I found my way to old kingdom the same way as most. Half-mad from hollowing, I stumbled upon a hag with a spinning wheel. Always a spinning wheel. For each one of us, the hag and the wheel. Did you ever realize why?

Well, as always, the hag claimed salvation lay in forgotten Drangleic. And that I might find my way there without really knowing why. What I felt then might have been a little different from what you did. Even through the haze of hollowing, with my spirit weak, my physical mind remembered.

I knew that was my home. I wasn't grasping for a vague hope. If nothing else, I had found a place to die.

So I traveled west with all the tenacity of an undead possessed of purpose. I understand you're originally from the south? The savanna, the desert, or-? Well, I suppose that can wait.

In any case, I was a little stronger for the journey than most. For reasons you'll hear soon enough, my rate of hollowing was slowed to almost nothing. I didn't live – what, two hundred years? – because I had a will of iron. I had a grudge burning a hole in my heart for certain, but the real trick was some of Aldia's experimental material.

Resultantly, I didn't have to worry about going hollow on the way across the mountains and bogs. I pushed past those who had lost themselves without thinking. I had a bit of shock reaching the crumbling gate of the kingdom. Something in me had hoped they would rebuild after the giants attacked. But the Undead Curse had already weakened us too much. The Battle of Cardinal Tower broke what was left of Drangleic.

Yet, I could still see it, just like you could. Just like all the others. The image of the kingdom entire, reflected in the lake by Aldia's mirror-magic. The Dark in me called to the brightbugs, and the moon shone over the lake. The power of the Curse flowed through the decrepit gate, and I was drawn into the Deep.

I awoke to find myself on that ivy-covered altar just as all other undead. Only, I recognized the floral motifs carved into the stone. Few undead would. Indeed, few gods would, out of the precious few who have survived this long. The origins of the Curse are nearly forgotten now. Yet, I remembered seeing these patterns… across the sea.

That place between worlds which takes the shape of a great chasm is a fragment of a primeval memory. It reflects the roots of the world as reality itself fractures. The great pillars which uphold the chasm roof crumble, and the archtrees rot and fall. It is quiet, peaceful. The only light is from the illusory world beyond, a crack in the chasm like emerging from the womb.

Aldia has made of that place a gauntlet. Weak Men who enter, who cannot remember themselves, do not leave. They become the guards of the road to the outer world of illusion. The handful of gods which have forced their entry to that place betwixt are the oversized bones strewn across the field of pale wheat we find as we leave the altar. Aldia's amber-eyed hounds gnaw at dead divinity but leave undead Men to across unafraid.

In that bug-eaten archtree stump across the field, I found the home of the last Fire Keepers, just as you did. Did you notice as you entered? That the latch was on the outside? That they were trapped within?

The wretched old Keepers asked my name. The first test. I told them what I remembered.

"Bel."

Now, here's where my journey begins to differ. They showed a human effigy next, as was their duty. I'm told the effect is to reflect one's self, to let a hollow resume the illusion of flesh and remember a portion of their skills. I'm sure you've met at least one undead who could see nothing in the effigies. I saw… something else.

A creature of bulbous form. A headless mass of tangled branches stuffed into burst armor. The remains of an army which challenged the giants long before Drangleic. I had seen these things before and feared them. Before the Keepers or their handmaid could stop me, I burst through the opposite door. Behind, there was nothing but the altar and the cavern waters far below. I knew I had to reach the light.

Stumbling and sprinting, I crossed the narrow road to the passage which looks like a human spine. Before I could really comprehend anything, I was out. I was there, in the fake kingdom. In the everlasting sunset of seaside Majula. For the first time since Cardinal Tower, I was home.

I wonder what you felt, honestly. I've traveled long and far. You might have noticed I've just returned from a particularly exotic locale. Yet I've never seen another place so beautiful. Where you can smell the red-gold rays as the sun sinks into the sea. Maybe I'm biased.

Your contact pauses for a moment and takes a long drink. It's a strong, spiced wine you can smell across the table. You recognize the scent from preserved bottles you found across Drangleic.

"I was quite fond of that dense oldwood in Catarina," the tall woman said, "the one with the lakeside university."

"Of course you were!" your contact sputters. "It was full of snakes!"

"Come, we both enjoyed the historic windmill."

"Well, yes, the mechanism was exquisitely lathed, but–"

You're certain the next word is a curse in the Eastern tongue.

"That is beside the point! Please, excuse the distraction. I'll get back to it."

In my addled state, I tried to watch the sun set over the ocean. I'm not sure how long it was before I remembered that time was frozen. Eventually, I broke away. My gaze turned south, past the old monument on the cliff, to the Tower of Flame in the distance. The fire was still lit.

