"You have broken your covenant with the gods and defiled this cathedral! The torch! Bring the torch, that this heretic might know the cleansing fire of the gods!"

"You have been cast aside by foolish men, bereft of the oath which was your purpose. Swear anon to me, and I will guide you. Engage now in communion with the last of the true gods and know my ancient name."

"Another undead, eh? Can't have you hurting anyone. Off to the Asylum with the rest."

His head swam, and there was a pit in his stomach. Within the space of a month, his whole life had been washed away.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the sound of screeching metal jarred him to gasping wakefulness. The undead were tireless, but their minds were still fragile as any living human's. Caught up in self-pity and introspection, the man had been in a trance since his capture at the border.

It was dangerous for an undead to let his mind wander like that. He risked losing it amidst the sea of darkness that was the human spirit, now running wild and forcing his body to move on its own. If an undead lost heart, consciousness would fade altogether. His body would be left to become a hollow, a mindless beast. In truth, this man looked the part already. With each death, an undead body lost vigor and became more of a wretched, leathery shell.

Still, this undead possessed enough wit that he couldn't miss the sound of the rusted grate above his cell opening.

He had lain in the squalid chamber for longer than he could remember. There had been only a figurative skeleton guard of living jailors. Undead prisoners needed no food or water. Yet even the rare prisoner check-ins had come to cease. He could vaguely recall smirking as the guards who patrolled his wing had become undead through accidents or exposure… or later, through paranoia.

The guards who became undead were locked with the original inmates at first, but when reinforcements never came, the living had no choice but to free their resentful fellows. Soon, they had all fallen to the power of the Undead Curse. When messengers failed to return, the guards despaired of ever hearing from the outside. And so, they slowly went hollow. Thhough mindless, they continued their patrols out of ingrained habit for a time. Even those had ceased now, and this man yet still remained in his cell, waiting on the brink of hollowing amidst the biting insects which infested this place to feast on a buffet of undying flesh.

Yet the Goddess had reached him at last. He squinted, looking up at the light streaming from the hole in the roof of his dim cell. Molds had taken much of the damp wall, though they were little more colorful than the gray stone. Something eclipsed the pale light of the failing winter sun. The prisoner held up one hand to shield his eyes and could just barely make out the silhouette of a knight's helm.

The light darkened again briefly as the knight tossed something into the cell. The object cracked and slumped on the damp stone. It was the body of a defeated guard. The hollow's last reserves of strength had been exhausted, leaving it in a state of permanent inactivity which was the closest undead had to true death. The prisoner looked up just in time to see the knight turn and walk away.

Looking down again and letting his eyes adjust to this new lighting, he recognized the corpse. It was the guard captain for this wing of the Asylum – at least what was left of him. The stout, mustachioed man had given way to a shriveled husk nearly indistinguishable from any of the others. Only the scraggly hairs stuck to his upper lip and the tattered remnants of his uniform distinguished him from the identical red-eyed monsters outside. The prisoner rubbed his chapped lips in thought.

Hesitantly, he turned the body over. As he had thought – the keyring was still there. After an eternity of waiting, he was free. The Goddess had not abandoned him. Though freedom lay before him, he knelt in his half-burnt robes, dull red and stained with soot, and said a quick prayer.

"As grateful as I am, oh great Goddess" he murmured in a harsh, nasal voice, "this is not quite what I meant when I prayed for more excitement in my life. Romance. Maybe a pet."

Alive, he had been a deacon, a lesser servant of the gods. Until he swore his final oath and was fully invested as a priest, the potential for holy matrimony remained open to him. Of course, it didn't help that he was cloistered in the Cathedral with only fellow male clerics. Even visiting nuns were rare.

"…but that Mother Superior from St. Delyn's… I'd confess my sins all night…"

It was a little surprising that he had kept his libido as a shambling corpse. The implications were unpleasant to say the least. Still, pondering that matter had been one of the mental exercises which had kept him from hollowing. For now, he pushed it from his mind. There was a new task before him, the completion of the Undead Mission.

Fortunately, the key still turned in the corroded lock, and he pushed the cell door open. Rats which feasted on flesh retreated into the walls. The cleric stretched all his body for a moment, then took off jogging. The hallway was long and full of hollows, some guards and some prisoners who had escaped as the Asylum decayed. Echoes of some great conflict thrummed through the hallway, and the ground shook.

