Elite Knight Armor:
Armor of a nameless knight, perhaps an elite knight of Astora, based on the fire-warding heraldic symbol on its blue surcoat.
Although he was loath to give up on his Undead mission, he perished at the Undead Asylum, and went Hollow.
The Chosen Undead lay in the sand, staring up at the endless turquoise above them.
Here, time…wasn't.
They lay, exhausted beyond belief, limbs screaming for rest.
The sand was cool, calming, gently caressing their body.
Like hands… whose?
No sword, no shield, no staff.
They smiled, facial muscles stretching for the first time in long years.
Rest.
It called them with every fiber of their being, tugging, begging them to finally stop moving and sleep.
I can't.
They lazily turned their head to see the gigantic skull, pure white against vibrant blue.
Dead.
They should have died long ago. Gone hollow and be left to wander.
They wanted to sit in the asylum, lay down among the moss and dank stone and rot.
They were so tired.
Crackling.
The bonfire on their right-had it always been there?-called them, shadows forming images as the fire danced, calling, beckoning them like a moth.
They were so tired.
Souls.
But not tired enough that they could just lay down and forget.
There were still souls, innocent and virtuous, that called, visages that danced in the bonfire's flames.
A knight, key in hand. A firekeeper, huddled in her cage. A bucket helm that glimmered with light.
Pale skin, white scales, and round bulbous armor.
They clenched their hand.
Too tired to go on, yet I must.
Memories of a gentle kiss to cold lips, hands, of rain, of a world that breathed.
Memories of screams, of pain, of bones crunching and blood flowing.
Memories of death, and love, and life.
I cannot sleep yet.
They slowly stumbled onto their knees, crawling toward the bonfire.
Faces, memories, screams.
You'll have to wait a moment longer, they mused, staring at the endless, bottomless sea.
Acceptance, death, sweet release…can wait.
The bottomless curse…would the sea accept it?
They pulled the coiled sword out of the bonfire, admiring the bronze blade, tracing a gentle finger across the metal, too dirtied to reflect their eyes.
They were tired and weary. Yet they had to go on, as long as they could move.
There's still hope.
My duty is not the destination, it is the journey.
They stabbed the coiled sword into their stomach, keeling over as the world around them collapsed. The Archtrees fell, the bonfire crumbled, the skull shattered, and their limp body fell into the endless blue.
I have miles to go yet.
Another world formed before them as they fell.
A world of fire and dark, of fallen gods, lost kingdoms and broken cycles.
A dead world, whose corpse barely held on to a twisted unlife.
A world of exhilaration, pride, hatred and rage.
A world of ash and dust.
When the Chosen Undead woke up in the Undead Asylum for the third time, they were fucking done.
Too many deaths. Not theirs, but of others. Of ones they had held dear.
That was going to change.
Nobody else would go hollow, die an undignified death, and force the Chosen Undead to put them down. They would save as many people as they could, and grant them whatever passed for a happy ending in the dying world of Lordran.
Now, they just needed to wait for Oscar to give them the key to their cell, and the Chosen Undead would save the first undead they had met. For now, they laid back, and ran through the first leg of their journey. Who would they encounter on the way to the first bell?
The memories came rushing back.
Solaire of Astora, praiser of the sun, who had both died from a Sunlight Maggot, and linked the First Flame.
Anastacia of Astora, the poor firekeeper. She was getting out of that god-forsaken cage with her tongue and unbroken legs.
Lautrec of Carim, unfortunately, would be required for Anastacia's rebirth, but the second that was done? He was getting booted off a cliff, or having his throat slit, or both.
Petrus needed a knife in the back, but not before he spoke to Reah.
Oswald... he would need to have a long talk with about sin.
Before the Chosen Undead could dwell on their thoughts further, there was a loud thump as a corpse fell into the cell. Looking up, they could see Oscar's figure, rapidly retreating.
And so it begins, they thought to themselves.
I've already killed gods and demons. What's a little tampering with fate?
Oscar of Astora screamed as he was slammed into the floor again and again. He braced his trusty Crest Shield for more impact, but was flung into the air before being smashed into the ground by the demon's gigantic hammer.
He groaned, as his vision swam and his head pounded.
He tried to reach for his straight sword, but his arm wouldn't respond, and he felt something warm ooze down his back.
The hammer swung in a blinding arc, and he barely managed to roll out of the way, before stumbling towards his sword as the demon steadied itself.
The demon swung once more, breaking his guard and sending him crashing into the wall. He slumped to the ground in a broken heap.
Oscar tried to move, but he couldn't feel his legs. Pain shot through his head as he tried to raise it.
The demon turned its head, grinning wickedly, before it grabbed him by the legs and lifted him up into the air, holding him up to its face, its beady red eyes staring into his.
It grinned, a sick, twisted grin, before flinging him to the ground with a thud. It raised its hammer, and all Oscar could do was cling to his weapons as he was smashed through the roof.