For what, I didn't know until much later. I managed to avoid encountering the prison ships. I understand you fought one of the dragonkin wardens beneath deck while it filled with water.

That would have been absolutely maddening for me. I don't appreciate close-quarters combat, much less one with restricted movement. I imagine someone of your experience must be quite adaptable. I'm not exactly a master swordsman.

You could say the kingdom was a bit ahead of the curve in military tech. In spite of being a commoner and not filling a combat role, I did receive basic spear training when I joined the army. Everything else… I had to improvise.

Well, I followed the old road downhill to the town gate. The original stone gate wasn't in any better shape than when you saw it later. The wooden fencing surprised me, though. I had left after Cardinal Tower, when the town was in ruins. I never imagined undead would try to rebuild it. Maybe I would have stayed.

I walked under the great arch, blinded by the sun. When I could see again, I found… something different. The town wasn't totally destroyed any longer, but… it wasn't quite my home anymore. The stone buildings were still in shambles if they stood at all. Yet, there were wooden shacks and tents. People lived there again.

I know things had collapsed almost entirely by the time you arrived, but the silence of the grave had left that town. At least since I had abandoned it. There were undead lying about or trading or sharpening their blades. As I stumbled in, they hardly turned. I was only the latest arrival. Whether I survived or hollowed was my own business.

As I passed, I heard them saying something about "the Muse, the Muse." I kept it in mind, of course, but I didn't think much of it yet. I had only one goal. It was still there, you know. The shop on the corner where my father had taught me the whitesmith's art. The step up from the dirt road was as intact as one might hope.

A blacksmith was squatting– Well, no. It was abandoned. The shop was rightly his. Yet my memories were falling back into place. I felt the burning in my chest as I pushed back the fog of the Curse, just a little. The smith protested at first, then called for help when he realized how close to the edge I was. I ignored him and stole a shovel. Mind, they were still trying to rebuild then, and there were a good number of tools lying about.

Now, you know well enough that a smith is indispensable for a quest like yours. The one shout from the man had half the town on me. Bows and crossbows were aimed. Melee fighters formed a wall of steel. I didn't try to escape. I walked around the yard, to the tree. It was already long dead.

On the cliff side of the tree, there's a great view of the old, half-sunken city and the Tower. The blue of the roofs is so vivid under the sunset at that angle. Well, I started digging while all the undead watched. Luckily, no one had thought much to searching for buried treasure.

The iron chest containing my old equipment was still there. I'd abandoned it when I left Majula in the hopes that no one would connect me to the fallen kingdom, overwhelmed by the Curse. Now, opening the chest, the item on top was the most important. I'd left it like that, just in case I ever needed it but didn't realize I did. Hollowed as I was, I still remembered that much.

I drew out the oiled cloth and let it unravel. Inside was a slick, gray stone which caught the sunlight on all its squared edges. It was cracked with age, as such stones are wont. The image of a skull floated to the surface as I held it to the light and gripped it in my good hand. It sucked the Curse from me and crumbled to ash in my clutch.

It was always a rough process for me. Restoring my humanity – or the illusion of such, as Aldia prefers to say. I don't know how the shock hits a "normal" undead, but the vast stream of information being reconnected in my mind is like being struck by lightning. That's no exaggeration. I'm assuming you've fought a battle-priest? A good one? It's like a Great Lightning Spear, right in the center of my head.

You might imagine that I wasn't in the mood to be struck by an errant crossbow bolt.

My flesh un-rotting all at once spooked some green fool, and he shot me by mistake. It was just a body shot, fortunately. A body shot which punctured one of my newly-working lungs. So I decided to use them before they got too bloody.

I don't quite remember what I said, but it was something along the lines of, "You should have gone in your mother's mouth, you premature cumshot!"

Reactions were mixed. To put it lightly.

Some were just glad I wasn't hollow anymore and stopped caring. I clearly wasn't going after the blacksmith. Others were, you might imagine, appalled at my behavior. A traditional-looking Way of White cleric threw a book at me. I gave him a one-finger salute, ripped the bolt out of my ribcage, and threw it at him. My throwing arm is about as about as bad as my language, so I harmed no one in my rage.

In any case, the crowd dispersed. The stragglers were the usual suspects. Those who were curious about what I'd used to restore my humanity instead of a human effigy. Those who wanted to see what was in the chest. Those who were curious about a new arrival who seemed to have a specific purpose. And of course, those who had pretended to leave but had actually hidden and were waiting until they could mug me.

