-----------------------------
||| Bonfire: I |||
----------------------------

Within a smoldering garden of desecrated corpses, there stood a creature of cindered ash, wrapped in the ever-fleeting veil of a man. Across the nameless and wretched beast of dust stood a culmination of forgotten high lords, regal faceless gods, fallen creators of kingdoms, and the romanticized breakers of dynasties. The champion of ash held firm, doing battle with this malevolent entity.

It was here, kept in the confines of a garden built with dust and ashes, that the last hope of sullied man crossed blades with legends bound in a corporeal form - the lowest of crestfallen peons against the grandest of sires.

The Soul of Cinder as it was called, was the last bastion of all that held the realms outside this garden together. They fought with trampling ferocity and undivided grace, with both gallant vindication and oppressive superiority; skills tempered by unaccounted millennia and unadulterated perfection. The culmination of champions prior drew from the steeled skill by every grand warrior prior, which imparted their very souls upon the Soul of Cinder. "Their" opponent however, fought only with a humbling concoction of sufferable patience, humanity's desperation, and broken bonds of servitude.

One fought with grandeur, mysticism, and the authority of gods, the other - nothing more than a decrepit and lowly creature.

The Soul of Cinder adorned itself in the armor of kings, a figure of fire itself, and of the withering essence of eternal cycle. The "Ashen One", wore only the leather garbs and imperfect plating of mere mortal men.

Both of the warriors clashed, a titan facing a mortal. But it was not brawn, enchantment, unprecedented power, or utter domination that determined victory. Instead, it had been the humility of man, the stanch bravery of flesh and blood, and the silent conviction within the heart of mortal plight that would triumph.

The defiled undead, after bearing witness to the downfall of The Soul of Cinder, fell unto his knees. His body was spent and broken, yet he looked upon a small bonfire before him. Every trial thus far had culminated to this very moment. The endless deaths, the corruptive suffering, loss of all he had found meaning in once more - the weaving of fate itself, it concluded here. All that came before finally came to an end: here within this ashen garden.

He felt it. He knew it. He understood it.

And he dreaded it.

The legs that carried him shook and wavered as he clambered to a standing form. With torn and collapsed greaves scraping against the stark stained ash dregs, the abomination of ash approached the withering flame of a pitiful bonfire. With each tread, the clattering doldrum of pierced metal colliding against faded leather filled the desolate scorched air. His tattered legging became caked in gray soot and hordes of cinders spilled from the creases and crannies of his armor.

The smears of dust and dried crimson both chipped away like aged paint, flaking and falling onto the sullied soot below with each somber step. Like a body drug through the snow, the desolate pasture steadily became warped from the crude coloring. Though unintentionally, this crude canvas had been fabricated to be akin to the unyielding decay of the worlds outside.

The realms beyond this perverted arena were all now decrepit and violated beyond the reach of redemption. It would not be long till the remains of this perversion and the others were greedily devoured as fuel for this insignificant bonfire. Still, though, this crestfallen warrior felt no urge to speed their course. This world had been twisted and corrupted long before the flame burnt out of the original first embers, that much was certain.

Surely he could now afford to dwell and launder about. Perhaps centuries would come to pass, and a greater man would rise to the occasion. The Ashen One could fall by a new hero's hand, and salvation would breathe the flame of life, not decay, unto the collided worlds.

They were but false wishes of the hopeless, and nothing more. No such warrior had arrived prior, and it was the misguided will of a doddering odd-folk to think any would present themself after.

He, this accursed visage of a man, was no savior. He was no saint or redeemer of mankind. This vessel of the unworthy was only a failure with less claim than those before. The Soul of Cinder, for all its authoritarian dominion, was simply a compilation of those who offered themselves to further this regurgitating and re-consumptive cycle.

Why should the Ashen One, the lowest of all vermin, take its place? What right would he have? All that was proven with their duel stood in vain - the Ashen One was no legend, only a man with nothing else to strive for. He fought the Soul of Cinder not for virtue, not for grace, not for honor, rather only for the sake of having naught else.

To snuff and claim the flame for himself, let alone the firekeeper, would only bring about an age of cold darkness that would give way once again to the stone dragons of old. It would be a matter of time before another first flame ignited, condemning this rebirthed world into another former cycle of usurpation and degradation. He was not right to damn the world into another fate of repetition.

