The Undead Burg was once a thriving town. Men and women came together to do as man had done since his rise to power. Harkening faintly back to simple canopies of leaves and vines, the Undead Burg would be built up instead with brick and mortar, cut stone and treated wood. Then the undead curse would send it down again into madness and despair. Brother turned against brother, spouse against spouse as the curse ravaged both body and mind. Too, in time, would the very structures of the city be victimized by the curse, by neglect and pilfering.
Beneath a derelict bridge, once great and majestic, now caked with decades of grime and wear, a fire burned strong, pushing back the shadows; it cast its orange light in a circle, its edges wobbling with the motion of the rising tongues of flame. Just outside of that wavering boundary of illumination, the darkness lay impotent, staring in.
The old man sat alone, separated from the cool earth by his faded red mat. His dispassionate gaze carelessly rested upon the leaping flames, the flickering light reflecting in random jitters against the black of his pupils. He was getting on in years, but the many wrinkles on his face — at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead — came with wisdom. His muscle was not as strong as it once was, but the practiced motions were more refined, reliable.
The night was an unusually quiet one, pleasant for the lack of the usual mindless undead doddering about, spoiling the mood, but it was eerie, too. He had become accustomed to their shuffling feet scraping the ground outside the parameter of his bonfire, the rustle of cloth and the metallic clangs of their armor colliding as they fought one another. The old man wasn't sure he liked the silence any better than the noises; the absence of the sickly undead's hungry moans felt as unnatural as a dead wind.
There was the steady, comforting crackle of the fire though. With its warmth, it was like a companion. The old man continued to stare silently at the rising orange bristles, his mind filled with personal thoughts of the past and of the future.
The distinct sound of footsteps on the loose soil alerted of someone's presence. As if he'd been a spring coiled tightly in preparation, his head snapped toward the noise.
"Lo, there!" Came a young voice from without the fire's illumination.
The old man's hand had instinctively gone to his knife and now gripped it tightly. The firelight meant his night-vision was neutralized, so he couldn't see whoever it was. He made no response, but peered motionlessly into the void beyond illumination.
"Salutations, stranger," the disembodied voice called again, as friendly as one could imagine. "I mean no harm. Merely an adventurer."
"Come into the light." The stranger'd had the courtesy to hail his camp, so it was unlikely he'd be trouble, yet the old man's grip tightened on the dagger's hilt.
Unseen was the sound of leather and metal brushing together, and the clinking of something repeatedly, like chains swinging and colliding. The old man held his breath for leverage in case he needed to move. The orange firelight leapt across the fair skin of a young man. He wore a thick blue shirt, a leather strip running obliquely across his chest. He had a metallic pauldron on one shoulder and bits of leather and metal armor along his other arm, and at his waist and legs. Charms hanging at the end of strings like pendants swung from his waist belt and neck. Magical items. That must have been what made the sounds of clinking.
The young man was grinning, but his hands were held up in supplication. "See, old man? My sword is sheathed."
"Keep it that way. And have a seat. Log's open."
The young man wore a helm that made him look like a child wearing his father's clothes. It was difficult to take him seriously enough to remain especially cautious. The old man eased his hand off his dagger, clasping his fingers together before him, elbows draped atop his knees. He watched the young man sit across the bonfire on a thick wooden log. He'd have used the log himself, but he preferred his old cloth, worn as it was, and the softness of the dirt beneath.
The young man took stock of the old curmudgeon across from him. Leathery skin, thick hands and a large chest indicated he was a working man, although the youth didn't see any tools, just what looked like a sheathed sword on his left. It was difficult to tell because it was laying flat on the ground, and the old man was sitting such that, from the youth's position on the log, it was impossible to see anything but the right side of the man's body.
Everyone had a sword these days. It was just a sign of the times, a sign of the dwindling Flame.
Disregarding his assessment, the young man focused his full attention on the warmth of the fire. It was cold out there and he could already feel the prickle of quickening circulation as he held his hands forward. "Much obliged. What are you doing round this area?" He asked absently. "You seem in good health. You should be at home with your family."
The old man scoffed gutturally, but the young man didn't seem to notice.
