The soft sound of waves hitting cliffs filled the air, bringing with it the smell of salt. Such a sound was constant in the small town at the edge of this kingdom, for it was perched right upon the very cliff that the waves threw themselves against. Soft, golden light filtered down from a setting sun, bathing the land below it in something that was almost warm. A soft wind blew, chasing off any true heat the light could give, but to a lone observer, it mattered not. He could barely feel the winds through the thick plates of his armor.
At the base of a stone tower at the edge of town, there sat a large, hulking knight, staring silently out to the sea before him. Clad head to toe in thick, black armor, most of the stragglers further within the town had not disturbed him, some of them too afraid to approach and others simply…not caring enough to. Travelers passed through all the time, and their reasons and journeys concerned them not. This stranger was no different. He welcomed the solitude, for he wasn't one who often enjoyed conversation or questions. He had wandered the lands of Drangleic alone for….How long, he could not say. It had been long enough, and he had no plans to change that arrangement. Besides, they were all Undead; he could not travel with them. He hunted the Undead, as per an ancient order issued long ago, back when Drangleic had not been a ruin but a proud kingdom. Even now, in such close proximity, his fingers twitched along the hilt of his sword, resisting the urge to lift it and lay waste to the residents of this little coastal hamlet. The conflict raged in his mind, making even quiet reflection impossible.
Oh, how long ago they had been, the days that this kingdom lived. How long ago it was when he had been a knight of the King, and not a lost, wandering warrior, almost a husk of who he once had been. Darkness clung to him like a cloak, permeating his very being and slowly eating at his mind. These days, he could barely recall his name; only a title remained, one that had been whispered in fear by those he hunted and captured. The Pursuer. That was all that was left. There was one to blame for his state, for the chaos that often overtook his mind, but who that was- he could barely remember, let alone why this had happened. He simply hunted the Undead, chasing after a shadowy, half-remembered end of his own. Redemption.
But redemption for what? There was blood on his hands. Whose blood? He could not remember. He could not remember.
His fingers began to drum against the grip of the greatsword he carried. He was getting restless. His own thoughts made his head ache, and dredged up anger from deep within him. He needed to go now, but go where? Somewhere. Anywhere. Away. Why did he spare this place, for all it's peace and silence, things he could not know? Because then she would return. Her. The one he hunted, only to be beaten back over and over. Snarling slightly at the thought, he stood, ripping his blade from the ground where he had planted it. Lifting up his shield, he turned away from the light, taking slow steps back through the town. Back to the forest. Perhaps he could ease the roaring need for battle there, although the hollows that lurked in them were hardly worthy opponents, mindless as they were. They would do. They would have to.