Blood-Stained Skirt:

Worn by the Fire Keeper at Firelink Shrine.

It is thought to have once been the white skirt of a maiden, but its true origin is lost in patches of blood. Perhaps its former wearer was maimed to prevent escape?


In the land of Lordran, time was...convoluted, to say the least.

The hollow warriors that patrolled the aqueduct that led to the Undead Burg had been there for centuries, yet had only existed for minutes. Their world consisted of the six seconds they had to revel in having slain undead before the magic of the bonfire in the nearby Firelink Shrine rewound their bodies, rebuilt their bombs and returned their equipment to its eternal state of rust and disrepair. Their world was only the hill, the aqueduct, and the unlucky undead that wandered too close to the Undead Burg.

Even when a lucky undead defeated them, the second the successful challenger sat at the bonfire, their life was reset to their positions atop the cliff. Muscle rewound itself around unbroken bone. Blood began to flow from dying veins. Eyes fitted themselves into empty sockets.

Ready to be slain again.

Had they not been hollowed long ago, they might have felt pity for their torment of unending battle, as tiny specks of endless yet minuscule suffering in a world pushed far past its breaking point.

A half-death of eternal suffering with an end that only flowed into a beginning.


Petrus huffed and puffed. The oh-so-great harlot he was to escort still hadn't arrived yet. The House had entrusted him with a suicide mission, and he had no desire to die anytime soon. The tramp had been coddled from birth, raised at the very heart of the Allfather's chambers. She didn't know how to defend herself, and the two 'young clerics' they had sent to aid here were greener than a Cloranthy Ring's gem. He wasn't risking his life. The Crescent Axe wasn't worth going on a suicide mission for some artifact that didn't exist.

Finally, Petrus felt a presence on the stairs. The clinking of armor announced the arrival of a knight of Astora. Wrinkling his nose at the appearance of yet another Astoran noble, he stepped forward, feigning cordiality.

"Hello there. I believe we are not acquainted. I am Petrus of Thorolund. Have you business with us? ...If not, I'd prefer to keep a distance, if possible." Petrus nervously fingered his talisman. Had the House found out about his plans? Had he ever written them down? What evide-

"Hello. I am Oscar, of Astora. I seek my sister, Anastacia of Astora. She is a blonde woman with blue eyes, much like myself." The knight flipped up his visor to reveal the exact kind of noble face Petrus had always wanted to punch. "I hope I do not intrude too much into your affairs."

Petrus ground his teeth. "No no, I wish for you to know that it is not meant in ill will. I have not seen an Anastacia, though the firekeeper resembles who you are describing. Here, take this. As a token of peace." He held out a copper coin. It was useless in this kingdom, after all.

"I thank you for your generosity, kind sir. I hope that our paths cross again in the future." Oscar bowed, before taking the coin and walking away.

Petrus had to bite back a snarl of I hope your path crosses right off of a cliff.


As Oscar walked back to the bonfire, the undead who had saved him was sitting at the bonfire. He watched as they raised their hand to the bonfire, masses of white souls wrapping around them, before being absorbed as the undead strengthened their body.

"Oh? How did your talk with the fat man go? Don't take your chances, he'll stab you in the back soon enough." The knight in chainmail said."It's just a part of living in Lordran. Soon enough, everything turns on you...Hah hah hah hah..." He laughed as the Chosen Undead twitched. "Am I dredging up unwanted memories?"

Oscar frowned. "He has done nothing to harm me. He simply understands the importance of his duty, and mine. Who are you to speak of duty when you sit and rot in this abandoned shrine?" As he spoke, he felt the Chosen Undead place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Oh? Is your duty to ring the bell? Of awakening?" The knight laughed as Oscar nodded. "Fate of the Undead, right? There's no salvation here. You'd have done better to rot in the Undead Asylum. There are two bells. One's up above, in the Undead Church. The other is far, far below, in the ruins at the base of Blighttown. Ring them both, and something happens... Brilliant, right?" He smirked as Oscar turned to the Chosen Undead.

"Did you know this?" The Astoran questioned, and as the Chosen Undead nodded, Oscar's eyes narrowed. "But why wouldn't you tell me?"

"You are human." They offered.

"Bu-But I-that doesn't explain why you would withhold the truth from me!" Oscar sputtered. "You are a poor excuse of a knight, to lay down your blade and simply rot! I, Oscar of Astora shall-"

"What are you going to do? I've long since ceased to care; I'm simply crestfallen..." The knight chuckled, and Oscar turned to the Chosen Undead. "And you, I don't understa-"

"Drive fuels your humanity." Without another word, the Chosen Undead slowly slipped their hand into his.

I-What could that possibly mean? I am human, yes. I almost went hollow and I have no desire of-

Oscar sighed as the Chosen Undead slowly, carefully, led him down the stairs.

Drive.

It fuels me.

Hollowing will only come when I lose sight of my goal.

Anastacia.

Oscar gently squeezed the undead's hand.

"Thank you. I understand, friend of few words. I will find Anastacia, at whatever cost."

The Chosen Undead shook their head as they reached the bottom of the stairs, simply opting to squeeze Oscar's hand comfortingly, before turning and quickly leaving him in a small corner of the shrine.

Anastacia. I cannot risk myself going hollow, for I must search for her and-

"Hey, what's that?" He exclaimed as he stepped forward to see iron bars.

A woman was in the cell. A woman with flaxen hair lay in the cell, head down.

This must be the firekeeper.

"Excuse me, I-" Oscar froze as the woman looked up, and he locked eyes with cerulean blue eyes, the exact shade of his own.

Whatever naive dreams Oscar had of reuniting with his sister were dashed into nothingness as Anastacia weakly moaned and tried to hide in the furthest corner of her cell, dragging herself with only her arms and what stumps remained of her legs.