The ruins of Drangleic were a lonely place.
Not much stirred here. A soft wind whispered through the empty branches of the trees, but to the lone onlooker, that was all that moved. Within the forest, all he could hear was the sluggish movements of water and his own thoughts and breathing. All that lived here were hollows, old soldiers clad in decaying armor and clutching worn weapons, fighting as if some threat still loomed over them. The onlooker had known them once; not personally, but rather he had known them for the warriors they had been. He remembered, through distant, dream-like memories, when Drangleic had stood proud, a warrior for a king and a queen whose beauty was unparalleled.
Then the curse came, and everything fell apart.
Slowly, his armor clanked as he stood, using his sword to help him to his feet. Weak sunlight filtered down, gracing the mist with pathetic light. The onlooker didn't want to sit still anymore. He didn't want to remember those golden days. With heavy steps breaking the branches underfoot, he began to move, slowly, uncertain of a destination.
Drangleic was a kingdom the onlooker had failed to protect, and all that was left was to haunt it, as if protecting it still.
Perhaps he was no better than those hollowed soldiers after all.
It wasn't long until the onlooker heard of a visitor to the kingdom. Undead, like all the rest of them; misguided souls who thought they could find their purpose here, who thought that Drangleic held the answers to their existences. All they ever wound up doing was adding to the maddened, hollowed population.
The onlooker hated them. He drove back those who crossed his path, trying to turn them away. They never lasted long enough to battle him twice.
It didn't take him long to find the newcomer. They had made their way to the old tower in the forest. He intended to do to them as he had done to the others who came before them; drive them back, break their spirit. Make them let go of their foolish ambitions. Drangleic held nothing but broken souls and broken thrones. Except the battle did not go the way he had expected. Instead of easily crushing their opponent, he was the one to fall, retreating within the talons of a large bird before he was killed.
The loss felt like being shaken awake. There was a sense of purpose within these ruined walls, a real hunt that stirred up something within the onlooker. A distant memory, a distant feeling. Once, he had been more than a lone knight wandering a fallen kingdom, trying to repair something long past fixing. Once, he'd fought the curse, destroying those who bore it over and over. Back then, the fights had been worth dulling a blade over. And now it seemed he was granted one last hunt.
He hated Undead, and he had not been named the Pursuer for no reason.