Of all the places, it just had to be Blighttown… disgusting.
You’re an undead, marked by the accursed Dark Sign, and here you are. In Blighttown.
You had a purpose once—to ring the Bells of Awakening. Something about the fate of the undead, to fulfill a prophecy. That’s why came down here.
But now?
It feels absurd. What was it all for?
You thought you were prepared. The occasional death? No problem. You’ve died before. It’s a setback, a temporary inconvenience. Dying’s just part of the cycle. But this… this is different.
You got cursed and it shrank you down, made you smaller, reduced you in size, you’d say two inches tall.
You used to be able to handle the enemies here. Now, you’re lucky if you don’t get stomped by them. They barely notice you, thankfully, but how long will that last?
Your armor doesn’t even fit anymore. At this size, you wouldn’t even be able to wield the smallest dagger.
You’re vulnerable. Bare. A ragged loincloth barely preserving the scraps of dignity you have left. No protection, no defense. Weaker than you’ve ever been, and the world’s just waiting to crush you.
The swamp, the poison—it’s almost a joke now. What was once a mostly manageable hazard has turned into an impassable lake of filth.
It’s hard to see the point of it all. What’s there to gain from continuing? What’s the use in pushing forward when everything is stacked so heavily against you? Maybe your quest was foolish from the start. Maybe you’re just another undead fool, trudging through a doomed world.
You sit at the bonfire, at the bottom of Blighttown inside a stone tunnel, staring into the flickering flames. The warmth of the bonfire is one of the few comforts for undead like you.
The way you saw it is you had two choices.
Try to cross the swamp, a highly difficult ordeal, albeit not entirely impossible. Or go up—try to get back to the surface.
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