The path was illuminated by torches, mindlessly replaced by the hollow guards as they burnt out. The cleric stopped where he saw the bars of the inner wall mangled and bent into the hall. The outer wall was solid stone, to prevent escape. The inner wall was iron bars so that the guards could watch. Watch what? He struggled to remember.

A hollow body hung from the twisted bars, broken as much as an undead body could be. Beyond was a ring filled with skeletons from which the last scrap of meat had been stripped. Sitting atop the pile of skulls was a hideous monster. Each fold of the morbidly obese thing's flesh was a stone wall. The gnarled horns which crowned its head looked like the branches of a great, dead tree.

It glared at him with watery, yellow eyes. It licked its lipless teeth and turned an enormous stone club about in its hands. The thing was intelligent. It knew it couldn't reach him, but it still relished the fear it caused. The cleric staggered backward, eyes blurry, head swimming.

Memory came rushing with the blood that pounded in his temples. He saw the Undead Asylum as it had been when he'd first arrived. No, earlier. It had been constructed to contain the thing, countless clerics holding it aslumber with miracles of Quella, God of Dreams.

The building had been a wayshrine on the road to the land of the gods. Those pilgrims who were too attached to their material possessions, those who did not make a suitable donation, never reached their destination. So too, were the politically inconvenient "lost" on pilgrimages to the distant north. He could see them, every last one, as the guards cast them into the pit with the waiting demon.

"You will be my prophet, my eyes and voice in Lordran."

"My Lady, these visions are not prophecy," he grunted.

With a force of will, he blocked out the sights of death and turned away. After a few hesitant steps, he sprinted down the hall. The stairs, he bounded three or four at a time, nearly causing him to stumble on a pile of fallen bricks at the top. Through the archway he flew, when he suddenly spied a drop. Trying to stop too quickly, however, he slipped on the suddenly slick stone.

His legs left him, and he hit his butt hard before bouncing off the edge of the walkway and into knee-deep water. The cleric rose stiffly, looking around in the gloom. He was in a manmade depression at the corner of the building. The walkway banked sharply around its sides, and either wall had a submerged grate. Still, no water was draining from the pool.

"What even is this? Oh, by McLoyf! I hope this is for drainage and not for plumbing."

Still, it was dirty water. If he weren't already dead, he would be concerned for his health. Even as a heretic, he hoped a little that McLoyf, God of Medicine, would hear his voice.

Short stairs led back onto the walkway and through another archway. This lower part of the walkway was still under enough water that his robes dragged, and his his thin, sheep-hide shoes were thoroughly soaked. A narrow vertical stretch with only an iron ladder was before him. He sighed and made his way up. The ladder was cold from the wintry air drafting down from above, and his wet hands and feet tended to stick to each rung.

"…can't believe they took my cloak," he mumbled.

Though he had run out on his quest with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the Goddess had provided what few provisions might comfort an undead. No doubt his warm traveling cloak had been torn to shreds by hollows. The guards had confiscated all his belongings on arrival. Hopefully, they hadn't lost what he truly needed.

Stepping out into the chilly air, he saw the original wayshrine before him. Though worn, it was much less oppressive than the rest of the Asylum which had been built around it. The bricks were brighter and smaller, designed to impress, to lull pilgrims into a false sense of safety. The walls of the new Asylum loomed dark and foreboding, constructed in a great hurry. The politics were too complicated to simply feed all the undead to the demon below, but if the squalor of their accommodations led to prisoners hollowing more quickly, then the wretchedness was welcome.

Though the ground was just kissed by frost, only hardy weeds grew in the Asylum's courtyard. In the center, quite deliberately placed, was the bonfire. Should one of the inmates die, the guards would immediately spy them as the sacred flames rebuilt their immortal body. The prisoner could easily be apprehended – or shot to death from safety again and again until they hollowed from the pain of repeated resurrection. Only, the holy fire had gone cold.

"Looks like that knight missed it. Or was too cautious to bind his spirit to a bonfire in the middle of a trap. Looks like the guards are all hollow, though. Lucky me, I guess."

If the guards were all hollow, then he was free to roam the Asylum. It also meant, however, that he was probably stranded. The cleric sighed and approached the ash and bone. Rising quite morbidly from half of a human skull was a straightsword of crude iron, twisted into a cruder auger. As he reached toward it, the last bit of Fire in his soul sparked and reignited the bones.