And he knew himself, the Ashen One was no lord indeed. He had witnessed to be no higher than another, save only the ground he walked. A Lord of Hollows was not a place for one so unworthy. Not once could he imagine himself as a tyrant in a new age, at the behest of all others, even if their subterfuge was a willing offer. The Ashen One shuddered, having realized to not be similarly righteous and just as even a mediocre sire.

Abominations of darkness, perversions of light, the deceit of gods, and the betrayals of mankind were all this realm had ever known. A simple trial of fire only added to the world's cruel reality. It could not go further, nor would he allow it so. This realm was a garden for weeds of decay, power, supremacy, and collapse. And when a garden is too wrought with weeds, the ground must be purged completely for flowers to be sown.

What good would come of relighting it once more? What ill-fated fortune could justify allowing this demented plane to continue on for a while longer?

It was all a cycle, every choice available came to be one that reflected the undying curse of mankind. The fire would fade, and valiant heroes would seek to either rekindle or snuff it out entirely. Those same warriors would fall, only to rise to try again until their flames of ambition burned out like a fire against the rain. Eventually, one of the undead would overcome the grueling trial of rekindling; only to start the next routine anew. Every deviation of choice was already predetermined, only shifting the path of destiny to the smallest degree before another would course correct the misstep swiftly.

Above this garden of ash and cinder, the dark sigil of undeath loomed in impatience. It held an insatiable hunger awaiting none, like a starved beast awaiting the moment of a feast at pouncing on maimed prey. It was a void of pure contempt surrounded by a mocking circlet of omnipotent fire, a slew blaze that burned in gluttony each time the accompanying bonfire was given more fuel, kindling that was more often than not; the very soul and body of those who were slain by the kiln's (and by extension the garden's) prior guardian. Embers were embers no matter the source. The heaps of ash in every corner of every land were proof enough of that.

Towering over the now fragile yet ever-accursed fire, the being of ash felt a knot in their empty stomach. To relight the flame, and usurp the mantle of protecting it till a new worthy champion stepped forth, or to claim the fire for their own to bring in an age of darkness that would only serve to set itself back on the same path of relinking the flame, or to be doomed to be a ruler of rags.

The choice was insultingly vulgar at the very best, and desperately hopeless at worst. Even so, they themself were merely reborn as ash, one of countless undead who had failed once already. Had it not been for this lonesome bonfire, the champion doubted they would have found a calling or purpose in their second awakening. Linking this final pyre was their sole purpose, even despite the reluctance and doubt that was carried with it.

All would return to this moment and the only difference being that he was dissolved into The Soul of Cinder, facing another fool-hardy champion of ash to come after.

With a single draw of breath, the warrior clenched their worn gauntlets. With the anger of injustice, they stood in defiance at the dark sign above. Though the champion of ash adorned a silver mask, the scowl he carried shone through. Here he stood in both dignity and ill-fated resolution. They were but a man standing against the rites of old.

Crawling through sundered fire and brimstone, he had slain legends to gain access to the Kiln of the First Flame. And only minutes before, the Ashen One faced the culmination of every soul fed to the sacred flame. Even after the daunting duel from the Lords of Cinder past, he was only to be reciprocated with mere nothingness.

A sickening silence - Bleak absence of all else.

The flame surrounding the dark sign seemed to dance in amusement at the "Ashen One's" plight. Like the grandest of jokes, the uncaring void antagonized the warrior further. And with hatred, the being of ash glowered toward the bonfire yet again, a final option coming to mind.

He would reject the flame entirely.

Ignoring the weight of their attire, and shoving the thoughts of exhaustion aside, the figure shuffled over to the withering fire, a single devoid goal in mind. With a muffled grunt from under "their" silver mask, they damned the flame alongside themself. He raised a foot, thrusting it into the kiln.

The Ashen One began stamping out the fire.

No longer did they care about renewing this cruel realm. No more would they bother to be another pawn of fate. Neither choice seemed to work before in every cycle past, and so they had reasoned it would only be folly to progress the way it was "destined". Their fate was their own to be ordained with, even if it were a mere footnote in the stories of others.

If he was to be damned, he would do so out of his own volition.

The Champion of Ash spat in the face of the unyielding hunger of the dark sign. It seemed as if this grand betrayal had been the white birch branch that broke the giant's back, for the sigil of corruption had begun its own call for self-preservation. Blazes danced in a wild manner from the dark sign, lashing out with a silent hiss.

