Was the distortion of time as bad then as it is now?

"Absolutely. We had a 'fun' time with the infinite rain outside Drangleic Castle."

Did you get on with any other experiments, and were you aware of the mad murderer downstairs?

"Navlaan, you mean? Never spoke with him. Research into the body and research into the soul were mostly divided. Navlaan was on the souls side of things, so I was never subject to his tender mercies.

As for friends… We weren't given opportunity to interact with the other subjects. We might see them from time to time – the manor was only so large. But for the most part, we were in altered states of mind.

It wasn't like an Undead Asylum, where you'll get your own cell until the Curse starts getting bad. We weren't alone. We were like livestock at an urban slaughterhouse. You could reach out and touch someone, but they wouldn't recognize you as human any more than you would recognize them.

When the monsters were let out, we all ran on our own."

Well, if that meeting with Aldia didn't set me into a bad mood, nothing would. I might have said something rude to Aslatiel on my way out. I think he was more surprised that I could come and go through the magical gate than anything, though.

Now, I had to cross the whole damned country again. Talk about a hassle.

Before you ask why I didn't just warp using the bonfire… I didn't know that was a thing. That's not something you just assume. Sure, the bonfires are lost magic with strange powers, but you don't just assume they can disintegrate you and hurtle you across the country. Sure, it's logical progression of their powers if you know they're all linked. If.

I of course knew none of that. As you might have noted, I… hadn't used any bonfires in Drangleic. As undead, I was still drawn to them, but I'd broken myself of the habit long ago.

As noted, I'm a whitesmith by trade. My father was a whitesmith, and his father. I personally made all the fine dinnerware in Drangleic Castle. If you broke into the dining room and ate with the King's fork, you've experienced the precious, delicate balance of my craftsmanship. I daresay I wouldn't lose to any whitesmith in this wide world! I stole dinnerware from the land of giants to learn their secrets!

It turned out there weren't any, because I was already better than them! They had humans make their fine dinnerware because we have smaller hands! …I'm getting off-topic.

After I fled Drangleic, I traveled east. Not far. I intended to hide in Astora, but they still remembered too much of the undead. I continued to Catarina and spent most of my years there. I'd tried to settle down at first, but there was too much risk. All it would take would be one accident to reveal I wasn't human. Or for someone to see me over years, ignoring the passage of time.

I fled again and took up the life of a traveling tinker. It was a lean life, living on the road, repairing peasants' kettles and the like. And of course, I could never risk seeking out a bonfire. That would reveal me straightaway.

Honestly, I should have linked to at least one. Hell's bells, I probably would have returned to Aldia's Keep if I'd died at any point before I returned on my own. But I was cautious, even as I hollowed. I never suffered a violent death in those years. I managed to avoid the fate which finds most undead who appear before the Way of White declares a return of the Curse and the opening of Undead Asylums.

Now we're really off track, huh? So, I spent however many days walking back to Majula. Again, being fully conscious the entire time. One of the things that undead tend to forget about is that your feet and shoes can get in pretty bad shape from these sorts of journeys. I did stop every so often to air out my boots.

Eventually, I did make it back to Majula. They'd already seen me before or at least heard about me from the others, so there wasn't any fanfare when I came back. I didn't exactly stay to talk either. I stopped by the ruin of my father's shop to greet Vid the Gyrm before heading south.

I was going to old Alken, so the fasted route was to take the cliffside passage and then make may way through the hills and mines. The rotunda lockstone? It was still there. Majula had enough of a community that no one really wanted to be ostracized for taking it. I just pointed it to the Alken side and headed through.

Now, that crank who put a chair in the middle of nowhere and spends all his time staring at a wall was already there. When I tried asking about the sorts of issues I might have along the road, he had some choice words for me.

"Frail and weak," or something.

So I shot a leg off his chair. He fell over and couldn't get up, with that ridiculous hood in his face and all. Sorcerers and clerics are bad enough, most of the time. Those damned cultists think they're so special. "True Dark" and all. As if it's not inside all of us.

I could have been a sorcerer, you know. The kingdom really wanted more sorcerers. I chose not to. I'd seen them before, of course. For scholars, they never seemed do anything clever. Lots of blue lights and little more. Not like the magic the King used. I suppose every field gets useless elitists.

Well, after I had my fun, I made my way up the cliffside. After a short while, I saw a bonfire ahead. There was an actual campsite as well. I figured that this might be a good opportunity to link with a bonfire at last. Well, I thought. I almost shit myself.

I had to blink and doubletake. It was dark in those hills. It's called the… Huntsman's Copse now, I think. More like Huntsman's Corpse at this point, right? Well, even with the bonfire, it was dark, and the bastard was wearing mostly black… seeing as how it was one of the Mirrah assassins the King imported.

He'd lost his mask and was covering his face with a rag, but it's hard to mistake a grown man dressed like a bird.