"There. Hopefully, I won't need to use it."

This was no ordinary flame which rose from the ritual site. It resembled the stylized Flame of religious art – or rather, was the inspiration for it. Instead of a burbling, disordered "ball" of fire, individual trails of Flame rose and spiraled around the Coiled Sword.

The deacon's eyes flitted up. Directly ahead was the stair leading to the gate of the original shrine. A statue of a baying hound flanked either side of the rotten wooden doors, a sign of the Undead Hunt.

"Right," he murmured. "To the north. To Lordran."

The gloomy, overcast sky provided no direction, but the shrine could only lead one way – to the northernmost limit of the world, Lordran, home of the gods. Regaining some measure of confidence, he climbed the steps and thrust the doors open. The wide-open hall of the shrine was empty. Rubble was strewn about the floor, and the paving stones were uneven. Long-emptied grain amphorae were strewn about the outer walls.

He looked around in search of some clue. There was a pair of torches lining either side of side passage and little else. Sighing, he looked up. With rubble everywhere, he didn't want to risk the ceiling caving in on him while exploring.

"Oh! Gwyn! Dammit! You've got to be kidding me! Another one?"

Opposite the entrance was a grand balcony where the shrine's priest had once blessed pilgrims as they passed through the far gate. There stood another stone demon, grinning as it gripped its tree-sized club. The cleric accidentally met its beady gaze, and it hefted its bulk off the balcony. The whole shrine shook with its weight as it crashed to the floor, and loose bricks fell from the ceiling.

"Nonononono!"

The cleric turned around immediately, but a wall of colorless fog rebuffed his attempts to leave. Cursing under his breath, he turned forward again as the beast thundered toward him. He ran diagonally toward it with all the speed his withered body could muster.

"Oh, Goddess! Give me wings!"

He lunged over a pile of rubble and rushed between a pair of columns just as the demon caught up to him. It twisted its body back, then swung its club wide. The cleric dove face-first toward the torch-lined archway, tumbling under the tremendous stone club as it shattered both pillars. Just as he edged into the passage, a metal grate fell down behind him. A moment later, and he would have been trapped. Already on his hands and knees from the roll, he rose to a kneeling posture, panting.

"Goddess, thank you. It is twice now I have been saved by your grace. I won't forget the debt I owe you. I will complete your mission. I will complete the gods' Undead Mission." He crossed his open hands over his chest in submission. "Umbasa."

He stood and descended the stairs ahead to another flooded room. Only, this one had a bonfire. He reached out to light it, if only because being reborn at the previous one would leave him trapped in the courtyard. The holy fire didn't care about mere water or damp fuel and gave a faint roar as it sparked from human bone. Its warmth was inviting after that scare, but between his duty to the Goddess and the floor being terribly damp, the cleric continued onward.

The next hallway too was flooded for the first few yards. In the distance, he saw a hollow armed with one of the guards' bows. Even splashing around as he was, the dull thing hadn't noticed him yet. Taking a moment to think, he was surprised by how light it was in this passage. Looking up, however, he found the ceiling had been violently ripped away.

Bricks littered the hall, and many of the cells had caved in, burying their occupants. Briefly, the prophet caught a glimpse of them hollowing while trapped. One cell lay open, its door having broken free of its hinges. An inanimate hollow lay slumped in the doorframe.

"Hold on. Isn't that-?"

There was a sharp glint on the hollow's finger. The tattered rags belonged to a prisoner rather than a guard, but this fallen undead clutched something the cleric had meant to search for in the guards' quarters. He crouched in the water, soaking his robes again, and wrenched his prize free from the rigored hand.

"I can't imagine my fate if I hadn't gotten this back. I guess I'm not one to talk about apostasy, but I still can't believe they'd confiscate the symbol of a covenant with the gods. Even one such as my Lady."

The ring of black iron slipped eagerly onto his bare finger. The black diamond set in the band glimmered in midnight shades as its magic recognized a wearer sworn to its oath. Confidently, now, the cleric rose and faced the bow-wielding hollow ahead. He jogged carefully up the sloped hallway, watching his step on the slick, rubble-covered path. At last, the hollow stirred, lazily drawing an arrow.

As it fired, the cleric ducked to one side, leaning against an arch for balance. With a deep breath, he charged forward again. The hollow fled before he could reach it, shuffling into another passage as quickly as its unsteady legs would bear it. The cleric stopped to catch his breath at the top of the hallway. There was another fallen prisoner here.

