious, by the way". As an undead, Delwyn had no need to eat. All he fed off of were souls now; souls and humanity. However being brought back to a simpler time by the home cooked meal was rather comforting. The Keeper continued to fill bowls of soup to spread around to the other undead who Delwyn had recently come into acquaintance with.
"Bah, do not flatter yourselves. This bonfire is my home. I happened to be preparing supper for myself. I didn't ask for you noisy lot to intrude". After filling bowls for everyone, the Keeper took a seat and reserved a bowl for herself. Delwyn knew she wouldn't eat in front of them; that would require the removal of the mask she was so fond of. Even despite the comforting meal, Delwyn still felt himself shiver under the cold night breeze. He stared up at the moon, wondering when the next time he would eat with Margaret and Isabella again.

Graciously accepting the meal Gerhard immediately began stuffing his face. Such a warm aroma, such tender meat! It did not matter that the man had long been undead, he could not possibly go without eating delicious meals like this one. In fact, he recalls himself to be a rather well endowed dabbling chef! Though the accuracy of those memories could easily be brought in question.

Scanning around the cropping of stone he looks over those of similar circumstance to himself. A young woman with a glazed look in her eyes, one that hid darkness of times immemorial. A man, no, an enigma robed in cloths of yellow hew, paranoid and distrusting. Those robes radiate an odd an chilling aura. A young and honorable prince of the lands known as Balder, seeking to cure this curse, much like Gerhard. Yet another woman of young age, disconnected from the goings on about her. And the frail student of magic, yet another young one.

Finally placing his clay bowl to the side after cleaning it dry, he drenches out his mustache and speaks speaks solemnly and yet a great amount of trust lies in his words, "I do not know the lot of you well, but I say from looks about, you're all kind hearted. Why must this curse be so very fair?" he raises, "To strike men, women, and children so indiscriminately. Why could it not 'ave taken the firm of body and mind, those who could truly put an end to it." After a moment of silence he adds, "That'd be to easy, no?" Finally he gives a warm smile that sits at home upon his face.

"It would be, sir." said Alaric, only barely touching his food. Not that it wasn't delicious, Alaric didn't have the taste for food he used to have before... dying. It was still a hard word to say, despite everything that has happened. His father was gone. All of his friends were hollow. Home was a memory. And here I am, fighting off despair.

"But easy is the last word I would use to describe this place." he said before finally finishing his bowl and setting it down. The prince reached for his claymore and began to take a whetstone to it. "I cannot help but notice, sir, that you carry no blade. Are you planning on punching the undead with barefists?" Surely an impressive thing to see, if it was true.

Gerhard turns to the prince and gives a few cursory flexes to show off the chiseled physique that he holds before speaking up again, "That was the plan child. Never have I been one for steel, no, I remember being a man of might. Especially skilled in the way of wrestling and grappling." He settles down a bit, and adds, "Though I've also never been one for fighting. If it comes down to it, I do what must be done." The strongman chuckles to lighten the mood, looking again at Alaric, feeling some sense of familiarity with his personality and stature though not for the boy in particular, "And what of you young prince?"

After asking in kind Gerhard's mind wanders off before hearing the answer. Again glancing between all those with him. Truly this is a curse, most of the men and women here appear as mere children to his eyes, even though the man is only roughly twenty years older.

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 smell, 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.

Saira was the very image of Eastern formality as she sat in a kneeling posture on a patch of grass, bowl perfectly balanced in her two hands, taking in her fill of the meaty stew without as much as a spilled drop. Even though as an Undead she had no need of sustenance like the living, there was a strange amount of comfort in carrying out the motions of one who was still living. Perhaps it was an inherent need of all undead to relive certain parts of their past lives that they felt compelled to consume food and nourishment even though souls were what they now truly desired.

"Bah, do not flatter yourselves. This bonfire is my home. I happened to be preparing supper for myself. I didn't ask for you noisy lot to intrude" Saira overheard the Masked Firekeeper respond with disdain at the man dressed in white, who was busy writing into his book while taking in another mouthful of his stew.

Saira carefully lowered the bowl towards her knees as she looked towards the masked woman, while a rather large mustached man nearby noisily downed the rest of his stew.

