Half-forgotten memories in the rain. A mother and child. An old woman with a spinning wheel.

"…none will have meaning, and you won't even care…"

A decayed archway at the far end of an endless lake. Bones of the fallen. Innumerable fireflies.

"…you will stand before its decrepit gate without really knowing why…"

The gate is long fallen, but in the liquid mirror, the doors wrench open. A host of haggard spirits rush outward beneath the paleblood moon. Beyond is only a vortex of yet more of the suffering wraiths, their individuality lost in the maelstrom.

"…time after time…"

An absentminded step forward and a plunge into the storm. Then, unexpectedly, peace and warmth. Sleep. Awakening is an eternity later. The hooded man finds himself sprawled on a cold stone altar, a faint ray of light drawing him to consciousness.

"If you fall, I will catch you – I will be waiting. Time after time."

The comfort of 80s pop hits nearly put him to sleep again. Fortunately, the broken stone left a crick in his neck. He felt around blindly in search of his bed.

"Laaaaaaaaaag. Your fat ass booty-bumped me off the bed again. Laag? Quelaag? Quesadilla? Lincoln Log? Special K?"

The man rose, stretching without opening his eyes.

"Geez, if she was going to wake up early, the least she could have done was put me back-"

This was definitely not the royal bedroom.

"Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

Well, maybe he was. Drangleic was probably not Lordran, but the jury was still out. The realization was slowly setting in, so he hurried along before he could think about it. At the top of the hill ahead was a bridge over a waterfall. Across that bridge was a cozy little cabin.

The experienced hero dashed straight to it with hardly a pause, his sudden arrival having had no ill effect on his stamina. The door flew open, and he stomped into the flickering light of the fireplace, panting. There were three old women in scarlet robes seated around a square table, while a younger woman (clearly the maidservant by her worn robe), descended the spiral stairs. One of the old ones chuckled.

"What seems to be the ruckus?" she teased. "Ooh, my! Your- wait. That is not the face of the Curse."

Of the countless Undead who had passed through that door, all were burdened by their fate. Some bore it physically, in their rotting flesh. For others, it was a spiritual burden that manifested only in their tired eyes. This man's flesh was fresh as a live human's, and his spirit seemed unburdened. The old women were speechless and looked amongst each other for answers.

"You'll go hollow," the first said at last.

"I can't," he said, and they winced at the strength of his soul.

They were the last of the Fire Keepers. They alone retained the power to see the flickering sparks in the souls of their own kind. They had seen powerful souls pass through before, though this man's was truly enormous. Such did not frighten them. The horror was that this flame was altogether filled with the undying madness of Chaos.

There had been heroes in the past who slew the Great Ones. Even the Great Chaos could be bested and its power taken. Yet those heroes only held that wicked power. This man was the power. The women chuckled nervously.

"What is your name?" their leader asked.

"I am Lord Lexaeus of Life. Consort-King of Chaos. Prophet of the Perfect Prince of Pleasure. I was the Undead Chosen by the gods who ended the Curse several monarchs prior. It should have been for good, unless the Keeper decided to play hooky."

The old women struggled. They were so used to mocking the travelers that passed through that they hardly had anything to say to one so thoroughly self-possessed. Even if he did introduce himself like a jackass.

"It may not be of much use to such an illustrious traveler," the leader said at last as she fumbled through her pockets, "but take this."

She held up a wicker orb with a smaller one budding off of it. All the strands converged on a single point, where the Darksign would be on a human.

"It's a human effigy," the woman said cautiously. "I suppose you know who it's supposed to be."

"Yes, of course. The self. But I do have a question. What of those who don't recognize it?"

"Those are the wretches too far gone to remember."

"What? But L- the Undead I need to save is one of the more sane ones, even after losing most of her memory."

"Keeping her reason means nothing. Her light will soon sputter and die."

The Undead grimaced beneath his mask. Noticing at last his worn traveler's attire, he stripped to find familiar armor beneath. The cuirass was an asymmetrical coat of jingling brass scales. His extremities were more lightly armored to maintain his mobility, and there was no helm to cover his seemingly-windswept mane of black hair. From his back hung a massive dao studded with seven brass rings, a braid of reddish-brown hair hanging from its pommel.

With the covering gone, every movement caused the various moving parts to jingle pleasantly. The man smirked and stretched to awaken himself.

"Then I'll just have to kickstart her heart. My youngest sister-in-law restored me after I went completely hollow, you know? Thanks for the advice, anyway."

With that, he headed out the back door before they could think of a response. Slightly off the path was an extinguished bonfire, its ritual sword cold and leaden. He held out two fingers and cocked his thumb.

"Bang!"

The bones and ash about the blade crackled, and a dim flame rose. Satisfied, he stuck out the thumb and pinky of his other hand and held it to his head like a telephone, his enchanted wedding band glittering like blood in the firelight.

"Hey, spidey-bridey, you'll never guess where I woke up."

The only sound was the hum of the mystic fire.

"Quelaag?"

He huddled closer to the fire, as if that would strengthen the connection.

"Laav, I can't get hold of Laag, could you-?"