The Chosen Undead stabbed their blade through the throat of the archer Hollow, before crushing its head against the wall. They tore their sword out of its head, before continuing onward. They had barely spared the Asylum Demon a glance as they sprinted past it. Their mind was focused on Oscar.
The man who had helped them thrice, deserved his own chapter to tell his tale, not just an aside.
They stuck their hand into the fog, feeling the ever-eerie cold mist swirl around it, before stepping through and dispelling the fog wall. They strode on, before turning left to see the boulder at the top of the stairs. They took two steps, before immediately rolling off as the boulder flew down the stairs, breaking through the wall behind them. They turned, before marching back up and through the hole in the wall.
Inside the small room lay Oscar, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. Blood flowed down his chin, pooling on the ground around his feet, staining the already dirty water further.
The Chosen Undead knelt beside him and placed their hand on Oscar's chest.
The Astoran stirred slightly. "Ah... You're no Hollow, eh? Thank goodness..." He paused for a moment, before shaking his head. "I'm done for, I'm afraid... I'll die soon, then lose my sanity... I wish to ask something of you... You and I, we're both Undead... Hear me out, will you?"
The Chosen Undead simply nodded as they reached into their pockets.
"...Regrettably, I have failed in my mission... But perhaps you can keep the torch lit... There is an old saying in my family... Thou who art Undead, art chosen... In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords... When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know... Well, now you know... And I can die with hope in my heart..."
Oscar let out a long breath. "Oh, one more thing... Here, take this..." He took out his own Estus Flask, holding it out with shaking hands. He felt the undead take it, but quickly replace it with...
"...Could that be Humani-" Oscar didn't get the chance to finish his sentence.
"Anastacia of Astora." The Chosen Undead uttered.
"A-Anastacia?" Oscar asked, eyes widening. "She's in Lordran?"
"Do you remember?" The Chosen Undead replied, before crushing the humanity sprite in Oscar's hand.
The essence flowed into Oscar's body, and he could feel a shift, a ripple in the essence as it moved through his body. He gasped, as a burst of power flowed through his limbs, as his body healed, wounds closing.
Anastacia.
Oscar remembered.
H-Hey! Wait up!" Oscar laughed as Anastacia ran after him, her little feet pattering on the floor as they ran through the halls in search of Lucian. The twins raced through the palace, passing servants and guests. The two ran through the gardens, dodged, ducked, dipped, dived, and dodged around all the obstacles in their way in their search. Finally, panting, they found Lucian in the armory, training. As Oscar turned the corner, he saw Lucian twirl his blade, before faking a parry and immediately stepping back, feinting and-
"Brother!" He turned, and his form relaxed, before quickly putting down his blades as two of his younger siblings hugged him.
"Hello, my little siblings." He smiled, patting the two of them on the head. "How are you doing?"
"We want to play!" The twins chorused, and Lucian smiled before leading them into the courtyard.
"Alright, what do you want to play?" The elder brother asked, already knowing the answer.
"Monster!" Oscar yelled, and Lucian laughed, before he took a few steps back, crouched, and roared. "Raaaghhh!" He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as Oscar roared back, and Anastacia scrambled to hide behind a bush, squeaking as Lucian slowly stomped towards her.
"Rarr, I, a hungry Taurus Demon, feel like maiden flesh today!" Lucian melodramatically growled, crouching and snarling at his sister as she squealed, before Oscar leaped between the elder brother and Anastacia, spread his arms, and-
"Don't touch her! I, Oscar, prince of Astora will-" Oscar shook his head, clearing his mind as he focused back on the figure in front of him as the Chosen Undead sheathed their sword.
"She was my younger sister. The clerics sent her away when the Flame began to fade. The Way of White. They said they would only provide the royal family support if their clerics could turn her into a firekeeper. She was bubbly, cheerful, so endlessly excitable." His voice was still hoarse from his earlier screaming, even as the humanity essence repaired his body. "I thought she might be in Lordran, and I could ring the bell. I would return a hero, with the knowledge Astora needed."
The Chosen Undead took a step forward, before reaching out their hand. "Anastacia lives."
Oscar took a sharp intake of breath, before he gripped the undead hand, and pulled himself up. He picked up his weapons, before following the Chosen Undead out of the room with a newfound resolve.
"Oh by the way, where'd you get your armor from? Are you also Astoran nobility? It quite resembles mine."
Oscar thought he saw the Chosen Undead flinch, before they dismissively waved the question away.
A/N: I do love stories like Derp Souls and Take the Ring, but I wanted to see how the world will respond when it's truly the Chosen Undead and not a quippy Author SI OC, with all the pain and suffering that entails.
Character Tags: Chosen "It's spelled 'Knights' not 'Knight's'" Undead, Oscar "Trauma Conga Line" of Astora
