Every reincarnation begins thusly. A chosen story of a special and deific like being, ripped from a fairy tale. A world engulfed and suffocated by a miasma of hatred and blood. Leaders and warriors, corrupted by madness and greed. A prophecy, a prophecy providing hope to the meek and the hopeless. Same every cycle. “The Chosen Undead will rise, and bring the souls of lords back to thy resting place. Take Lord Gwyn’s name, and embody the first flame.” When my life began. “Bearer of the curse, seek misery. For misery, will lead you to greater souls.” from when it continued. “Ashen One, return the Lords of Cinders to their thrones.” I had believed thus would be the curtain call. An era of conflict between fire and abyss concluded in a blaze and flurry of blades, crystal, and blood. A symbolic end. However, my journey had been preordained for continuation. “Welcome, weary traveler, to the great city of Yharnam. The troubles you must have seen. Your homeland, plagued by a sickness that spares a few. You suffer.” And my fate had once more begun anew.

A new fairy tale, akin to the novels by the Brothers Grimm. A world of mad men driven to the brink by an oppressive religion founded on the knowledge of blasphemy, monsters from a world beyond the realm of mortals, a realm of gods and goddesses beyond mortal imagination. Belief that mortality was able to be conquered, that ingenuity and progress was worth throwing humanity to the wayside. All to end with collapse. Damned to a hellish nightmare caused by the hubris of overzealous madmen. Saved and worshipped by those below them, even a corps of their own creation. The only seemingly competent people in this crazed place. The Hunters. A group of individuals, trained and used for the extermination of beasts and men alike. Subgroups of them exist, of course. However, all share one goal; hunt and shed blood.

Without knowledge, I was swept away. Before I was god-like. The Ashen One, Chosen Undead, Bearer of the curse. But I am now referred to by a much simpler name. Huntress. Only a title, no chosen prophetic nonsense. I simply have a job. Hunt, kill, maim, protect. And my job is one I am well versed in. Every reincarnation grants me a new body, identical to the last in most measures with minor differences. My specialties remained the same. Speed, endurance, heavy strike in juxtaposition to my frail frame. A canon composed of glass. But, this body feels new. I still have those previous attributes but now I’m. Aware, composed, relaxed. My reactions are faster, my swings more brutal, aware of more at one time, graceful. As if I’m dancing.

This repeatedly renewing cycle, a torture upon my meager and outnumbered soul. For what purpose or reason I was chosen for this unending hell, I know naught. But in due time I learnt acceptance. This is my fate, destined to rise, fall, then to rise once more and face inhuman impossible odds. If fate had designed my place in such a way, I may as well embrace and relish in the adrenaline no? Use the burning sense of passion or ambition, whatever it may be, and unleash my wrath on those I deem deserving. After all, the hero does no wrong at the end of the story. History is made, and written by those who have the drive and insatiable longing for success. And my longing is far from a simple want. It’s a need, a need to test my mettle against the greatest and unimaginable odds. A need for conquest that will forever, and always, be mine.