The Chosen Undead walks through the gardens amidst the tinder and stony corpses of the fallen ents and stone guardians, creatures who were once caretakers to this beautiful place, with an ever-growing sense of awe and dread. As he walks onward towards the stone structure before him, he heeds the warping of the landscape. Strange, dark fungi and cyst have spawned, and the grounds warp hellishly the more he nears the architecture. The warrior pushes out the thoughts of what hellish thing might be causing this, knowing full well that fear will do him no good against whatever lies ahead.
 
        The undead warrior reaches the edge of the outer walls and is hit by an aura. It is one of dark and corruption, one familiar, yet utterly alien. He ponders what it could be only briefly before realization hits him. The aura is similar to that of the ruins beneath Firelink, but while it may be the brother of it, he can feel something else. To him it feels as if it’s laced with humanity. His sense of dread and fear is overcome by hope, hope that he nears a bonfire, a place of refuge, a place of rest. The Chosen Undead rushes onward, ignoring the corrupting black that surrounds the place.
 
        He reaches the entrance, and is stopped short. Before him lies a disheartening sight, that of a door of mist. The undead’s heart begins to fill once more with the dread of the area. His hopes for refuge are replaced by the cursings of his spirit, the knowledge that before him lays a creature of great power. He can feel the overpowering humanity and dark that lies beyond in his very being. So familiar yet alien, and while blasphemous and tainted beckoning him like a moth to a torch. He steps towards the door and once more draws his blade. A single touch of his palm, and the barrier grants passage.
 
        Before the Chosen Undead lays a small, grimacing creature, warped itself much as the garden was. A bulbous head, coated in blasphemous red eyes, adorns the thing, and its skin is a paled blue, one to match that of the growths tainting the landscape. It looks skyward in confusion, cackling in some strange language.
 
        “Surely this could not be the source of this strange aura?” the undead inquires, both serious and tauntingly, as he steps towards the beast. Naught three steps further, a screech from above responds, and a blur enters the vision of the warrior. A knight, adorned in what appears to have been once ornate armor, leaps from the rooftops of the arena and slams his blade through the creature’s neck. The knight stands, towering over the beheaded corpse, and gazes emptily at the Chosen Undead. The undead warrior looks warily, grasping the hilt of his blade. “So, this is the once proud Artorias, be it not?”
 
        The knight responds once more with a screech, sending shudders through the undead’s spine. Artorias’ gaze shifts from the undead warrior, to that of the detached head. He impales the ground with his blade, and with his remaining arm lifts it. The undead cannot view beneath Artoria’s helm as he examines the fleshy orb, and is left to wonder what the fallen knight might be doing as the dark auras grow ever stronger.
Artorias’ head snaps back to the undead, and with an inhuman force he tosses the head into the undead’s chest. The undead is staggered, and drops his sword upon being hit. The knight is upon him now, and before the Chosen Undead can grab his steel the tainted beast has grasped him. He nears his head to the warrior’s, and gives a light screech.
 
        “Game, on.”
 
        The undead is confused, unsure as to what the knight means. He’s nearly speechless that this thing is speaking to him, left only with one word.
 
        “What?”
 
        Artorias picks up the head, and places it carelessly within the undead’s grasp. With a voice twisted by the darkness that surrounds the knight, he speaks once more.
 
        “ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OZU3fi08-o ”