With a chilling pound of metal meeting burning bone, the Ashen One rose their foot yet again, aimed to snuff out the flame. With each new trample, the feeling of emptiness took over. Again, they brought their boot down, crushing the aged bone further. Again and again, they cursed the flame out of existence, paying no mind to the howling of the sigil.

The champion had been so engorged with their treacherous act that they hadn't even noticed their body was contorting in on itself, likely an act of defense from the dark sign above. Yet still, the champion threw their foot into the fire, taking on a surge of a foreign emotion at crumpling the symbol of humanity's enslavement. All the while, they, in their inflamed state, gradually lost vision, a sign of darkness to come from a world without fire.

One that would not be rekindled.

The champion took this as a sign of a solemn embrace, rather than its intended purpose of banishment for forsaking his duty entirely. As docile and unresponsive as it seemed, the fire always had a will of its own. A will, that mirrored the desire to live onward, much like every mortal creature that roamed the contorted worlds beyond.

Soon, darkness fully overtook the Champion of Ash.

As if they had traversed the abyss itself, the Unkindled One felt the reminiscent feeling of nothingness cloud their senses. A feeling they had become long accustomed to during their perilous journey. To a living man, it would be dreadful, causing every bone in their body to shiver in fear. But for those of unkindled ash; it had nearly been all they knew. Only the warmth of Embers ever brought another sensation to these creatures.

With each new breath, their lungs were filled with chilling and desolate air. Their eyes, beneath "their" silver mask, could see no light. Even their very body felt no weight as if a different yet similar strain of the abyss had fully taken them. Slowly, the warrior felt their consciousness, let alone sanity, slither away. Silence overcame the Ashen One, whisked away by the will of the dark sign.

A veil of black nothingness met the Ashen One, who only shut their eyes. It was cold, chilling. Most of all; the unkindled ash was alone.

And yet it was only here that the Ashen One felt respite.
The champion soon drifted away into a deep slumber, his mind finally put at ease.

In this void, he dreamt, visions dancing through his renewed will. Dripping of water rang out like silver wind chimes. Faint blue light rippled past the emptiness, bathing the nothingness in a soothing lantern hue. The Ashen One stepped forward, his figure illuminated by the cascading glow of the blue lanterns.

His weariness had been abandoned, and each step came with an invigorated curiosity. As he walked forward, wisp-esque silhouettes spun in the distance. They were like beacons in the night, captured in a soothing masquerade - guiding the unkindled ash through their domain of enchantment.

Soon, the Ashen One came across a host of ghostly figures. A warmth spread from his chest, his heart cleansed from doubt. These whisps were familiar, morphed into the outline of those he found companionship. One of the ghost-like visages stepped forward, offering a sly wink and toothy grin.

"...Thanks, good compeer." Its steadfast voice rang out, the accent filled with mischief and trickery.

The Champion of Ash took a heartfelt bow at the owner of the voice. This ghostly image resembled the roguish and unbreakable prankster from Firelink Shrine. He, the blue ghost, wore a warming smile, one out of comradery built upon light-hearted (and occasionally treacherous) trickery. If this was the spirit of Patches speaking, then perhaps he was truthful each time he once called the Ashen One "friend".

"You are a dragon, more dragon than I..." Another voice called out, this voice imitating one of a hopeless knight that found long-lost reverence.

Swaying their gaze, the Ashen one then saw the luminescent silhouette of a crestfallen soldier, one who had abandoned his now former brothers in arms. Showing a face of pained pride, the deserter lowered their head in mournful admiration, recognizing his counterpart had done what he could only have only ever hoped to. Regret overtook the Champion of Ash, feeling hesitant remorse with the approbation and gratitude Hawkwood truly held for him.

"...Better left tucked away as a pleasant memory." Another masculine voice called out.

This time, however, it was that of a scholar, one who had a darker past no doubt. This voice was all too familiar for the Ashen one. They had come to recognize it almost immediately, moreso when memories of the two discovering the mysteries of forgotten sorceries surfaced. Oorbeck had been a grand tutor and even grander friend. The Unkindled One only hoped the scholar found peace in his final moments. The knowledge imparted by the assassin turned vagabond wiseman would forever remain with the Ashen One.

"...And besides, whatever your choice - It will not change my sense of gratitude, or how I think of you." A feminine and wicked voice spoke.

