The first time the Crestfallen Warrior watched the nameless undead (they had said their name upon arriving in Lordran, but why bother remembering it? They were simply one of countless others that came before - and would surely come after) materialize at the bonfire after a violent death, he found it quite amusing. How they sat panting, wrinkled, rotten mouth agape, clutching at the phantom pain in their now intact torso. Truly, they reminded him of himself, when he were more courageous, and much dumber.
The second time was no different. But the ninety-fourth? (He had counted, yes. What else was there to do?) It was just depressing, really. This poor bastard had guts, he had to admit. Many that had come to the shrine previously gave up around the tenth, maybe twentieth death. But this one was special, weathering the trauma and exhaustion of death with a determined expression upon their wretched face every time they got up to fight once more.
But clearly, they weren't special enough. Ninety-four attempts, and this one hadn't left the shrine's bonfire? Well, no offense, the Warrior hadn't done so hot either - why do you think he had ended up here in the first place? But he had at least made some progress in his day. With each passing hour, he could see the undead's spark fading. It was the eyes. He had seen it happen often, learned well the demeanor of a broken, cowardly man.
This time was no different. It was a good run, yes. This undead had even made a spectacular entrance, his arrival via the claws of the giant crow made him think for a second that maybe, just maybe, this dramatic show was a sign that this was the fellow who would pull it off and save the day.
But of course they weren't. These undead never are.
And thus, finally, after a much longer rest at the bonfire than usual, the not-so-chosen undead exhibited the telltale sign of a poor sap who was ready to give up on everything. They held out one of their few slivers of humanity, embraced it into their changing form so that they could at least enjoy a warm, living body before their inevitable hollowing, and shambled off to find a good spot to rest and let their soul corrupt.
There was just one turn of events that the Warrior had not expected, however. The undead walked right up to him, weapon and armor now shed and lying by the bonfire, and plopped themselves down on the cracked stone ledge, right next to him.
It didn't make much sense - why would anybody wish to spend their last sane moments with this depressing bastard? Oh, whatever. If they had finally learned to shut up and enjoy silence for once instead of constantly pestering him with stupid questions, the Crestfallen Warrior could tolerate their presence.
"Finally given up, have you? I must admit, your attempt was rather impressive. But it always comes down to this, doesn't it?" The last sentence gave way to an ugly, wheezing chuckle, the wicked sneer ever present on the Warrior's face.
The undead did not respond, did not make any kind of gesture. Their face was human and alive, now, but their eyes were finally devoid of light, like his.
"Well, my friend, let us wait and wither. I guess we will see who hollows first, who attacks who. Let us make a game of it, as there's nothing to do in this damned shrine after all." And with that final remark, not another word was spoken between the two.
Time stretched on, the world still without its savior.