"This meal is most delicious, I offer my greatest thanks for your generous hospitality." Saira said in a calm tone of formality with as much of a bow as her posture would allow without disturbing the stew inside the bowl she held. Before Saira could bring the bowl to her lips once more to finish the remaining stew, a distinct sound of metal upon stone rang out quietly some distance away, resembling deliberately muted footsteps. Before the sounds became more audible, they abruptly stopped.

"Another appears, it seems. Please, feel free to join this little group of lost souls." Saira spoke out loud to the new presence as she brought up the bowl of stew, decisively finishing the remains contained within.

Quite suddenly there was a sound of rushing air in the night, perhaps nothing of note given that there were darkly colored animals that would fly under cover of the night, as well as the occasional wind that would muddle such sounds from listeners. No, what mattered more was that this mix of whooshing air and flapping wings was accompanied by a voice... A voice that proclaimed 'wooooOOOOO!' as it came closer very quickly "OOOO-WHUD!" only to suddenly terminate as something white impacted the ground just on the other side of the nearby well. "Ow..." Then the figure sprung to their feet and called out "Your aim's getting better!" before making some sort of throwing motion, though aside from being a bag it'd be hard to guess in the middle of the night just what might have been thrown, but the next moment brought more air and wings and a short caw as something caught it then fluttered off somewhere.

Finally they turned to the bonfire and started calmly walking towards the group "Heh, he acts all hard, but he's a nice bird... Oh, wall lookeh hear, strengers!" His accent changed completely as soon as he'd noticed the group, though he continued right on until he sat himself down to collect a bowl... or more accurately, he rolled the over-sized bow of of his back and jammed it's pointed end into the ground and perched himself amidst it's strong chords in a sitting position. "Aye, whut a motleh crew ye'all ar!... M'ah interupt'n anythin?" what an odd-ball this must be, though perhaps strangest was the helmet that seemed to be an eye that stared at everyone at once, or more accurately, seemed to stare back at anyone who actually looked at 'it'.

The bonfire's light had drawn Lucas as it always did. When he found the small flame he felt the familiar warmth of the bonfire. He didn't want that feeling to disappear, and using a small vial he stowed the flame. Afraid it might be stolen he cut open his chest, and stashed the vial there, close to the spot where his chest thumped when he ran too long or became to excited. He didn't want to lose the warmth, he wanted to carry it with him, always.

Sitting by the bonfire now, he felt that warmth more intensely. There were others. They seemed different. Since coming here, wherever this place was, Lucas still wasn't sure, everyone had either ignored him or tried to kill him. They never talked they just moaned. They reminded him of some of the slaves who had worked the mines for many years. Distant and unaware. But these people were different.

He was squatting on a fallen log picking at a scab on his cheek presently. The skin around it was tender, and with time to let his broken thoughts wander an itch had awakened. His fingernails were cracked with dry blood and dirt, but it was their shortness that was giving him trouble. They were too short to get under the scab to peel it off. The activity bothered the nail, and a bright red trickled from under his inefficient nails, smearing on his cheek. He didn't notice.

“Ugh, itchy!” he whined.

He was used to being ignored. He had been most of his life, this time, however, his eyes went wide with bewilderment when the masked figure, Lucas wasn't sure if it was a man or woman, handed him a bowl full of stew as if his whining had been some sort of command.

“Fo-For me?”

When the figure nodded he grabbed the bowl greedily, giggling, and attacked the stew. He was good at being quiet and sneaking about, he had learned early the finer points of being a street thief. He was not quiet now. He devoured the stew noisily, slurping and hooting, licking the bowl clean. His oddly clean teeth now dripped with the stews broth as he smiled childishly.

The big man was talking. Lucas found him funny. He didn't have a reason. He just was. He was talking to another man, he looked like someone important. He had seen many similar looking men on the streets and they always looked like they owned the place. This one looked sad.

They were talking about fighting. The big one had no weapon. He said he didn't fight with steel. Neither did Lucas. He had a nice little bone dagger safely tucked away. But the man's boasts about fighting with his hands reminded Lucas of the guards who used to kick him when he tried to steal the boots off of a corpse. He never understood what the issue was. Lucas needed boots and that guy didn't need his anymore.