The blacksmith – not the later one… Lenigrast, right? – was part of the second group. He was curious. I was curious about him, myself. He wasn't one of us, an undead traveler, but he was certainly undead and far from home. He was another Darkclan, who split from humanity in the ancient past. Not a proper Man but a Gyrm, one of the squat, bearded folk who dwelled beneath the mountains.

"Sorry about barging in," I said. "I wasn't exactly myself."

"Not sur-prise!" he barked, trying to brute force our language.

The tongue of the Gyrm, what little I've heard of it, is terse and brutalist. Every word is like a hammer's fall or the ringing of steel. Since our own tongue is derived from the gods', the Gyrm tend to struggle with the lighter bits. You might hear a poet called a "wordsmith." That's an actual profession among the Gyrm. They don't interact much with the peoples on the surface, so one among each clan will take up learning our language as a master skill.

For the Gyrm who don't, you get treasures like, "Me Vid! Who you?" After I responded "Bel", of course, he said, "Good name! Has ring to it!"

Setting that aside, I introduced myself as a fellow smith. If he would but lend me the use of his forge, then I would be more than willing to show my old works. Assuming they still worked, of course.

I dragged everything out of the chest. The ratty traveling gear I'd been wearing, I simply threw to the side. Wearing my old armor at all times wouldn't be precisely comfortable, but well, that's how it is for undead. No rest, save at a bonfire. Getting into uniform again after so long stirred my spirit as well.

The Royal Drangleic Engineer Corps uniform was a sort of brigandine – tortoiseshell plates studded into heavy cloth. It was meant to be light and flexible while also somewhat fireproof. Our gloves were thinner and finer leather than the common soldiery. We wore morion helms like the light infantry, though.

As a captain, I personally had a breastplate of the same make as the Royal Swordsmen. Just a little more protection to keep me mostly intact. Luckily, we never fought any particularly dangerous archers. I still shudder to think of Carim's sniper crossbow. An open helm makes my job easier, but I'd rather not take a bolt to the brain.

Well, to tidy up the story, I showed Vid my work. He was suitably impressed, and we spent some time ensuring my weapons were still in top condition. We dried out and re-mixed the powder as well, though he nearly killed us with it.

Making nice with the town blacksmith also meant that I wouldn't be immediately stabbed for my equipment. Not that I suspected most of them, but there's always one rotten egg.

I intended to set out immediately once my things were ready, but Vid insisted that I see "the Muse" I'd heard mentioned. It was the usual "Fate of the Undead" story, except shouted in totally broken language.

After thinking on it, I caved and headed to the base of the monument's hill. The firepit there was unnervingly large. Those stones weren't a ring to sit on – they were there to contain the bonfire, as if it might grow wider than you are tall. Still, on one of the stones she sat. You know. Dear Shanalotte.

"You…?" she said, fading off into thought like she does.

See, we had a smidgen of history. We'd never spoken before, but we both knew exactly what the other was.

So I said, "If you're here, then either you're a failure as well or the damned Duke is dead."

She gave me that sad look and said, "Fate would not be so easily bested."

And I said, well, "I'm no philosopher. Fate doesn't concern me. But if the world's ending anyway, then I'm going to settle my scores. Is that monster still locked away in his manor?"

She reluctantly told me, "Yes. More than before."

I met her eyes for a long while. In spite of Aldia's crimes, she didn't wish death on her creator. I relaxed a little and pat her head with my good hand.

"You grew up to look like her," I said as I turned. "The woman with the pearl crown. The one Aldia tried to recreate."

I didn't know if she knew who I meant, but she deserved at least to be able to set Aldia aside as her only parent. I left before she could ask questions.

Now, in spite of everything the Duke did, I didn't exactly want his blood either. I wanted an explanation. It was clear from my survival that his experiments had at least partially worked. It's difficult to begrudge someone who granted you immortality. But the means he used were mad and cruel.

Even now, my memories of that time are distorted. I still see the images, hear the sounds. But I, the person who was there, am missing. My feelings and thoughts are just… missing. Maybe he changed me so that I would remember that way, so that I wouldn't hate him. It's a frightful and very possible story. Well, that's beside the point. We're both bound to him now, aren't we?

The dukedom of Aldia is to the southeast of Drangleic and no short journey from Majula. For most undead, long travel blurs together. If there are no events in the interim, it feels as though one simply enters a tunnel and emerges in a totally different place. With my perfect memory always recording, I can't take advantage of that. Without even the need to sleep to break up the walk, I set off on the first leg of my journey.

Hell, just thinking about that drudgery… Barman! Another round! Something strong. Preferably spiced.