There must have been an earlier prison break. The cleric had been locked in the deepest cell for fear of his miracles, so perhaps the other prisoners had not been able to free him. Perhaps they hadn't wanted a cleric looking down on them. In either case, they had clearly overrun the guards, as this prisoner too held one of his confiscated possessions.

"My lash!"

It wasn't a weapon. Not really. Yet the guards had taken it from him and thrown it with the others. Of course, there were few outside the Cathedral who would understand its purpose. He wrested it free from the dead man's hand.

The deacon's body had plenty of time to stretch since he first awoke, but he wondered how much his strength had diminished. He took the scourge in both hands and exhaled deeply. With a sudden motion, he whipped the cords over one shoulder. The metal studs raked across his back, tearing at his burnt robes. He gasped at the pain, eyes wide open, the wintry air digging as deep as the iron.

"Umbasa. A little weak," he gasped, "but not bad."

With the familiar discipline, he felt reinvigorated rather than weakened for the wound. Still, he rolled his shoulders to alleviate the buzzing sensation before turning back to the task at hand. He peeked around the corner and back into the darkness.

Torches lit the passage, but the contrast between even the overcast sky and the lightless Asylum was blinding. Entering reluctantly, he found himself at the bottom of some stairs, just as the hollow bumbled its way to the top. The cleric looked about. It would be difficult to dodge an arrow on the stairs.

As he resigned himself to suffering an arrow or two, he looked up again to see the hollow had kept fleeing. He sighed and climbed the stairs without worry. The half-mindless thing waited to fire until his head began to crest over the end of the stairs, so he simply had to crouch to avoid the shot. Before the hollow could draw another arrow, he sprinted to it and wrenched the shortbow away.

"No. Bad."

He swatted its hands with the lash as if disciplining one of the younger deacons. He had no experience with a bow, but he slung the weapon over his back just in case. Still, it seemed that this hollow was more unhinged than the rest. It gnashed its teeth and swiped at him with yellowed fingernails. With no other choice, he thrashed it with the scourge, tearing its papery flesh.

It groaned terribly and collapsed, exhaling its last breath as a faint blue wisp. The last bits of soul animating it wafted up and into the cleric's nose. He sniffled and coughed but felt infinitesimally stronger.

He started to continue but found his path blocked by barrier of thick, white fog, like had trapped him with the demon. He approached it curiously, tilting his head as if the change in angle would reveal something about the billowing, shifting mist. It was almost like the soulstuff he had just absorbed, only utterly without color.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached to touch it. This fog wall dragged him through instead of repelling him like before, and by the time his entire body had emerged from the other side, it had dissipated into nothing.

"Ah, a mystery for another time, I guess."

His eyes adjusted to the outside more easily this time, as he had emerged in the shade of an intact portion of the roof. The path ahead was blocked by rubble. To his left was a balcony which overlooked the courtyard. The path led either left or right from there.

"Keep your right hand on the wall, and you'll eventually make it out of a maze, was it?"

He took the right path until he encountered stairs leading either up or down. Since there was no point in returning to the courtyard, he started climbing. Midway up, he heard the stones groan.

Half-expecting another demon, he threw himself to the side, falling to the top of the descending stairs. An enormous iron ball flew past him and crashed into the wall. Falling bricks echoed from within the wing formerly sealed by rubble.

The cleric quickly rounded the top of the stairs and almost began climbing again, but some instinct beckoned him to the new hole in the wall. Again, it was tremendously dark, and again, he had to step carefully over rubble and through water. The paths beyond had both caved in, but at the far end of the chamber, he saw something glinting in a ray of light breaking through the roof.

Lying atop a bed of rubble was the knight who had freed him. Now that he could see clearly, he recognized the armor.

Lying there was an Astoran elite knight, cream of cream. It was Astora's tales of romance which had elevated knights from heavily armored warriors to noble men of faith. Yet even in the so-called homeland of knighthood, there were those who stood above the rest. Clad in the blue of nobility, with golden embroidery to represent the miracles of the gods and a red scarf to symbolize the blood of the fallen, the elite knights were well-known in neighboring Carim.

Opinions of them differed on social circumstance. Fantastic heroes to the toiling peasants; masters of propaganda to the envious nobles; undying demons to the common soldiers. This one was not so undying. The knight lay insensate on the rough pile of bricks, only barely turning his helm at the cleric's splashing footsteps.