The sound of clanging metal somewhere barely out of earshot caught hold of Lucas' attention for the briefest of moments, and he jerked his head towards the direction it had come from. The breeze happened along at the same moment, and the smell of the stew flooded his nostrils, distracting him from the metallic sound.

Holding out his arm, bowl in hand, wide eyed with happiness, and a big toothy smile, he asked “More please!”

The midnight wings of the raven temporarily occluded the moonlight, shrouding the stairwell where Arghast stood. Still more voices lingered, boisterous and ripe with comradery.
Indeed, even as he lurked beneath the bonfire, a new undead seemed to be delivered from the obsidian sky. Arghast wondered how long he'd been absent from the surface, for Firelink Shrine to have begun to harbor such numbers. His curiosity was satiated by a most simplistic of notions; that his coveting of humanity may yet be requited by. With this, he banished any inquiring thought. He suspected, by their nature, that some party of faithful undead had freed themselves from the asylum. Perhaps that snow-capped dungeon had collapsed altogether; toppled from that high cliff where it stood its silent vigil against the curse.

Arghast awoke himself from the fancy, keen that his presence had been made known to the group, and sought not to tarry. He was now, as so many times before, another mere nomad of Lordran; impartial, guideless. Rising from his reclined posture, he brought both axe and blade to level, and started up the stairs, his footsteps now even and solid upon the corroded stone. Nearing the culmination of the staircase, his arm instinctively rose to cover his view plate from the unfamiliar radiation from the bonfire before clearing the final few steps.

His was a ghastly a sight as ever to behold. What the dimness below had done to conceal his appearance, the embers of the flame undid. His armor, which appeared a sort of charcoal black when pierced with light, allowed its every jagged crevice to be illuminated. The repellent design of a skull upon his helmet stared upon the band blankly; spattered across its side were traces of old blood. Also bleached in the sanguine liquid were his hatchet and sword, both making apparent their relative age and lengthy degree of use. Perhaps most off-putting of his aura was the mass of leathery tissue, appearing torn, bruised, scarred and gashed, that implicated itself as his skin. In the incandescence of the flame, a sickly grey tone was seen about the aged segments of wounded flesh, whereas new sores appeared glazed with a membranous liquid, suffocating in the open air.

This wraith scanned the patrons of the bonfire, focusing on none for much longer than a few moments, as they in turn watched him. His eyes fell finally upon the Firekeeper, whom he eyed with some undecipherable vexation beneath his helmet. Arghast allowed the hilts of his weapons to loosen in his hands, letting their offensive side lightly tap the ground, as to suggestive passiveness.

Taking notice of the odd new arrival, a man draped in what appeared to be innumerable strips of paper by the fire light as well as a headache inducing sphere upon the man's head, Gerhard simply flashes a warm smile and holds up a bowl of the dwindling stew stock before speaking, "No, no, no, you are just in time friend!" The strongman could not bear to stare into the orb for much longer, thus returning to he and the young prince's conversation whilst grumbling something about the importance of seeing one another's face.

Continuing his flexes of incredible manly nature there appears to be yet another new comer, a creature encased in a blackened shell dimly illuminated by the bonfire, its vile instruments in tow. The man glares to and fro finally locking gazes with the masked woman. Gerhard scans the man intently, looking over the fiendish visage striding towards the group, his vision obscurred for but a moment as a child dashes by. The strongman does what anyone would do, welcome the man of course! "Aha! Another late comer, you've come at de opportune moment!" He pauses briefly to gesture at the last remnants of the stew. "A lucky one you are." Gerhard belts out a hearty laugh and pats the ruined stone beside him as to welcome the sickly husk of a man, for that is all it must be, a horrid shell with a creamy center, yes?

"What of me?" said Alaric, still sharpening his blade. "I've seen enough death to last several lifetimes, and the last thing I am afraid of is getting my hands dirty." The prince wanted to say more, until the newcomers arrived. The first two, an odd looking man covered head to toe in a cloak and a what appeared to be a young boy (Alaric wasnt sure of his age) came in an accepted seats. The third man, however, stood back and watched.

