The cursed undead had defeated the great wyvern, though as the blood ran down his mottled rotting arm he found he could not appreciate it. His cloth smelt like the brimstone the horrid beast had breathed down upon him, and he could still feel the twinges of sharp pain in his joints underneath his armor. He had climbed the crumbling stones to where the fire breathing drake had made its perch, he defeated the knights adorned in their ancient grey steel worn from a thousand battles who protected the path to the mighty serpent, and through it all he had emerged victorious.
Now at last as the conflict of his journey was coming to an end he was able to regain his composure and rest for a few precious moments. Reaching into his worn leather pack he uncorked his flask of Estus and took a deep quaff of the golden liquid. A warm sensation flowed through his undead body and brought a bit of color back to his corpse-like pallor. Replacing his flask he looked forward at the looming void that stood before him and the massive plunge into the flooded ruins below.
His eyes fixed on a small iron rod protruding from the stone wall next to the great chasm. It did not look to be placed there in a fit of whimsy. No, the cursed undead found that everything in Drangleic served some sort of purpose. Say what you will about the ruined kingdom but none could deny the prudence of those who had lived in this dead land. It was as if they had always planned for failure; never believing that disaster wasn't right around the corner. But for all their prudency all that remained of Drangleic was ruins. When the curse had come to this once mighty kingdom it was King Vendrick who allowed it to crumble. What was the weight of the broken crown of a fallen king? Too much to bear for some he supposed...
Taking a deep breath he filled his ruined lungs with the tower's humid air. Striding solemnly forward he grasped the lever's handle pausing for a moment wondering how many had stood in his place before him, holding the very same rod of cold iron that clasped in his gauntlets. Mustering up the determination to overcome his next trial he pulled the lever. The massive chains suspending the bridge rattled as it came crashing down, it's massive frame making a thunderous crash, shaking his bones to their core.
Taking a tenuous step he decided, finally, to move forward. If he allowed himself to dwell in one place for too long he would succumb to the same despair that had claimed so many others. All of his accomplishments thus far had been increasingly difficult, but if he stopped now it would all be for naught.
But why? Why does he do it? Perhaps he wants an answer. An answer to the question that had been stirring within him ever since he had awoken in this macabre world: for what reason am I immortal? What purpose is there in eternal life if one must spend it in insanity. The cursed undead knew that any answers he would find would be few and far between, and not without great peril. But there was little choice to those afflicted with the curse other than keep moving or succumb to the afflictions dire effects. With newfound resolve the cursed undead ascended the great bridge, each step heavier than the last. Reaching the stair's precipice he was greeted by a gate enveloped in fog. As he drew nearer twisted faces began to appear in its murky surface, mouthing words of caution, and fear, telling him to go back from whence he came. Ignoring the lost souls that were beyond any hope, he pressed through the fog shrugging off their ghostly touch. Stepping through the threshold he drew his sword once more, striding forward in to meet his next challenge.