Hollow Soldier Helm:
Helm worn by Hollow soldiers. It may be old and battered, but its iron construction makes it quite sturdy.
It is wise to wear a sturdy form of head protection against arrows and other physical threats.
The hollows are stronger.
It takes a lunging leap to kill them in a single blow now, the Chosen Undead mused as they decorated the aqueduct with undead corpses, their club stained dark red.
Each time they awoke in the asylum, the world grew harsher and less forgiving. Rats and dogs bit harder, monsters grew far more frenzied, swords were sharper and swung harder, and the Chosen Undead?
They learned.
With each death, they grew wiser and wiser, honed their technique to perfection. From furiously clinging to their shield as Smough slammed into them again and again, they grew faster, more precise, until the last cycle, a gigantic Ornstein lay dead at their feet, and the Chosen Undead stood, covered in his blood, wearing naught but undergarments and an untouched Estus bottle. The Four Kings grew exponentially in strength, yet all it took was patience and positioning to kill them, no matter how strong they were.
Parry.
The Black Knight's giant greatsword was knocked aside as the Chosen Undead rolled beneath its panicked shield bash, stabbing their dagger into its side. As the knight howled, the undead grasped the knife with both hands, hands trembling as they slammed the knight's head into the stone battlements, again and again, until nothing remained of the helmet but a lump of metal, and the limp body of one of Gwyn's greatest knights fell to the ground.
Riposte.
Cinders flew into the air as the Chosen Undead rammed the Lifehunt Scythe into Gwyn's stomach with such force that the scythe blade completely bisected the Lord of Cinder, and ashes rained down as Gwyn kneeled, slowly crumbling as he joined the remnants of his kingdom as naught but ash, the last echo of the Age of Fire silenced forevermore.
Block.
The Chosen Undead desperately clung onto the greatshield, the Father of the Abyss himself striking them with all his might, all his rage. His own fear, made manifest, in a human form, awakened the last hidden vestiges of Manus's magic, his furious assault and threatening to tear the Chosen Undead's arms off at the shoulder, but the Chosen Undead fought for every moment of their life. As they braced for impact, they grasped the ivory catalyst Dusk had given them so long ago, channeling the last of their energy into it. As the shield, the greatest Berenike had to offer, crumpled, the Chosen Undead leapt forward and let their magic loose, and heart of the Abyss was drowned in the blue light of sorcery.
Release.
The Chosen Undead, left arm torn off and armor dented, slowly sat, leaning against Kalameet's corpse, tail severed and wings broken, panting. Their armor warped and blackened, the Greatshield of Artorias strapped to their severed left arm coruscating with lightning, yet undamaged. They lay, one leg up, against the body of the Terror of Lordran, his eye pierced by Ornstein's spear, and Ciaran's Tracers embedded in his heart. They lay, staring up as the sun painted the world a brilliant orange.
Godspeed, you magnificent beast.
They returned to reality to find themselves walking back to the Shrine, where Oscar slept against the tree, the bars of the cell torn open as Anastacia slept in his arms. Black mass bubbled out of her dress, before seeping into the grass and disappearing. They could hear snoring as Oscar's head slowly tipped backward, his hand thrown around his sister's arm slowly slipping down before Anastacia's hand unconsciously shot up and pulled it back up. In their hand, the Abyss Greatsword reflected their helmet, ten shades darker.
The lives I've lived, the loves I've lost…The friends that have passed and hollowed…
Never again.
Anastacia woke from a dreamless sleep, the first she'd had in eons. The humanity inside her was pacified for the slightest moment, the world outside of her in motion, and her soul finally at rest. She shook her head, dispelling the last vestiges of sleep as she lifted her head to see Oscar speaking as the undead leaned against the wall of her former prison. The undead who had brought her brother, calmed her soul and stopped the burning.
"Oh, she's awake. Anastacia, this is the Chosen Undead. They saved me from hollowing and brought me to you. I owe my life to them." Oscar said. He loosened his grip around her as she stumbled forward, slowly, clumsily staggering forward. As the Chosen Undead caught her with a firm hand, she threw her arms around their torso, trembling as she tried to hold herself upright with legs that hadn't moved for eons.
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so, so much." She mumbled with a tongue freshly regenerated as her tears stained their cuirass. "For the first time in so long, I-I-" She felt the humanity inside roil, and flinched, before feeling the Chosen Undead's hand on hers, steady and warm, and Oscar's on her shoulder. As he looked to them with a quick glance, they laughed lightly, before pulling him into the embrace.
Another wave of tears blurred her vision as they smiled for what she knew was the first time in a long, long time.
"You feel at peace."
"The Bell is in the Undead Burg, in the church at its heart. I've been told a blacksmith resides there as well. We shall then descend into the lower portions of the city, and then descend further below." Oscar announced.
As they walked through the aqueduct, Anasatacia raised her dress as she followed behind the two warriors. She had demanded to accompany them. Oscar had protested, but the Chosen Undead... They knew things she did not. They let her follow, and she was going to prove to them that she could help. How, though, was another question entirely.
Oscar, bless his heart, was an idiot. Quick in combat, yes, but outside of it? It took until they were five for him to learn that fire was hot and unfortunately not edible, a broken arm to learn that he was, in fact, not tougher than a tree, and an incredible concussion to learn that gravity existed. Lucian was the smart one.
Lucian…
The last thing she remembered of him was the look in his eyes as he watched her paraded around. The look of pity, and as he looked to the priests around her, cold rage, his ice-blue eyes twitching before he put on his helmet, turned, and ran.
"Ana?" As Oscar reached out to bring his sister back to reality, hand about to grab her shoulder, tendrils of humanity exploded out of Anastacia's arm, grasping Oscar's hand and wrapping around his entire arm. In the blink of an eye, Anastacia withdrew out of her memories to the Gold Tracer at her throat and the Silver Tracer at Oscar's. Her vision slowly shifted to the tendrils of pulsating humanity, and she gasped, stumbling backward in panic. As Anastacia stumbled back, the tendrils receded back into her body, and Oscar, too, fell back, into the muck of the aqueduct.
"A-Ana? W-What in Gwyn's name was that?" Oscar staggered upright as the Chosen Undead sheathed their daggers. "That was humanity!"
"I-I'm not-I don't-" As Anastacia looked from her arm to Oscar, a 'twang' echoed through the aqueduct, and as Anastacia turned to face the Chosen Undead as another mass of humanity burst out of her chest to grab and stop an arrow.
"It protects the protector." Without another word, the Chosen Undead slung their bow over their shoulder and turned to walk up the stairs to the Burg, leaving a shocked Anastacia and dumbfounded Oscar to collect themselves.
"Anastacia, there are still many things I do not understand about…who-or what-you are, and I wish you would tell me," Oscar said, before gently offering his hand. "But I'll wait until you're ready to. Shall we?"
The souls inside me, the poor ones fed into my abomination of an existence… As Anastacia looked down at her hands, she felt warmth rush through them, the humanity inside her gently swirling. Thank you for protecting me. I promise that I shall care for you in turn.
Wordlessly, the siblings followed.
A/N: GROUP HUG!
Character Tags: Anastacia "Mercer" of Astora, Oscar "whatthefuckisGOINGON" of Astora, Chosen "Is there friendly fire" Undead