While I was trying to decide whether I should retreat and make new plans or draw my mosquete for a surprise attack, he… waved me over. Now, I had a thousand questions at this point. Was he working for Aldia? Had the King come back from his extended trip to the spa? Why did an assassin have such great hair?

Well, I didn't get any answers. The assassin offered me a seat and a clay pot of a very fine vintage, but he didn't say anything. He would nod or shake his head if I asked simple questions, but anything complicated just go an aggressive "no."

He did write out his hame in the damp ground. "Ray." There's some irony there, for a shadowy assassin.

Well, I gave up after a while and linked with the bonfire before leaving. What followed could be described as "hell." Hollow thieves, bandits, and the like are pretty agile for undead. And I was pretty slow, what with having two iron legs at the time. Mind, I was keeping an eye out. I was never ambushed.

The problem was…

I could shoot one. Dead. Instantly. However, a gonne fires its projectile by means of a small explosion. For every hollow I shot down, I lured three more to me. Now, it wasn't always bad. I had three shots for each wave of enemies. Sometimes, there'd be a laggard, and I could even reload one of my dragóns. Now, if any reached me, that was a struggle.

If it was only one, I could make do. Whether club or blade, I could catch a single weapon with my iron hand. Unfortunately, they often carried a pair of weapons. Such paired stances are almost the hallmark of the kingdom, even now.

Well, I could usually manuever well enough. Block one weapon and deflect the second with my standard-issue Drangleic army straightsword. Well, assuming I could draw it in time. You might have heard of or even seen soldiers use their spent gonnes as clubs. Yeah, I wasn't about to risk jamming the mechanisms with hollow flesh. Being forced to drop them so frequently was bad enough.

Well, as it went, I was at least competent enough to deal with a single hollow. The problem was when I blocked one and another stabbed me. Or shot me with a rotten arrow that could barely fly. Or both.

Truly, my journey might have ended then, one way or another. If I hadn't linked to the bonfire, then I might have simply given up because I certainly wasn't about to walk anywhere again. Yet, in spite of the device in my chest, I almost went hollow anyway. My body was protected, but my mind was being overwhelmed by frustration.

The assassin eventually took pity on me and helped me reach the bonfire beneath the stone bridge. After that, he returned to his camp, I imagine. I didn't see him again after that.

Unfortunately, past that point, it wasn't just the undead rogues I had to worry about. Maybe the assassin knew. Of course, the poisonous moon butterflies, well out of season, were a hassle. More concerning was that I found plenty of my fellows.

Those stumbling, bloated undead. The ones whose bulging flesh is barely held together with iron rivets and chain. They were among the first, before Aldia became more ambitious and before the Curse spread too far. Artificial undead monstrosities, with just enough thought in their heads to kill or capture those suffering from the Curse.

I had to be cautious. If I didn't get a clear headshot, then I would only aggravate them. They were slow-moving, for certain, but if any were to strike me, then back to the bonfire I'd go.

Frankly, I lost track of it all. How many decades had I lived in Catarina without dying? And now I was struggling to make any progress on my journey without having my bones broken or my body cut in half by sickles as longer than I was tall. For someone with a memory like mine, that blurring of events was a sign of the end.

Well, that wasn't acceptable for Aldia. The last time I found myself at the bonfire, dazedly gathering my wits, something bashed me upside the head. I threw myself out of the way and drew my dragóns but then froze.

It was one of his prize students. Not merely a dragon sage, who understood his work and could teach it to their lessers. A warlock magus. One who understood the purpose of the work. One who could continue it if their master were ever slain and who was strong enough to escape the King's seal on the manor.

I wanted to be anywhere else. Aldia didn't shy away from getting his hands dirty, but he only worked on the most promising projects. For everything else, there was a warlock. For all I knew, this was one of my tormentors.

"Put your gonnes away," she ordered in a voice that was strangely sweet. "The master has sent me to aid you. He knew you would struggle with the petty lords of this place. You lack troops to match their own. I waited as instructed, and yet you did not appear. Imagine my surprise that you are such a failure, 631. Mere hollows may bar your progress.

The Lordvessel replica is wasted on you. We might have saved another, more deserving, with it instead."

I don't think she was trying to intimidate me as such. She seemed frustrated. Maybe one of her own projects had not received support because I had escaped with the device. Yet, she did wear the robes of a kingdom priestess. Aldia took many of the frustrated clerics into his service as the King spurred them in favor of his own chaplain, the Royal Aegis. Maybe this one warlock still had a softer heart and believed Aldia's monstrosity would save the kingdom.

Still, it's hard to trust someone who wears the skull of an Abyssal beast as a mask. You've seen the warlocks, haven't you? Those skulls they wear don't belong to mutant rams. You can tell from the asymmetrical horns, violet-black crystals, and eye-like markings – sure signs of the Abyss. These skulls came from a creature called "ghru," I believe.