As soon as the prince of Balder lay eyes on him, he could sense the man's depravity. His skin was a mass of scars and pus filled sores, his helmet was that of a skull. Alaric felt his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword, and even as the man seem to lower his weapons, the prince still wanted to attack him. Still, using his very best self control, he relaxed. This was not a man to be trusted. he thought to himself, even as the older mustached man from before walked up to and welcomed the dark man.

Several new arrivals had now appeared around the bonfire, perhaps they were each drawn to the Shrine by the warm glow of the bonfire's flames, or the savory aroma of the Firekeeper's stew cooking in the pot. Or perhaps, they were drawn towards the large collection of souls presently gathered...

With her bowl long emptied, Saira remained in her kneeling position away from all the new commotion, quietly absorbed in her idle thoughts. As the muscle-bound man warmly welcomed the new arrivals as each neared the bonfire, it became clear to Saira that the gathering of so many undead, each with their humanity apparently intact, could not possibly have been due to pure chance or accident. Something had drawn them all together into this one place, but one unanswered question remained - for what purpose?

Of the three newcomers, one particularly massive figure remained standing where he first appeared. Barely tilting her head a few degrees to the side to catch a better glimpse at the newcomer, the sight that met Saira's eyes was a truly frightening and grotesque figure that would haunt the nightmares of even the most hardened warriors. Despite this individual's fearsome appearance, he was clearly no Hollow, as he stood silently and composed, clearly under control of his own mind and actions.

However, one of the fellow undead, the young princely man, seemed particularly apprehensive. His gaze was fixed upon the fearsome figure's disfigured and misshapen features, and his hand was at the ready near the hilt of his sword. Clearly, some element of fear was affecting the man's thoughts.

"You have nothing to fear, for you are safe amongst friends and allies. And as are you, newcomer, if you consider yourself a friend to us." Saira spoke calmly and cooly to both the princely man and the fearsome-looking individual, briefly glancing at each one with an expression of pure tranquility.

Without a clear and present danger, Saira returned her glance towards the bonfire which continued to burn in the distance before her, allowing her mind and thoughts to peacefully fade into the brightly burning flames.

So long had Arghast been privy to the absolute silence of New Londo; the only voices which had pervaded the confines of that dread helmet were those of Caitlyn, and the whispers which floated about the ruins, forgotten utterances of agony in their ancient fate. He hesitated, perhaps longer than he should have, at these new voices.

Freeing himself from this vexation, his voided gaze turned from the Firekeeper to each undead as they spoke in turn. Arghast made several small strides to end up beneath the trunk of that withered tree which dangled its appendages above the wispy flame. He'd failed outright to keep from startling the group in one way or another; that grim skull now aimed towards the most anxious of the undead, a young soul clad in practical, unembellished armor, and one who channeled his temperament through the hilt of his blade.

Looking back to the colossus of a man, to whom Arghast stood only somewhat slightly shorter, who had greeted him, he spoke. His words, partially muffled by the sickening helmet encased about his head, were spun from a rough, older voice and manner of speech which carried a fatigued tone.

"I thank you..", he uttered, "..and implore you not find my demeanor chary." Arghast moved, slowly, to sit upon the upgrounded roots of the tree, laying his sword to the stone while keeping a hold of his axe. The empty estus flask, which clanked lightly against the shattered stone steps, settled itself at his side as he sat. His head dipped, appearing to stare into the otherworldly ember of the bonfire, his hidden eyes, however, drifted upwards to examine each undead.

"Nary so many a souls as this have I seen before..miraculous.".

