A/N: So I've been into the entire Soulsborne series for a little over a year now, and I can say with a bit of confidence that I know what I'm doing when I wrote this. One, I've played all the games (minus Demon's Souls which saddens me) with many playthroughs on each game. Two, I've dived head long into the lore of the Soulsborne series. And three, I made a goddamn RP blog for my main OC.

Whom is a Lion Knight of Forossa, whom is also FEMALE, and whom is also the character featured in this story. Done, get over it. Original characters for the win :I

Also me and my goddamn British English these days :I

You're bound to what you die with.

The fierce clashing of steel weapons rang in the air: swords against swords, axes against shields, maces swung in multiple directions accompanied by the whistling of arrows zinging through the air, penetrating the armour plating of enemy warriors. The once blue sky has been clouded by an overcast of smoldering smoke, intoxicating the air with harsh fumes and soot. There's blood flying around the closed in space of war, faintly mixed with the foul odor of charred flesh and already rotting corpses. Battle cries echo distantly from all sides of the battlefield.

She was surrounded. And truly, what is there even left to fight for anymore? Was it for honour or some other false sense of security with a title just as great?

You can never die. You're trapped here forever...

Steel blades rip into her flesh as they tear through her armour, ravaging the metal plates that protect what lies underneath the thick and heavy garb of her garments. Cutting in deep, trying to cleave out what beats feebly inside her breast, trying to to drag it out from the safety within so that it may be exposed to death outside of the body. Her bones are broken and they only continue to shatter further under the assault of her opponents.

And then suddenly the world spins, for only a fraction of a moment, but even that has a meaning to it. It was a brutal counterattack, a skill honed by a monster with a sword much larger than her own person. She truly was a beast of a woman. A Lion Knight in flesh and blood, and one of the few remaining left in this world, the others had already been lost to the war long ago; and she was one left to fight and waste away with the rest of this war too.

Covered in blood she was broken inside and out, yet she still stood, weakly with her honour intact, but strong enough to have her fight until death finally claimed her.

Life and death weave together; you cannot tell them apart.

Are you truly even human anymore?

Arrows take flight, striking at their target with only half an expert's skill level. They nicked at her armour, scratching at the plates and piercing her through the seams, some even daring to shoot through her already torn open wounds, but instead were captured by the lapses and strings of her garb. The speartip ammunition that was shot at her eventually punctured through, embedding themselves into her arms, shoulders, legs, but breaking when making contact with her helm. A few pierced through her breastplate, trying to take a stab at her heart. Some even tried to muster up the accuracy to take a shot through the slits for her eyes. They missed.

She had raised her shield with the use of her off hand, her sword arm had been long lost to a crippling wound she had taken earlier during the more chaotic proportion of the battle. In the more dying moments of the war, she was now surrounded by the dead. Allies, foes, all of them were unfamiliar faces. Was there even any honour in hiding behind a shield now? To try living on to fight longer in this time of death that was sure to take her next?

She couldn't tell.

What does it even mean to be human?

Is it because we know pain and pleasure?

Or is it because we feel emotion?

The shield was cast aside, and all that remained was an unbroken will born of fire and a dully forged sword in hand.

Her body was scarred and her bones were shattered; her organs were failing from the pain of internal bleeding and she knew she would soon succumb to it. The end was near, oh so near, she could almost touch the darkness closing in. But she refused to blink, refused to let it consume her as she charged one final time at her enemies. A feral roar of a battle cry escaping her lips.

Death wrapped its bony fingers around her throat, restricting the air from her lungs, cutting off her vision and letting her collapse onto the ruins of the battlefield as she was struck down. There was no warmth or comfort in it.

What does it mean to be human?

Gauntleted hands clutched tightly around the hilt of a sword, the familiar feeling almost seemed surreal. Her head ached and her mind was foggy, her body sore with a dull and distant pain, but she forced herself to rise anyway. Rocks, metal and bones crunched under the heels of her boots as she stood. The battlefield was bereft of life and the war was over, though smoke still lingered about as it continued to rise from the ashes of what was left behind.

There was a scorching pain on the back of her left shoulder, but she didn't seem to feel it. She instead looked down at her hands; they were shaking, but not out of fear. Her armour was smoothed over like it had just been forged, her wounds were gone but the faint ache of them told her they had once been there; there was no more blood.

So, was this Hell?

You're bound to what you die with.

Looking around she attempted to refocus herself, tried to understand what was happening. She spotted a helmet nearby in a small pile of debris and somehow she knew it was hers along with the old sword and the battered shield that laid to rest next to it. The longer she stared, the more she swore there was a glowing darkness to the equipment, almost as if it were beckoning her...

They're the only things that tell you who you are.

Who are you?

Do you even remember? Does it even matter anymore?

Familiarity. That's what she felt when she had taken hold of her weapons, discarding the one she had awoken with in hand, it wasn't her blade to keep and she might as well give the dead that much respect. Staring down at her helmet, it almost felt as if it were apart of her, whispering for her to take it along like the two couldn't be separated. A darkness stirred within it, staring deep into her soul and finding a darkness that matched its own as it latched onto it. This was who she was.

Was.

Who was she now?

The helmet slipped from her grip as he dropped to her knees. Was she alive? Or was this death? Is this Hell or is this purgatory?

She couldn't tell.

You're bound to what you die with.

But what honour does that even serve you? What honour does that even serve you if you cannot remember?

She clenched her fists tightly as she once again rose to her feet, the helmet now steady in her grip as she put it on. With an overconfident stride she reclaimed her weapons, ignoring the sudden feeling of burden that was weighed upon her as she took up arms.

Who are you?

Do you even remember your own name?

Does the concept of a name even have a meaning to being human? To being alive?

Are we truly even living?

Walking among the corpses to an unknown destination that called to her, she wondered if there was anyone left. Who had they even been fighting anyways? What was the reason for this war? Does it really matter anymore?

She continued to pass on by.

There was nothing left for her here in this dead country. Not anymore. So she might as well move on.

When Undead, you will never die, but you'll also never live. So what are you?

Are you still human when you die?

Are you bound to a name that you might not remember? A past you cannot even fathom?

Who are you? And what does it mean to be human?

Among the corpses that were left behind by the tides of war, she smirked, for she knew exactly who she was.

She was a Lion Knight.

She was Arazo of Forossa.