"Oh, you," he said weakly. "You're no hollow, eh?"

Each word seemed to drain the wounded knight. His voice was light and airy – even moreso than the usual Astoran accent. Every time he stopped speaking, it seemed as if he would lose his grip on the world.

"Thank goodness. I'm done for, I'm afraid. I'll die soon, then lose my sanity."

The cleric looked about. The front of the knight's armor had crumpled from an immense impact, likely that demon's club. The rear, however, had smaller dents all across its surface. They roughly fit with the bricks upon which the knight lay. The cleric looked up to the hole in the ceiling. The knight hadn't been hit hard enough to fall through, had he?

"I wish to ask something of you," the knight continued. "You and I, we're both undead. Hear me out, will you?"

"No. Get up."

The knight paused for several moments before speaking.

"I beg your pardon?"

The cleric wasn't exactly enthused about saving the life of an ancestral enemy. Yet the gods' gifts were often mysterious, and he could certainly use the help.

"Curse or no, we're immortal! Walking among the gods! Kings have dreamt of this since the dawn of history! You would throw your life away because of a mere demon?"

"I'm afraid I-"

"Iron arms of Tarkus! Are you even a knight? Shut up and drink your estus!"

The cleric yanked a glowing bottle from the knight's belt and poured the liquid Fire straight through the knight's visor. Despite the nearness of hollowing, the knight's survival instincts kicked in. As the captured Flame filled his lungs, he jerked forward in a fit of coughing, trying to breathe.

"What are you-?"

The sentence went unfinished as another fit of coughing came on. The sacred flames of a bonfire dripped from the helmet like honey. In disgrace, the knight turned away before opening his visor to dump some of it out.

"What are you doing?" he said coldly as he snapped the visor shut and turned back.

"No, what are you doing?" the cleric returned flippantly.

"This is no time for jokes, Carimin."

While the Astoran knight's accent was the sort which had become the very definition of grace and nobility, the Carimin cleric's was as exacting, terse, and unpleasant as an estate executor.

"Oh, that's right, you were wallowing in self-pity. So sorry to disturb you while you sang your own dirge. Your baritone was spectacular."

Steel and leather creaked as the knight clenched a fist. He sighed.

"I see what you've done. Fired me up. It doesn't matter. There's nothing I can do against that monster. Even a holy sword means naught against stone flesh."

"And so you're going to give up? The gods didn't guide you here for no reason. You were led here to free me. They're watching you. Are you going to spit in their eyes?"

"I… I haven't much faith left in gods who would let this Curse overrun the world."

"Then rejoice, for you've earned their favor anyway!"

The knight was silent again. After a few moments, he forced himself to his feet.

"To whom do I owe my thanks?"

"Lex. Lexion. I was a deacon at a cathedral until recently, when I was, ah, fired."

The knight took a deep breath, then extended his hand.

"I am Knight Oscar de Collunaires. Please, call me Oscar."

The cleric shook his hand firmly, and Oscar began speaking again.

"Have you come here in pilgrimage, Lex?"

"Not quite. I had not expected to revive. My Lady had mercy on me and made a bonfire in secret. She told me to seek Lordran, but that was… Lloyd knows how long ago. She told me that I was to be her prophet, and ever since you woke me, I've begun to have visions."

"A prophet, truly? I have come here to pursue a prophecy. 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."

Lex blinked hard. His eyes burned. His head throbbed. Images of bells and a toothy serpent danced in his mind. Above all else, there was a horrible stench.

"No. There are two Bells. We must ring both to awaken the Kingseeker."

"Are you… alright? Is this a vision?"

"Yes and yes," the cleric grunted. "Let's get moving. Getting thrown in jail for an unknown amount of time isn't the greatest start to a prophet's career. That's usually how they end."

"Certainly. Let us descend first, however. I saw you light the bonfire from the roof. I would have us fully ready to fight the demon again before proceeding."

Lex just nodded, so he and Oscar emerged into the light again and descended the stairs. A locked gate blocked their path, but Oscar had taken the key from the ruins of the guards' quarters. After passing through, Lex spent a few moments warming in the bonfire's heat while Oscar trapped some of its flame in his sacred, emerald-green flask. Ready for action, the pair ascended to the second, then third storey. A hollow and a gate blocked their path, but Oscar's sword solved one problem and his key, the other.