The specific details of this new shape were as clouded as the ones prior, but the eccentric hat made the owner distinguishable enough. With the faint curtains of heretical attire and interests to boot, the Ashen one was reminded of their first meeting. It had been one akin to folk stories, one in which a knight rescued a damsel locked away in a forgotten tower... this time with its own sinister interpretation. For whatever life of torment Karla had lived, he knew his time spent with her had been among the witch's most fond of memories.

"Brilliant. I knew you were no ordinary man."

The voice of an enclosed, remorseless, yet faithfully noble knight rang out. His voice was sultry, his speech mannerism poetic and ripe with an air of impeccable clarity. It had been the previous owner of the silver mask, the very same the Unkindled warrior now wore as a somber token of respect - not wishing such a man to wither from memory.

There, with crossed arms and a leisure posture, stood Leonhard The Ringfinger - the most devout servant of Mother of Rebirth: Rosaria of the Deep.

The Ashen One wore this man's garb, complete with Leonhard's mask. It was as if he glanced into a mirror, indistinguishable from this moon-crested spellblade. The two men shared a knowing glance, bowing their heads with no further words. Little needed to be spoken, for Leonhard and the Ashen One held a bond no other could understand.

The unexpected nostalgia, though welcomed, left the champion confused. Like a slumbering river breaking through the walls of a well-aged dam, question after question flooded their mind.

"Is this some deluded fantasy? Was this some deceptive illusion? I thought they had long since become hollow, was that not true? How could they be here?" Had been among the more simple thoughts conjured by the Ashen One in response to the spectacle.

Throwing caution to the wind, the Unkindled attempted to outstretch a hand, wanting nothing more than to confirm this had been no mere trick of the mind. Even as his mind faded once again into absolute obscurity, he mustered the final pools of energy for the simplest of actions. With a single delayed swoop, his hand desperately grasped the empty air, aiming for the nearest figure.

And as fate would have it, the champion of ash felt his mind give into darkness... but not before feeling the slightest of resistance against his gauntlet. The visages were more than a mere figment, even if barely so.

Perhaps under a different sun, within a more sound reality, they might have all been jolly friends after all.

Probably.

For what seemed like an eternity, his mind wandered. Thoughts of his journey, grudges against certain foes, and even guesses of what those few unclaimed "shinies" could have been. Were they a treasure worth having? A weapon of viability? Priceless regal armor? Or had they only been a run of the mill item, such as a simple clump of moss?

More than unclaimed treasure, he wondered just how the giant crabs of the Smoldering Lake found themselves there.

The sheer absurdity of the situation, once genuinely questioned, emitted a low and gentle chuckle from the Ashen One. The only thing he found more humorous than the abnormally large crabs in such an unfitting pit, had been the swarm of normal sized ones elsewhere. Even more so, the fact a lone crab managed to brave the depths of the Carthus Catacombs single handedly. Like before, the ashen one allowed the faintest laugh to escape his mouth.

And for a moment, he thought little of it. Then, just seconds later, the Champion of Ash came to a revelation. Not only had he heard himself laugh, but he no longer felt so cold. In fact, like most Unkindled ones, he took pleasure in how warm the supposed air felt. The Ashen one then gathered their bearings. If they were not mistaken... they had been laying on something quite soft.

With a slowed and experimental motion, the Ashen One opened their eyes, being met with dim light. At this moment, they had apparently awoken within a small cave, one with crags and crevices large enough to let the light of the sun seep through.

With caution, the cindered warrior rose into a seated position, using a gloved hand to support the bulk of their weight and soon propping themself with an elbow against the damp earthy floor. The small cave held a tunneled exit just to the left of the man, the curving of carved stone allowing just enough light to see without strain. Additionally, the Ashen one had been laying upon a bed of flowers, ones shaded in a mixture of a deep blue and regalia violet.

Most notably however, in the Ashen One's opinion at the very least, had been the attire they wore...

Their armor, once belonging to Leonhard The Ringfinger, had been lovingly repaired. This garb had been as regal and attractive as the first time the attire fell to the Ashen One's own possession. On the bed of flowers close to where the man previously slept, the silver mask and hat both lay, in wait for their new master's adorning.

Snatching the headset and hastily throwing the garments on, the champion rose to their feet. Curiosity then got the better of the Ashen One, shown by the mesmeric nature he felt once further taking in his surroundings.

Upon closer inspection, the bed of flowers held a distinctive pattern. The violet shaded flowers forming a minimalist styled bonfire. The lighter, more aquatic flowers, instead covered the remaining modest cavern floor. To his leftward direction, a small makeshift table of rock stood.