Well, this warlock loomed over the bonfire, leaning on a scythe made of sharpened spines. I hesitated, but I did holster my gonnes and rose to face her as best I could. The shadows of the mask hid her eyes, but I must have looked right at her because she turned away as if self-conscious.

The gap between my fear and her behavior was cute, if I'm totally honest. Even now, I wonder if that was a calculated move to lower my guard. One should never underestimate a Warlock of Aldia. Not even you.

"Lead on then, Mother Mercy," I said.

"Merciless Roenna," she replied.

What followed was… a long walk. She'd slain all the hollows on the road up. Aldia's undead huntsmen obeyed her orders and didn't attack me. Seeing her pass through with such confidence was a little deflating, to be totally honest.

Oh! And she raised the bridge again after we'd crossed it. Sorry about that.

Well, it wasn't long before we'd reached the ruin entrance hidden behind the waterfall. I'd suggested squeezing through the gap in the rocks blocking the side entrance instead of going through the soul fog, but the warlock wasn't having it.

"Again, we must break the Iron King's wayward servants. The false kingdom and false trinity must be made an example," she said.

Not sure what she was on about. Well, you know the necromancers who came next. Sure, they wore crowns, but they didn't rule over much more than than that room full of skeletons. Apparently, the warlock had been doing a piss-poor job of killing them, and they always came back until you beat them.

Well, the same thing happened then. Except it was probably a much more awful fight than the one you had. See, she hadn't warned me what happened when you killed one of them. I saw three skeletons and had three gonnes. So I shot one in his chair, then the other two as they stepped down.

If I could have seen the warlock's eyes under the skull-mask… I suspect the look she was giving me was utterly caustic. As it was, it only looked like she had glanced back at me. I shrugged and started reloading. Then the chamber started rumbling and catching fire and all the other fancy, unnecessary effects that magic tends to do when it's powering up.

And then the entire chamber was suddenly full of angry skeletons.

Frankly, I'm quite proud of myself. That mad, screaming chase through the circular chamber was what I needed to improve my combat prowess. Reloading in the heat of battle is always error-prone. After I'd dropped several cartridges and spilled a good deal of priming powder, I optimized my movements.

I had to leave my mosquete behind in such close quarters, but I became faster and faster at loading my dragóns. Then I got arrogant and tried loading both at the same time by holding one in my elbow. I dropped it pretty quickly and was left with only one of the pair. Fortunately, it was the black dragón. I don't think I could have found the white one in the pile of bones afterward.

As it went, I sped up my reloading sequence to an unheard-of five seconds by making some unnatural and perfectly-precise movements with my false arm. Tear the cartridge at exactly the right moment. Twist it around the ball as the powder pours. Hold the powder horn with just one finger. Of course, the ramrod being a part of my arm.

If you're curious, I've since developed a new loading mechanism based on a novel use of quicksilver for some clients in Catarina. A normal human can match such a rate of fire with these new gonnes. It might be difficult for an outsider to get hold of them, though.

Back to the story, it wasn't a pleasant fight. Even at five or so seconds per kill, there were an awful lot of skeletons. Of course, the warlock had absolutely terrible equipment for it. A blade and hexes? Against skeletons? She was killing them about as slowly as I was.

So, I did several laps around the bone piles, backpedaling while reloading. She mostly flailed madly and did far more smashing with the weight of her oversized weapon than anything which could be considered proper fighting.

Eventually, I fired my last shot, and the soul fog cleared. We looked at each other for a moment, panting and about to fall over from exhaustion. She tried to straighten up and seem proud again but gave up almost immediately.

"Go, 631," she said. "I must resume my vigil here."

Surprise, surprise, the tunnel out connected to the hole I'd told her I could have squeezed through. I could have avoided that whole fight. Honestly, I do wonder if she had just wanted help with fighting the necromancers. She was clearly unsuited for it.

I happened upon charcoal-pencil portraits of all the warlock magi much later. Roenna's a total cutie, you know. The type which couldn't hurt a fly. I had to remember my own advice not to understimate a warlock when I saw the portrait.

Your contact pauses to look up at the tall woman in the veil.

"Of course, cute's not really my type. And I soon found someone far stronger."

The tall woman leans in. You can't tell what's happening beneath her gown, but that's definitely not how human legs bend.

"Do you wish for me to add to the story, dear? It would provide another perspective."

Iron fingers clanked against the tin mask, grinding metal in thought.

"No, let's keep this version focused on the journey itself."

"Understandable," the concealed woman said, rising again. "Then I shall simply interject if you are mistaken."

"Well, I don't want you to just sit there and wait. You've had enough of that, for sure. How about you add some insider information when you can?"

"It would be my pleasure. Thank you for the consideration, dear. Oh, master bartender! I shall have my drink, now!"