The atmosphere of the Firelink Shrine grew tense with the new arrival of the man wearing a skull, and Delwyn could see by the way the young prince grasped his blade that he wasn't the only one who felt it. Delwyn put his bowl of stew down beside him; unnerved by the arrival of such an ominous guest. When the others began to welcome him into the group without delay, he couldn't help but feel guilty. Delwyn was not the type of person to be swayed by appearances so easily. Perhaps his time in Lordran had just put him more on edge than usual. The Masked Firekeeper also took note of Alaric's subtle note of distrust.
"Aye young prince. You be wise to not trust strange men. Especially in this land of all places," The Keeper chuckled, gently tapping the hilt of her sheathed weapon. "The bonfire is my home; and my home is a sanctuary to the cursed. Worry not for your own safety while you reside with me. Any who wish to defile the sanctity of the flame will answer to my cold steel." The threat was directed to everyone sitting at the bonfire; not just the strange man who had appeared. Delwyn did not see the Firekeeper as the fighting sort, yet her words held an odd sense of power to them that would surely make even the strongest of men quiver in fear. Although something about her statement seemed off to him.
"So, while we sit here at your flame you are our guardian. Am I to assume that once we depart, you'll care not what happens to us? Even if we do, and please do not take offense," he quickly turned to the newcomer, "end up finding ourselves travelling with a potential threat? If you will forgive the rash implication, I am sure you are just another weary traveler."

The Keeper, growing impatient with Delwyn's babbling, spoke up.
"You catch on fast, Chronicler. Do not mistake me for your nurse, or your caretaker; or innkeeper for that matter. I guard the bonfire because it is sacred and because I was chosen to do so. I hold no grudge against any of you, but do not expect me to care if you hollow or not. If you want my honest opinion; you'll all hollow within one moon cycle. You may even hollow faster than that foolish king and his herd of lamb which he arrogantly lead to the slaughterhouse." Her cold gaze shifted towards Alaric once more, "Let us hope the apple fell far far away from that tree."
"Do not speak so harshly!" Before Delwyn could stop himself, he found himself confronting the Firekeeper on foot. His legs were shaking and every part of his mind was telling him to stop talking. "The boy has only recently lost his father to this awful curse. You may not care for us, but please find it within yourself to not tarnish the memory of a young man's father!" Delwyn stood there, feeling slightly nauseous. When he had realised what he had just done he immediately sat down and lowered his head towards the Keeper as a sign of atonement.
"Please forgive me. With all of your hospitality, I should not be so rude. I greatly appreciate all your help and would never ask any more of you."

The Keeper was silent, taking not of the young Lucas who was begging for more food. With a sigh, she handed the poor soul her own bowl of stew. After satisfying him, she turned and began giggling like a child.
"Perhaps you lot will last two moon cycles instead." The sound of the Keeper's cackling faded into the night with the embers of the bonfire.

Perhaps it was because generosity was an uncommon occurrence for Lucas, but when the masked figure, which from the voice he presumed to be a woman, offered him her own bowl, he felt something. Was it guilt? He didn't dwell on it as he happily grabbed the bowl.

“Hahaha! Thank you very much!” He gave the masked woman his biggest smile. Despite her harsh words towards the important looking man, she didn't seem that mean spirited to Lucas. The free food, of course, helped color his opinion.

Watching over the brim of the bowl as he devoured his second portion of stew, he observed the mounting tension that the skull clad man had summoned with his arrival. He looked mean spirited. His entire frame was bleeding violence, some he had obviously been on the receiving end of. He eyed the stains on the man's weapons nervously, they carried with them the tension in the air. Alarm was contagious it seemed.

But the skull faced man wasn't the only new arrival, and this one's manner of entry was rather unusual. He had seen the giant bird fly over, briefly illuminated by the fire's light, at the same time as he made his own approach. This man looked strange while the other looked lethal. What was strange was the eye on the man's helmet. Lucas found it captivating. After finishing his stew, he stared intensely at it, wondering if it would blink.

By his third blink he gave up. It either never blinked, or Lucas concluded, only when he did. Frustrated with the peculiar eye Lucas rolled off the log he was resting on, and crept on all fours closer to the skull man. He was wary of the axe the man still held, but there was something about him, more than just the horror his appearance bled. Keeping his distance, mindful of the axe, Lucas closed his eyes, stuck his nose high, and sniffed. Then he opened his eyes and tilted his head in curiosity.

“Mister Skull, you smell kind of funny.”

You'll all hollow within one moon cycle...

It was those words spoken by the Firekeeper that struck a chord with Saira, even as she was deep in thought and meditation before the bonfire. Even though she was an Undead like all those gathered around the fire, Saira had found new purpose within the guiding hand of the eternal Sunlight. Even though she had purpose, a reason to exist, a reason to continue, deep within her soul she felt a hint of undeniable truth within the Firekeeper's bleak prediction of their futures.