"Not much of a talker, huh? Well, that's alright. I can do enough talking for the both of us. I'm not too humble to admit that I'm on a quest!"
"A quest?" The old man said the word like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
"Well, you say it like that, but it's truly an honor. I'm also not ashamed to admit that I'm a chosen individual."
The old man didn't move, but something in the way he turned his visible eye upon the youth hinted at some unspoken secret. "Undead chosen?"
"Well, yes, but the term isn't very endearing, is it? Do I look so horrid to you, Mr.-?"
"Dregsul."
"Name's Teln."
A silence fell between the two as the shuffling and moaning, so familiar to the old man, Dregsul, lifted up from the silence. Both men, young and old, took the time to look, to strain their eyes trying to make out shapes. There really wasn't anything to see, though. Just rotting things that were once men. They shambled just outside the firelight, silhouettes bobbing in and out of perception against the dim moonlight.
Dregsul was on alert, body tense, though not jittery. "You see 'em? Shambling about out there."
"I do. Poor, miserable creatures."
"Not for long." Dregsul eased the tension in his muscles, set his elbows on his knees again.
"Oh?" The young man, Teln, eased his hand off the hilt of his sword, but he didn't want to completely relax his hand, so he lightly fiddled his fingers against the pommel. "Is that why you're out here? to clear the hollow?"
"Aye. They don't have much humanity in them. Too long without a good kill, and an estus flask won't cure what they've got."
"I know how it works." Teln took offense at what he perceived to be a warning. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm not worried for me. I know where I'm going, and how to get there." When the old man didn't appear to have anything to say, and was staring into the flames with a somber expression set on his visage as if it'd been carved there, Teln took the opportunity to say a few more words to keep the conversational mood. "Well, mostly," he confessed. "I'm going to reach the First Flame and rekindle it, sending the world into hundreds of years of light and glory. Can you imagine? A single act, and you become the savior of millions!"
"Blind," Dregsul responded without looking up or changing his expression, to Teln's annoyance. "Do you know of what you speak? All those pretty words, full of grandeur and hope."
Teln tried to keep his irritation out of his voice. "What's wrong with hope?"
"It makes men fools. Like you, they're blind. Don't know the truth of things."
"My eyes see just fine, but I'll humor you. What's the truth, old man?"
Dregsul went quiet, leaving Teln waiting impatiently. In the silence the undead's noises were blatant, every dragging step or frustrated moan a distraction.
Finally, the young man let out a breath, the gentle puff of air somehow shattering quiet like an explosion. "Come now — what'd you say your name is again? Dregs?"
"Close enough."
"You can't slap down my statement and then try to escape the conversation. If I'm being foolhardy, then you help me. What am I missing?"
Dregsul looked up at the curious young man and felt pity. How little did this blind youngster understand. How absurdly idealistic. Fine then, he thought to himself. I'll tell him what he thinks he wants to know. It won't change a thing, but it won't be said I didn't try. "I used to be you," he began, and Teln crossed his arms over his chest and listened. "Just like you. I had a good friend, and he was hopeful, too. We believed that the chosen would rekindle the flame, keep the light shining for many centuries. Then one day he died, and the next day he was undead. Fine, good! He'd go inherit the Flame himself, and I'd go with him."
Teln had the impression that he didn't want to hear the rest of this story, but he wasn't about to stop Dregs from telling it, not after he'd persisted in getting the old curmudgeon to talk.
"It was easy at first, hopeful. We had our fights and injuries, but we were smart about it, picked our way through the shadows to avoid fights when we could. When we fought, we did so as a team, coordinating our attacks with efficiency that few enemies could expect or prepare against. It got difficult though.
"We sustained greater wounds, healed ourselves more often with our flasks. We became slower, more weary. I grew older, and he grew sicker. Too many years he roamed as a living corpse, trying to gather enough of his humanity back by the slaying of hollowed.
