Coherent thought had long left his mind. The flames had burned that away, along with his skin and any will he once possessed. Nothing but a burnt up husk of a man, pain being the only thing to keep him company in the kiln. His armor had fused to his disgusting, mangled and hollowed flesh, and his weapon lay in a similar state, discarded in the ashes, not that it mattered. He wouldn't be using it.

Every once in a while, he managed to think for a few seconds. During these increasingly rare periods, he often wondered if it was all worth it in the end. Sure, he supposedly saved the world, but for how long? How long would he last as a fuel source? Ah well, what did he care. His friends by now were either all dead, or had given up on him. Not that he blamed him. Without someone to light the kiln, the world was doomed to darkness. But he found himself questioning again and again if that was such a bad thing. If the world was plunged into dark, at least he wouldn't be some tool of the gods. Ah well, it doesn't matter.

He would be here until he either burned up, or until some sorry sap had to take his place.

He did not sleep, did not eat, did not drink. He did nothing but sit and burn, and by the gods he was bored. Even in his semi-vegetative state, he yearned for something to do, something to kill. All he could do in this damn overrated fire pit was kick the ash or reflect on his previous adventures, neither of which exactly appealed to him.

Or he could acknowledge the near constant and all consuming pain of being burned alive.

Another hoarse scream ripped through his charred lungs and throat. Gods, the pain never let up in this horrid place. It wasn't natural, as far as he could tell, and likely had something to do with the kiln. He'd been burned before, more times than he could count, but that felt like nothing compared to the flames of this damned place. It was all that kept him company. He dared to wonder what it would feel like to not be on fire for every second of his life, but he barred such thoughts from his mind. It would do him no good, and he would never leave this place.

"Mmph!" he grunted, before his vision began to fade. It was happening again, not that he really cared. His version of rest was just his mind forcing itself off, to at least ignore the pain for a moment or two.

As everything faded to black, he allowed himself to indulge in his fantasies. Where he could finally Hollow, and be done with this. Where he could take part in the finer, less painful aspects of live and undeath. Where he actually had a damn name! Where he…

Black. Darkness comparable to the Abyss.

With a mighty gasp, the Chosen Undead heaved his whole body up, and his eyes shot wide open. Air, not smoke, flooded his lungs, and he hacked and wheezed at the unfamiliar sensation. His eyes, his poor eyes, were melted beyond belief, along with most, if not all, of his skin. He was a hunk of armor and flesh, but he didn't care.

This wasn't the kiln. By the gods, this wasn't the kiln! Had he cracked and gone Hollow? Was this some grand dream in his battered and delusional mind? Surely, this couldn't be! It simply couldn't!

The ground felt soft and wet, covered in the morning dew. The air felt cool, his skin no longer boiling. The air was crisp and clean, and he could breathe! But he could not see… his tired and aching hands grasped the edges of the mask that had long since lost it's form, and he ripped it from his head, taking both cloth, copper, and skin. He was grateful that no one could see him, and that he could not see himself.

"By Gwyn's beard, man, your face looks horrid!"

With his luck, he could have guessed he wasn't alone. Instead of fear, though, a sense of excitement and elation filled him. He recognized that voice, and even if it had lost it's usual joviality, he was not mistaken. Solaire, Warrior and Adherent of the Sun, stood somewhere to his left, a few feet away. While he couldn't see him, he could tell he was close.

When Solaire rushed over, the Chosen Undead fought off the urge to throw the man off for getting too handsy. He tried to speak, but found that his voice would not cooperate. Then again, he wasn't one for talking, and Solaire knew this. He heard the Sunlight Warrior mutter a few prayers under his breath, and the wondrous and rejuvenating power of miracles filled his system, and he could feel his broken and distorted body mending.

But the fires of the kiln were no ordinary flames, and they would not be so easily vanquished. The wounds did not fully mend themselves, his skin staying crisp and raw in many places. Thankfully, his eyes began to repair themselves, and the light was blinding.

Such sunlight, such majesty! The likes of which he could only dream of! The beautiful orange glow of Anor Londo held only a candle to the magnificent magnitude of this blazing ball of glory! Solaire must be on cloud nine…

Though it was awfully hard to tell from behind that helmet of his.

Finally, Solaire took a step back and gave his friend a look. His armor, forged from the same bronze used by the Giants of Anor Londo, was blackened in many places, and melted in more. He could see patches of skin and bronze, fused by the intense heat of… something. Solaire wasn't quite sure, but he figured it had something to do with the kiln. The Chosen Undead's mask, the mysterious and he daresay humorous Mask of the Father lay in a crumpled and distorted heap, possibly beyond repair. Such a pitiful sight, as it's properties would be sorely missed!

Solaire couldn't tell if there were even rings upon his friend's hands, let alone what they could possibly be! Even their magic blessings must have been utterly incinerated by what he assumed to be the kiln's intense flames. And the poor lad's Zweihander was nowhere to be seen…

This wasn't good. Not good at all! Chosen at least seemed to be more awestruck than crestfallen, at least. The young man's bottomless box was nowhere to be seen, so that left Solaire the only one with a weapon. Well, they could set up camp here for the night, and find out exactly where they were tomorrow. Already, he figured they were far from 'home', judging from how the sun was actually shifting positions in the sky.

A scream ruptured the Warrior of Sunlight from his thoughts. It was a feminine one, filled with terror and desperation. Someone needed help! Jolly co-operation was needed, and by Gwyn's beard he wouldn't abandon those in need, no matter the land he found himself in.

"Stay here, my good friend. I'll go see what the fuss is about! In the meantime, try to, erm, collect yourself." He was confident that his fellow Undead could defend himself, not that death particularly mattered to folks like them. And with that, he dashed through the brush, slashing branches and foliage alike.

In front of him, a woman stood surrounded by three foes. One, a bow-woman of some sort, another wielding what looked to be dual blands, and a man who appeared to be unarmed. Muttering a 'praise the sun', Solaire loudly cleared his throat, causing four heads to turn.

"What's the term he used…?" He muttered, before going 'ah-ha!' quietly to himself. "Foul 'gankers'!" He said rather awkwardly. "Halt your debauchery immediately, for I, Solaire of Astora, Adherent of Sunlight, am here to put an end to whatever fiendishness you lot are brewing!"

A/N: Cheers, friends. It's been a while, but I'm back, and hopefully here to stay. RnR if you don't mind, and I'll see you in the next chapter.