At the end of a short hallway, they found an unintentional balcony. Two walls had been torn away by years of neglect and the demon's temper. The oldest parts of the structure, built before even the wayshrine, had long since crumbled. Ruins were strewn across the rising peak beyond. The Asylum had been built atop a mountain with a gentle slope, but massive, impassable peaks were all around it, capped with white.

Havel's Teeth, they were called, after the first Bishop of Lordran. Just as the warrior-priest's shield halted even the most violent advance, the mountain range ensured that only those guided by the gods could reach ancient Lordran. On the third storey, the men were as high as the mountain's peak, and with the walls gone, the cold wind quietly howled around them. Lex shivered in his tattered robes, but Oscar seemed unfazed. The leather and thick cloth coat kept away the chill of his metal armor.

Lex's head throbbed again. He experienced some vertigo as his perspective flew ahead of him, then returned just as swiftly.

"To the left, around the corner. Two hollows. No, three. The one in the back has a bow."

"What would you have me do?"

"You're not very mobile in your armor, are you?"

"No. I must admit, I have grown sluggish with each death."

"Alright, wait here. I'm going to draw them out."

Lex started across the balcony but quickly found himself distracted. Another prisoner lay inanimate, propped against one of the broken walls. He scanned the corpse. Sure enough, it had one of his possessions – perhaps the most important.

"Goddess bless!" he sighed.

He glanced at the hollow as it drunkenly sauntered toward him. Taking a breath, he dashed toward the body and fumbled at its hands. Unfortunately, this corpse was more difficult to deal with than the one which had his ring. The prisoner must have been maintaining a death grip even before dying. Lex glanced over his shoulder to the hollow. It had closed half the distance, the second one behind it.

"I blame the Gravelord for this!"

Lex gave up on prying the corpse's fingers open before the hollows reached him and instead grabbed hold of the wrist and elbow. Kicking the shoulder and stomping it against the wall, he jerked with all his might, snapping the withered arm out of its socket. Unfortunately, the force of his twisting also threw him off-balance and into the hollows. All three of the undead collapsed in a heap as an arrow whizzed overhead.

"No! Bad! Ugh! Sir Knight! Stab them!"

Oscar shook his head and sighed. He approached the pile of limbs cautiously. Another arrow shot toward them, but he blocked it unconsciously with a casual raise of his ornately-embossed shield. He made a quick overhand thrust, then another. Each time, his holy sword pierced a hollow through the twisted flesh about its heart. It was likely that was no weak point, but Lex understood the symbolism.

"Thanks," the cleric said as Oscar extended a hand to help him up.

"You are quite welcome. Now… I believe I will handle the last."

Lex laughed nervously. The knight turned to face the archer, which fired another arrow mindlessly. He deflected this one as well and paced steadily toward the hollow. It tried to shoot once more, but even the knight's exhausted pace was faster than the mindless thing could nock an arrow. An upward thrust pierced its ribcage, "killing" it immediately.

Oscar turned back to see Lex still picking at the fingers of the severed arm. At last, the cleric pried the ring finger free, but he had applied too much force and broke it off entirely.

"Oh, Goddess, this is disgusting."

"That's right," Oscar murmured. "You never did mention the name of your lady. Is doing so forbidden?"

"Ah, no. I'm just, uh, well, I guess I was more a – generalist? – pantheist? – before. I'd say things like, 'Oh, gods,' but not really venerate one in particular. You know? Not putting all my spiritual eggs in one basket. Well, for some reason, the Goddess thought to save me and make me her prophet. And that's the story, I guess."

"That… didn't answer the question at all."

"What question? Oh! Right! Name! I serve the Great Justiciar herself, Berenike, Goddess of Dominion. Honestly, I don't know what she wants with me, but you don't argue with a deity who brings you back to life."

"Berenike? Like those legendary knights?"

"Yeah! Have you ever seen an illustration? They've got her wings on their shields, and they coat their armor in soot to resemble her."

"I'm curious, but we should press on… if we can."

Oscar motioned to another fog wall blocking the entrance to the wayshrine's inner balcony.

"I have no idea what this is, to be totally honest. There probably would have been some text at the Cathedral. It looks like a seal of some sort. It does feel somewhat divine, but I can't make heads or tails of it."

Oscar nodded, so Lex continued.