"There are enough of them out there." He waved a hand passively toward the hollowed shadows wavering beyond the fire. "The amount of humanity they offer is paltry though, and we couldn't always be fighting. His flesh began to rot, fall from his muscle. Sinew hung in dying tendrils from the bone." The shimmering shadows seemed inky thick beneath the old man's wrinkled visage. He stared as if he were looking upon some dreadful scene, and spoke as if he were describing it. "One day, he took the life of an innocent."
"Why?" Teln asked with a high pitch of emotion to his voice. He couldn't help being invested in the old man's tale.
Dregsul's expression became harder then, eyebrows pressed down, head dipped. His brow ridge blocked the light, casting his eyes into deep shadow. "Fear, I suppose." His voice came out gruff, like he was holding in some emotion, trying to stop it from bursting out in raucous cries. "Anger, maybe. Or perhaps he was just losing his sanity in an entirely human fashion, unrelated to his sickness. Anyway." He seemed to want to move the story on, and Teln, looking at the old man's expression, did not object. "After killing the innocent he was restored. Completing that henious act the one time set a precedent. We fought about it, many times. One day the harsh words turned to blows, and suddenly I knew one of us was going to die."
"I'm sorry."
"Obliged, but at that point, I'm sure he despised himself. He couldn't stop, but he wished he could. The fight, it was him hoping I'd put an end to it. At least he isn't one of those." Dregs sent his gaze out toward where the shapes had been ambling, but he saw nothing. Listening, he heard nothing. Had they gone?
Teln considered the story for a little. It was harrowing, but it wasn't something he hadn't heard before, in some form or another. That was the point after all, wasn't it? The world wouldn't be well until someone succeeded in making it well. "I appreciate you sharing your story with me, but as awful as that was, it doesn't mean that no one can ever reach the First Flame. It's been done before."
"And will be again. To what end, though? It doesn't stop these wretched creatures. It hasn't stopped the curse that makes you what you are right now."
"The 'curse' is the only way to restore the world. You know that."
Dregsul pursed his lips, looking thoughtfully askance. His tone was skeptical when he said, "I wonder."
Teln tilted his head, an incredulous little jerk of his chin. "You can't seriously give credence to those wackjob notions that maybe the world would be better without the Flame anyway! People like that would doom humanity."
The old man just looked at him, saying nothing. His expression was strange to Teln. There was pleading there, but pleading for what? It was then that he noticed that the sounds of the shambling undead had ceased, replaced with a peaceful quiet. It was a good opportunity, he thought, to depart.
"Well, I appreciate you sharing your fire with me, and your story. I've got a spark to kindle, though." Teln stood.
As the youth turned his back on the fire, faced the darkness, and walked on, Dregsul eased his hand over to the hilt of his trusted knife. "Watch your back, blind one."
"The same to you, old man."
Teln walked away, and was swallowed by the darkness. A few moments past. The fire crackled. Dregsul held his grip on his weapon. He stared off at the direction Teln had gone, eyes darting in little, erratic motions in connection with whatever thoughts were going on in his mind. Finally, he reached a conclusion and removed his hand from the hilt. Some unperceived adrenaline ceased, and left in its place shaking nerves.
Dregsul touched his hand to the left side of his face, the side he'd carefully kept concealed from the stranger, Teln. The flesh beneath his cheek cracked and came loose against his fingers. When he pulled his hand away, the bone of his cheek jutted out visibly. Blood rolled down his face like tears, reflecting red-orange hues against the firelight. His ear was mostly cartilage now, looking like a severe rash had developed and eaten away the skin. It would be uncomfortable for a time, but the nerves would eventually die and leave nothing but a husk with only a vague resemblance of its original shape, whether ear or nose, and all delicate appendages.
The hollowed wouldn't be too far, and Dregsul was succumbing to his vexation. He plucked his sword from the worn red mat and stood. He looked at the fire, and blinked with his right eye; the left's eyelid was gone, making the eyeball appear large and bulbous. It was becoming more and more difficult to convince himself that living was something he needed to do. The warmth and calm here, it was all he really cared about these days, ever since he'd turned his back on his presumed destiny.
A compulsion spurred him with a shuddering twitch. Gathering his resolve to leave the comfort of the campsite, the old man stepped into the darkness, sword in hand, and vanished into the cold night.