As with all things, strength of the human spirit was a finite thing. No matter how strong one's willpower and determination, what awaited each and every undead at the end of their journey was the same destination: despair, defeat, and eventual Hollowing.

Even with the realization of this unshakeable truth, Saira forced away the Firekeeper's words from her thoughts. She may eventually hollow like all the other undead, but as long as she still had the strength to continue onwards, she would live as a human for another day.

With her own sense of purpose renewed, Saira looked away from the burning flames, and noticed the familiar glow of the rising sun in the distance, peeking through the thick clouds. Beyond the stone walls and structures in the distance, Saira could hear the faint echoes of a ferociously monstrous roar in the distance, followed by a flock of black-feathered birds hurriedly taking to the sky from the source of the roar. Whatever was the source of the sudden roar was a truly fearsome creature.

As the sounds of distant wildlife began to grow increasingly distinct, Saira soon felt that she was beginning to overstay her welcome. A new day was starting, and once again, Saira felt the invisible hand of the Sunlight guiding her on.

Slowly and smoothly, Saira rose to her feet from the soft patch of grass upon which she knelt, with her sheathed katana within the grasp of her left hand, with the leather strap attached to the sheath draped over her hand.

"Thank you, kind Firekeeper, for your gracious generosity and hospitality. A new day is upon us, and I must resume my travels once more. To all gathered here, thank you for your companionship, however brief it may have been. Fate brought us here today, perhaps it will bring us together again once more. And so, for now, fare thee well."

Placing the leather strap of the katana's sheath over her head, Saira positioned the sheathed weapon across her back. With a deep, formal-style bow, Saira turned back towards the bonfire and those gathered around its flame. Setting her sights towards the source of the roar she heard earlier, Saira took the first steps to her continuing journey.

After downing his delicious final bowl of stew the strongman rose himself. Rather startled by the distant wailing, many a creature has he seen in the arduous trek from the north-lands in which he came, none have a sound made right like that. As the man stretched his body out and rubbing his backside grumpily, boy were those some uncomfortable stones, the deep night began creeping away.

The welcoming sun edged ever above the horizon in a showing of incandescent lights. The orange glow encroached, warming Gerhard's cold bones. Scanning over the rest of the group, most of them were shaking themselves awake from their erroneous slumber. A shame it is, that sleep seems to be a thing of the past, oh how much the older man loved to spend weary days in a homely state amidst blades of grass.

Feeling a sudden sense of urgency Gerhard hoisted himself upon a ruined pillar of stone, looking out toward the horizon. He speaks to no one in particular, "A new day rises friends, there may be those of you who have given up hopes of ever seeing your homes again. I am not such a man, those lazy days of flora just breaking through the snowdrifts will be mine again." With a hearty laugh he turned to face the group mostly packing their things and added, "Firekeeper, you may doubt us, and perhaps you are right to. If it is a fool's errand to end the curse then a fool I am. I'll not let one of these good people's spirits break."

Hoping down from his perch Gerhard adds one final bit, "If there is one thing more powerful then physical strength, it is de heart, de will and determination to live on." The man twirls his mustache as he heads off in the direction the young eastern girl headed, can't let her go on her own, can he?

Alaric didn't sleep particularly well that night, or many nights since his first death. When the sun arose, he was already awake, staring into the bonfire. The firekeepers words the night before still jumbled around his mind. One month. he thought. One month to do the impossible. One month to do what a hundred of Balder's best knights could not. The thought wasn't exactly reassuring.

He looked off to the side, near the winding cliff path that led from Firelink Shrine, and saw two figures walking that direction. So they plan to get a head start? I gain nothing by sitting here and waiting for the others. With that, he strapped on his claymore, picked up his bedroll and his shield, and followed quickly behind them. It was only that he caught up with them that he noticed it was Gerhard and Saira. "I would warn you both. Many of my father's knights died walking this path. I can assume that their hollows are still here."

The vast redness of the sky seemed to reach out towards Arghast, the sun glaring down at him as if looking into the face of some old adversary. What a frail constitution, the sun, to have every day risen above the world as if to call the whole world of man to worship it, only to later sink into the ether and give way to the all-enveloping darkness. Even after abandoning their failed kingship, this idol to their ruined power remains. It too, Arghast thought, shall fall eternal into the void, and the abyss shall replace it.

