Author's Note: Hey, this is my first fan fiction, I hope to make this a pretty long series. I think I'm off to a pretty good start with setting the grim tone of the series and subtly establishing some themes to build off in later installments. Expect some pretty epic and detailed battles, cryptic meanings, entertaining dialogues, and death... lots and lots of death. After all, it's learning through many deaths that players become skilled in Dark Souls. I can only assume the same would apply were one an actual undead fighting seemingly impossible foes.

Chapter 1: Rebirth

A skull overlaid with leathery, shriveled skin claimed the shade of his shadow. The unnatural appearance of the tortured flesh was offset by the brutal crater where the nose and half of a mouth should have been. The effect was that of a fragmented monstrosity. Having been a monstrosity previously, the weathered face became even more so once his act of furious instincts hid a portion behind it's own bloody contents. Although what was more frightening than the blood was the lack thereof; dust ran through some veins while others still hung on to their true functions.

He had heard the stories, had asked for stories, anything thick enough to string along as fact in his nervous anticipation. But looking down at the space a fore his feet, whose soles became imprinted by the cobblestone walkway, he truly understood how alien this world was. Vomiting; the next action that he took, the only one he could muster in that moment. However, he wretched not, save a miniscule effort of bile and saliva. Having gone without any nourishment prior to his otherworldly transit into Lordran, it was to be expected that only the raw agonies of a gag reflex would ensue.

This rationale offered little comfort though, when his mind rapidly ascertained the similarities between his empty stomach and that wicked, fractured, dry, too dry face staring up at him. This unsettling revelation was beset by another upon reflection of the encounter between the naked young man and the sparsely armored soldier of the newly broken face. While the latter being acted first, with pure killing intent, the former being countered with murderous indignation, the kind one experiences when one's life is unjustly threatened. In this respect there was scarce difference between aggressor and defender. Once the ritual of death was initiated, the outcome of such an altercation only lead down one path.

Roles became blurred as soon as the soldier appeared in the darkly lit alleyway. The soldier, with a straight sword raised to hack, took the first step forward, all his mass leaning to his lead knee in the beginning form of a sprint. the young man stooped and rose again in one swift motion, retrieving a jagged stone as he did so. The claustrophobia of the alley amplified as the space between them shrunk. In his blind fury fueled adrenaline he met the soldier's rush with one of his own, back stepping at the last interval before the soldier's weapon could raze a gory chasm down his midsection. The straight sword, having finished its downswing, had rotated 180 degrees in anticipation of its second assault back along the same path. With his balance offset the young man hurled the jagged stone with a determined sort of desperation, lunging backwards simultaneously.

Even as he rolled along the uneven cobblestone underfoot, miniature fragments embedding into his unprotected skin, even as a pointed section of the uneven path bruised his spine during the transfer over his head and to his feet... even then he knew he could win. Miserable wailing could be heard as he rose with another stone in hand. Looking up he verified the damage inflicted. A smile nearly crossed his lips as he saw the soldier miserably gripping its head. It never formed more than a sneer though, as all of his faculties needed to be grounded in the reality of the ritual.

Wasting not a breath more, the young man drove forward, heedless of a frantic lash of sword or feint of injury from the soldier. He was not yet experienced enough in the art of combat and bloodshed to marry tactical approach with killing intent. Yet a lack of tactical approach proved not to be fatal. There was no counter attack from the wailing wraith, only the blunt thud one hears when the other is struck senseless. Pursuing the soldier's descent to the ground, the young man mercilessly followed up his promise to end the ritual on his terms. He struck, over and over, pounding out the most dreadful of beats, one that can only be borne out of oncoming mental slippage. It was not until he had made the crater, with it's curious lack of bodily fluids, did his mind gain traction of his hand, gripping the slightly soiled rock.

Upon heaving up what he could, the young man stripped the soldier of his clothes and armor. Along with the straight sword he now acquired the battle etched breast place of the soldier along with brown leather trousers and boots. The soldier possessed no helmet to cover shoulder length brown hair of the young man. Helmet or not though, the young man felt secure and dangerous. The sword, was perfectly weighted for him as he slashed and stabbed phantom foes of his fantasy. For a warrior, regaining a weapon was akin to growing back a lost limb.

He glanced back down upon the object of his violence, shuddering to think that he had done nothing more than to exchange places with the soldier. He knew the effects of his condition could lead to what one called hollowing. But seeing it with his own eyes struck a fear greater than death. The reality of being a cursed undead was creeping over him now that he had ticked off his first obstacle in Lordran. He began to wonder if perhaps Lordran would become less alien with time. The thought of acclimating to such a place as if it were home made him shudder for his humanity.

He stepped over the still form, on his way to what he was sure was the greater Undead Burg. With only three strides forward he hastily shuffled back upon hearing the miserable gurgle of air being willed through the broken body. In an act of what he considered pity, the young man drove his sword through the heart of the pitiful shriveled remnant. Once true death had been delivered the wispy remains of the soldiers soul escaped the shell. The young man could see the soul as it gravitated towards his body and effortlessly seeped through his breast plate to his heart, where the dark sign lay quietly pulsing in it's own mock heart beat. Once more he heard tales of how the undead could see and absorb souls of those they killed, but truly living the experience was incomparable.

With that, he strode onwards. While lost, his focus was set. He knew what needed to be done, if only in theory. His first destination was a place he knew in name only; the Undead Parish. He had only the vaguest expectations of the hellish journey that lay before him yet his resolution was absolute. His vanity would prove to overwhelm even the fear of death and suffering. And whether borne of vanity or not, the power of the human imagination cannot be contained when life and death merge and lose their meanings...

While the young man had not taken part in food nor drink for two days and two nights, he felt well-nourished and satisfied.

Next Time: Adjusting to new surroundings. Reflecting upon the beauty of isolation. First hand experience. Questing for the bonfire.