Laying neatly atop the aforementioned boulder, as if they had been placed accordingly, lie the champions "Crescent Moon Sword", Leonhard's beloved teal Shotel. Additionally, the "Aquamarine Dagger" sat patiently beside the other blade. The Aquamarine Dagger was beautiful, and despite its nature, the Ashen One knew it to be a catalyst for its true purpose: to ignite and extend as an enchanted blade, more of a concealed spell-sword than a dagger, really. Finally, a quiver of variety arrows stood against the rock, the "Black Bow of Pharis" leaning against the very same rock.

With haste the Ashen one approached the weapons, promptly rearming himself. Once every blade (and the bow) had been accounted for twice over, the ashen one then extended an armored palm, as if he was preparing to guard against an enemy blow. As expected, his "Dark Hand'' conjured to life, creating an ethereal and distorted crimson shield. Experimentally, the champion held his palm out once more, this time at the level of his eyes. With a faint blue hue, a symbol of sorcery incantation, the Ashen One gave a satisfied nod. The modification he added to the dark hand had held up after all. Sacrificing the tool's inherent life-draining ability, he had further corrupted the dark hand to be compatible with sorceries, making it a weightless and proper catalyst.

Without a moment's hesitation, he left the small alcove, stepping outside and exposing himself to the elements. He ducked and covered his eyes, the brightness of the world blinding his unfocused sight. After a moment, his hands fell to the side. The Ashen One stood up, his straining eyes against the bathing light. After flinching from the sun's incandescent radiance, he found himself in a dense and vibrantly shaded forest, a scene he had not witnessed since before he became undead, let alone a champion of ash.

The man knew he was no longer within Lothirc, proof as the world around him seemed... alive. There had been no ash, no sunken graves, or starved hordes of hollows. No hint of the looming darksign could hope to match the warm and loving hue of this particular sun either, which had somehow managed to slip through the forest's emerald shaded curtain far above.

Lothric had been nothing more than a heap of decaying darkness. Ash and long felled wood took the forefront of nearly all wildlife. Piles of corpses, both new and old, had littered the lands far and wide. The sky itself seemed to cave in against the impossibly oppressive cycle the world thrived on. Every turn, sight, sound, and simple "feel" of the realm had been riddled with despair and desolation, a symbol of uncertainty.

Here however, the aura felt vastly different. The air had been welcoming, fresh, and rich in adventurous longing. The ground held twigs, grass, and insects of countless species all working together to paint a piece of art to the Ashen One. This was a reality of life, rebirth, and promise.

It seemed that outright abandoning destiny, oddly enough, had worked in the Unkindled one's favor.

Slowly, as not to disturb the earth, the man fell to his knees. The champion began grasping handfuls of grass, worrying little for the grass stains on his newly remade armor. Each individual blade of greenery was met by a thorough inspection, the man in absolute admiration for even the smallest of obscurities. The Ashen One twirled his thumb in the palm of his hand, as if he had been toying with the consistency of the foliage. And with the faintest chuckle, the man lowered his head.

His gaze fell upon the dirt, which was bathed in a deep fertile brown. The very soil coursed with hope, and saplings of shrubbery stood from the earth. With an open palm, the unkindled ash let the blades of grass fall from his grasp, entranced as the grass met the ground.

This world was most definitely not rotten. If each new stretch of land brought this much satisfaction, then it would make the most excellent new home. The Ashen One's gaze fell upon the rising sun and soon after, with no aim set in mind, he began to walk.

-------------------------------------------------------
||| Don't You Dare Go Hollow |||
-------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note

Hello, tis I: KiriKiwiS

Here is the first chapter for "The Huntsman of Ash". Largely minor changes, phrased many things differently. Like I explained in a community announcement, first few chapters will be similar to the original. Around chapter four or five is when the break off will occur.

There's not really much to say, that's kinda it for now. Yes, the Ashen One is a (mostly) silent protagonist. No, I don't necessarily plan on pairing him. No, he won't be using every spell/miracle/pyromancy... only the ones that make sense for a moonlight spell-blade. And no, I don't plan on making him overpowered... it would break the story I have planned out.

...and well, because overpowered MCs are boring and lose all tension. I don't plan on making him an absolute push over either, that'd make no sense for a battle hardened undead.

Anyway, Kiwi missed all of you. Thanks for stopping by (^-^)7