"Still, I think this is one we could press through. Don't want to go back in through the front door if we can take the demon by surprise."

"What about these bows?" the knight asked, gesturing. "You've got one. There's another here. I don't think the arrows could penetrate… but if we're lucky, we can pick it off from safety."

"I like the way you think, friend."

Oscar paused in the middle of testing the half-rotten shortbow.

"Have you forgotten my name?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, what is it?"

"…Oliver?"

"Try Oscar."

The knight pushed through the fog, drawing the bow. He fired the very instant his vision was clear, then again and again. He'd held a fistful of arrows and shot them one after the other without wasting time drawing from a quiver.

"Wait, is it like this, or…?"

Lex kept passing the bow from one hand to the other, trying to determine which grip was more comfortable. Mere paces away, Oscar grabbed another handful of arrows and continued his rain of fire on the demon below. The thing roared in irritation as the top of its head came to resemble a pincushion. It took a moment for the demon's heavy body to turn around, and the thoughtful monster gazed upward with a burning fury. Suddenly, the prophet recalled a memory that was not his own.

"Oscar! It can fly!"

The obese stone creature began flapping tiny, decorative-looking wings. Somehow, it slowly lifted off the ground.

"Gogogo! We're jumping!"

The knight watched in surprise as the cleric sprinted past, leaping through the air with all the grace of a rat in a trap. Lex practically hung in midair for a moment before falling past the demon. He mistakenly caught its branching horns with his flail and jerked back upward. The force of the swinging deacon turned the demon's head and caused the whole monster to tilt backward, costing it what little lift its wings could produce. Again, Lex and his enemy fell to the ground in a heap.

Oscar slung the bow over his shoulder and drew his sword. He took a few steps back, then charged off the platform. His steel armor provided impressive momentum, and he whipped his whole body with trained grace. As the demon tried to rise, he drove his holy sword into its eye. It shrieked from the blow, gushing dust and gravel like blood.

The monster stumbled for several seconds, but Oscar maintained his grip until the demon tumbled over backward. Its arms fell limp, letting its enormous club roll across the hall. Something was jarred loose as the weapon struck a column and clattered to a stop. Lex sighed and began to untangle his lash. His shortbow had been lost somewhere in the struggle.

"Weren't you the one who said fighting was hopeless? You basically did it by yourself anyway. 'Thou who art undead, art chosen.'"

"Maybe you're right, Ivan."

"Oh, come on, that one's not even close. I made an honest mistake, you wanker."

Oscar removed a rough cloth from a belt pouch and wiped the dust from his sword while walking toward the fallen club. He sheathed the blade as he bent down to see what had broken free from the monolithic weapon.

"It looks like the demon had the key. I fear, to ensure none could escape, even if one could outrun it."

"Well, let's get out of here then. No sense in lingering until the demon in the basement decides to smash its way out."

"There was another?" Oscar said, shocked.

"Oh yeah. I guess we're just lucky they weren't a breeding pair. Or do demons work like that?"

"If if a cleric does not know, I would never have a chance."

Lex nodded and slipped his lash into the waistband of his trousers, beneath his flowing vestments. Oscar walked to the great iron doors and turned the key. With a bit of effort, he forced them open, unsealing the ancient path for what was likely the first time since the Asylum had been built. The pilgrim's road was terribly worn, the paving stones and the shrines through which which it had passed reduced to a collection of loose bricks. Still, the two undead pressed upward, through the weeds and the snow.

A number of grave markers had been erected amongst the ruins, likely made from the fallen stone. There was no uniformity about them, and they seemed to be written in a hundred different dialects. As the pair passed through the ruins of the final gate, they saw nothing but more weeds and untended graves.

"The pilgrim's road to Lordran… is a dead-end?" Oscar shouted over the roar of the wind, unsure of himself again.

"No, the Goddess wouldn't have led me here if that were the case! There's got to be something we're missing!"

They approached the utmost peak, a sheer cliff. All around them, the wind howled so that they could barely hear themselves think. Before they could get a better look, however, a shadow fell upon them from above.

There was no time to react. Talons like black iron had grasped them tightly, and they were drawn into the air. A crow the size of a lesser drake snatched them into the sky before they could resist. They would only fall to their deaths if they tried now.

It wheeled about above the Asylum and turned north again. Higher and higher, it soared. Faster and faster. Thinner air. Immense force. In moments, vision blacked.