There echoed the infernal shriek of the drake. Arghast turned his head to the shadowed fortress walls across from the shrine, off of which the monstrous scream had resonated. Headed up the craggy path from there, up to the hollowed township, was the band of undead.

His mind shifted back to that winged foe, red and jagged, who had antagonized him in his early pursuit of the illusive bell. Indeed, the horrendous wyrm had before seared him in fire and rended his flesh with its talons; it had cast him in his death back to those lowly bonfires with less of his being each time. It guarded the path to the bell with an unending vigil, one which would surely threaten these adventurers.

Arghast stood from his place, having moved from the bonfire to the ruins beyond the shrine in his meditations the night prior, and glared at the group. Within him, a writhing pool of intentions suggested to him not only the bounty of humanity between them, but the possibility of rendering them in service to the Abyss. Such was the domain of Caitlyn, who did not so thirst for humanity as he did. Plucking his weapons from their resting place, he was granted a realization which held potential far greater.
The undead’s spirit, its very will to shuffle endlessly towards some goal and keep themselves from hollowing, was linked to the concentration of humanity within them. Arghast had long abandoned the search for the supposed Bell of Awakening, for the fate of the undead did not concern him as a servant to the Abyss. These wanderers, each possessing some degree of humanity, could reach the bell and potentially begin the idle prophecy.

His thoughts churning, Arghast clambered through the ruins to reach a mossy, double-shafted elevator system which lead to that hallowed church of the undead. He’d not follow the group quite yet, he thought; perhaps their first horrific foray may allow them to witness the consequences that the failed reign of the gods have brought upon man.

A cold morning breeze swept across the makeshift bed of leaves and cold grass, dampened by the morning dew, which Delwyn rested upon. He was not used to sleeping in such conditions. Not that he slept anymore as an undead. Indeed, his nights were long and dull. All Delwyn could do was stare up at the night sky and watch the pale red of dawn stretch over the horizon. Some of the others were already up and about, preparing to set off towards the Undead Burg. Memories of that accursed, hollow infested place sent a shiver down Delwyn's spine. Before he had mustered the courage to explore and find the Firelink Shrine, he had spent many a night huddle in any place he thought was free from hollows in the Burg. He scarcely wanted to return there, especially not with that unknown creature roaring in the distance. Yet he felt as though he had already overstayed his welcome at the Shrine. He wanted to go, but he was frightened. In his dismay, he turned to prayer. Resting by the worn statue of a deity who he was unfamiliar with, Delwyn knelt and began to silently pray. He didn't pray for himself, but rather for the safety of his wife and daughter back in Vinheim.

"Ah, young disciple of the Lords, here to ask for Lord Gwyn's blessing before heading out with the others?" The revered mother Jeanne of White spoke as Delwyn finished up his prayers. The young sorcerer stood up, immediately bowing in reverence to the religious figurehead.
"Mother Jeanne, please forgive my intrusion." At his words, the old lady smiled and placed her warm, gentle hands upon his head.
"The Gods are good to us for letting us wake another day. Pray tell, why are you wasting this blessing of a day here? You wouldn't want our Lord to think you ungrateful for his charity." She removed her hands, beckoning for Delwyn to stand. When he did, she passed him a small sack.
"Medicinal Herbs. They are poor substitute for the healing miracles bestowed upon me by Lord Gwyn, but they will do you good on your perilous journey. Now go, before the others leave you behind." The woman's words, though somewhat forceful, were kind and gave Delwyn a little bit more hope in what was to come. If the Gods themselves were truly watching over them, then perhaps their quest wasn't as impossible as Delwyn had thought. Perhaps he would get to see his family once more.

Quickly trotting along towards the group, Delwyn awkwardly stumbled his speech as he approached them before they departed.
"Uh, sorry to intrude. I'm afraid I'd feel rather unwelcome if I stayed at the shrine for too long. If it's of no trouble, I would be honored if you would allow me to accompany you to find the bell." He held up his sack of medicine to his chest, hoping it would make him seem a more desirable companion.