There had always been a faint sensation when using the rings of communication – a replacement for what would have been a status icon in-game. He hadn't felt it since he woke up. He had tried to put it out of mind until he reached a bonfire. Here, among the Things Betwixt, he would surely be able to contact distant Lordran. Time travel hadn't been an issue in reaching the lost kingdom of Oolacile.

"Quelaag, if this is a joke…"

There it was. The fear that had been lurking at the back of his mind. There was no telling how long he spent adventuring in Lordran while the sun hung frozen in the sky, but it had been many months since then. Throughout that time, no one had discovered how he had been brought to Lordran… or how to return home.

"Quelaag…?"

He stiffened and forced himself to his feet. His wife would tie him to the ceiling if he started whining instead of doing something. This wasn't like Lordran, where the most "intelligent" speaking character was the man who invented a really big soul laser. He knew who he would need to find. He reached for his sword, the familiar grip reassuring him.

The Chosen Undead, champion of many battles, had no need for the tutorial areas branching out from the road ahead. Still, he rushed through the first one in order to kick down the ladder leading to the item-trading crow hatchlings. That chore behind him, he continued up the crevasse until it opened up into the blinding light of dusk. Over the cliffside before him, the orange-red sun seared the featureless ocean and rocky, parched earth. The path turned from the light yet continued toward it nevertheless.

In moments, he had arrived at the abandoned town. The roofs of most of the buildings had fallen in, but a monument to the fallen stood proudly atop the jutting edge of the cliff. Two downtrodden men could be seen – one seated upon the foot of the monument and the other backed against the wall of one of the buildings. Facing the sea to the north but looking only at the dirt, a woman in green robes stood alone on the crumbling cliffside beneath the sole lit bonfire in fallen Drangleic.

"Are you…" she said without turning, "…the next Monarch? …or merely a pawn of fate?"

"I know you lead Undead here. But did you summon me in particular?"

She turned her body, looking from under her hood without facing him.

"Bearer of the Curse, I guide those who seek the kingdom. If you are here, it is by your own wish."

"It is not. And it is not the first time I have been called like this."

The Chosen Undead, now Bearer of the Curse, clenched his fist.

"Your soul is stronger than most. I pray it does not burden you. Bearer of the Curse, seek the King. I will remain by your side, 'til this frail-"

"No."

"It is the only way."

"It's not. This wasn't supposed to happen, Shanalotte."

She gasped sharply and fully turned to look at him. She was a pale, miserable girl. Long brown hair hung over the right side of her face. Her one brown eye couldn't bear to meet his violet ones, the Flame of Chaos writhing within.

"Something is wrong. I stopped this history from occurring. I broke the cycle before it could begin. Shanalotte, I will show you the path of the True Monarch. In exchange, you must tell me everything you know of your creator."

"Who are you, that you know such things?" she asked cautiously.

"I am Lex, the Prophet of Slaanesh. I have foreseen these events. The one who possesses the four crowns will escape the cycle alone. But I am already free by my own will. I will entrust them to you, if you will help me return whence I came."

Though the knowledge of her past surprised her, the young woman was thoroughly jaded.

"You speak grandly, but so did the ones who created me. Bearer of the Curse, seek the King. The knowledge you desire is as much his past as it is mine."

"The so-called Scholar of the First Sin, Vendrick's brother Aldia. Though perhaps there is more than one individual bound up in that crafted body of his. I know where to find him. The problem is that he's a runner. I need to be able to pin him down."

This at last elicited a reaction. The woman's face became subtly taut.

"I thought he had passed."

"He may no longer have a soul. I've seen him 'die.' He reappeared shortly after. He's worse than the original Duke about godmoding. But there's a thought – I can use one against the other."

The dialog was going nowhere. He crossed around the bonfire and held out a hand.

"Give me the Flask. I'll be back in a bit. As it stands, I'm completely overpowered for New Game. The opening act isn't going to be much more than a speed bump."

She nodded hesitantly, drawing the tiny, cracked green glass from her belt and handing it to the Undead. The Bearer of the Curse this time was all-too-demanding but still not the worst she'd seen in her eternal vigil. Not by far. As he turned to leave, he held one hand up in a terse wave.

"Oh, right," he said absentmindedly, stopping and looking over his shoulder.

"It's been bandied about that you're an unexpected fifth Queen. Just so you know, I won't hold it against you if you are. But I am already married. You can be beautiful and terrible as the dawn, treacherous as the sea, stronger than the foundations of the earth, but my demon queen and I are tighter than MaoYuu. I don't even need to rely on your level-up service, so you have no hold over me."

She stared at him, unblinking.

"Not that I particularly mistrust you. My enemies have been surprisingly straightforward, aside from concealing minor (if vital) details. Anyway, I'LL BE BACK once I've beaten the Pursuinator."

With that, he headed east along the cliffside, descending into a tunnel with bricked walls. As he walked, he fingered his wedding band uneasily.

"Come on, Laag. Whatever Aku, THE SHAPESHIFTING MASTER OF DARKNESS, may have done to fling me into the future WHERE HIS EVIL IS LAW, there had to have been some trace left behind. How did the world end up going to Drangleic again?"