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[DISCLAIMER]

RWBY is property of RoosterTeeth and Monty Oum. Dark Souls is property of Bandai Namco and FromSoftware. All art/vids/music shown are property of their respective artists/companies.

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"~ My funny valentine,

sweet comic valentine,

You make me smile with my heart ~"

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In a smoldering field of desecrated corpses, there was a being of cindered ash, wrapped in the skin of a man. With torn greaves scraping against the stark stained soil, the abomination approached the withering flame of a pitiful bonfire. With each tread, the clattering doldrum of pierced metal scraping against faded leather filled the desolate air.

The smears of dust and dried crimson both chipped away, flaking and falling onto the stark stained soil below with each somber step. Like a body drug through the snow, the desolate pasture steadily became warped from the crude coloring. In the strangest way possible, it mirrored the steadfast decay of the world outside.

The world beyond this perverted garden was long fading. It would not be long till the remains of this realm were greedily devoured as flame for this insignificant bonfire. Still though, this crestfallen warrior felt no urge to speed their path. This world had been twisted and corrupted long before the flame burnt out of its original fuel, that much was certain.

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 demeanor.

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

It was all a cycle, one that reflected the undying curse of mankind. The fire would fade, valiant warriors would seek to either rekindle or to snuff it out entirely. Those same warriors would fall, only to rise to try again until their sanity burned out like a fire against the rain. Eventually, one of those undead would overcome the gruelling trial of rekindling; only to start the next routine anew.

Above the field of Ash and cinder both, the dark sigil of undeath loomed in impatience. It held an insatiable hunger awaiting none, like a starved beast awaiting the moment of feast at pouncing on maimed prey. A void of pure darkness surrounded by a crude circlet of insulting fire, a flame that burned in gluttony each time the accompanying bonfire was given more fuel, fuel 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.

Towering over the now fragile yet ever accursed fire, the being of ash felt a knot in their 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.

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

With an extended hand, the champion of ash began the process of lighting the smoldering flame, much like all other bonfires prior. And at first, there was nothing. Not even a slight tremor of renewed vigor danced.

Not a single spark lit, and not even an individual bead of fire intensified.

With a single exhale, the warrior clenched their tattered gauntlets as they looked on at the dark sign above. Though the champion of ash adorned a silver mask, they stood in both defiance, and irritation.

Through fire and brimstone both, they slew literal legends to gain access to the kiln of the first flame. Even more so, they had faced the culmination of every soul fed to the same flame. And even after the daunting duel from the Lords of Cinder past, they were only to be reciprocated with mere nothingness.

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. As such, the being of ash glanced towards the bonfire yet again, a third option coming to mind at the prospect of being mocked.

Ignoring the weight of their attire, and shoving the thoughts of exhaustion aside, the figure shuffled over to the withering fire, a single emotionally devoid goal in mind. With a muffled sigh from under "their" silver mask, they damned the flame and themself both With a single foot, the Ashen one began stomping out the fire.

No longer did they care of renewing this cruel realm. No more would they care 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".

As a result, the Ashen one opted for an entirely different route, one that spat in the face of the unyielding greed of the dark sign. This had been the white birch branch that broke the giant's back, for the sigil of corruption had begun its own call to self preservation.

With a chilling pound of metal meeting burning bone, the Ashen One rose their foot yet again, stomping 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 forcefully snuffed the flame out.

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

Foolishly, the champion took this as a sign of solemn embrace, rather than its intended purpose of banishment for forsaking his duty entirely. As docile and unresponsive it seemed, the fire 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.

Eventually, darkness 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 with 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.

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 like a snake into a hole in the ground.

As they lost their feeling of self awareness, faint visages began to appear. Their dim blue hues were all the Ashen one saw, before darkness enveloped them entirely. In hushed, nearly muffled voices, they spoke to the short lived usurper of cinder.

"...Thanks, good compeer." A mischievously steadfast voice rang out.

In mild surprise, the champion of ash took a strained glance at the owner of the voice. The blue hue vaguely resembled the bald and unbreakable prankster from Firelink. Uncharacteristically, the man wore a warmed smile, one out of comradery built upon light hearted (and occasionally treacherous) trickery.

"You are a dragon, more dragon than I..." Another voice called out, this voice imitating one of a hopeless knight.

Swaying their gaze, the Ashen one then saw the luminescent visage of a crestfallen soldier, one who had abandoned his now former brothers in arms. Showing the face of pained pride, the deserter lowered their head in mournful admiration, recognizing his counterpart had done what he could only have hoped to.

"...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, especially when feeling the memories of the two unraveling the mysteries of sorcery magic together.

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

The specific details to this new silhouette were as clouded as the ones prior, but the eccentric hat made the figure recognizable and fittingly distinguishable enough. With the faint distinctions of heretical attire to boot, the Ashen one was reminded of their first meeting. It had been one almost identical to far older folk stories, one of a knight rescuing a damsel locked away...with its own darker twists of course.

"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 poetically impeccable. It had been the previous owner to 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.

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, let alone defeat the 'Soul of Cinder'?" Had been among the more simpler 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 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.

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 armor? Or had they only been a run of the mill item, such as a simple clump of moss? More so, 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, had been the swarm of normal sized ones. 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 experimental motion, the champion of ash opened their eyes, being met with dim light. At this moment, they had apparently woken up 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. The small cave held a tunneled exit just to the left of the man, the curving allowing just barely 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 regaled violet.

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

Their "Black Hand Armor'', had been lovingly repaired, save for the iconically tattered cloak. Similarly, the black gauntlets and leggings (previously under the possession of Yuria of Londor) of the "Black Set", 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 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 man, 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 paired "Sellsword Twinsblade". Additionally, the "Crescent Moon Sword" sat patiently beside the other blades. 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 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 blade. 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, he had become satisfied. 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.

Now he was finally satisfied. Without a moment's hesitation, he left the small alcove, stepping outside and exposing himself to the elements. Uncharacteristically, he found himself in a dense and vibrantly shaded forest, a sight he had not seen since before he became undead, let alone a champion of ash.

Immediately, the man knew he was no longer within Lothirc, seeing 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 emerald shaded curtain 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 system the world thrived on. Every turn, sight, sound, and simple "feel" of the world had been riddled with despair and desolation, a symbol of the realm's uncertainty.

Here however, the aura felt vastly different. The air had been welcoming, fresh, and enticingly rich in energy. The ground held twigs, grass, and insects of countless species all working together to paint a piece of art to the man.

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, not worrying over the grass leaving stains on his newly remade armor. Each individual blade of grass was met by a thorough inspection, the man silently admiring 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 while also dropping his hand of grass along with it.

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...

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[BONFIRE LIT]

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"...Don't you dare go hollow."