The fog of the cursed swamp clings to me like cold, clammy fingers, tugging at my rotting flesh. Every movement in this putrid pool is a struggle, not only against the poison that eats through my skin like acid, but against the darkness itself, which tries to devour me. The swamp wants to break me. But it won’t succeed. I am Morgrim, and death means nothing to me.
The stench of decay clings to me, heavy and acrid. The poison that lurks in the waters is a constant companion, a slow torture. But pain is an old acquaintance, and it will not stop me. Every step through the mire is like a march through hell, but I have trodden this path many times before. What is poison to one who is already dead?
The ghrules come out of the shadows, like rats feasting on the rotten carcass of a world. Their claws rattle against my armour, but I am faster. My sword slices through them like rotten flesh, their bodies disintegrating before me, nothing more than disgusting carrion. But something bigger lurks here. I can feel it in the thick, stifling air, like a predator watching its prey. And then I see it – an Elder Ghru, its monstrous form rising above the swamp, larger and more repulsive than its smaller brethren. Its eyes glow red in the darkness, its claws large enough to tear a human in half.
A deep growl escapes from its throat, and I know that this will not be an ordinary fight. It raises its mighty claws, and I dodge just in time as it tears up the earth beneath it. The force of its blow makes the swamp tremble, and the stench of blood and decay intensifies, as if the swamp itself were taking its side.
With a grin on his parched lips, I feel the old hunger rising within me. The thirst for death, for destruction. The Darkwraith in me awakens, a shadow just waiting to be unleashed. I rush at him, my sword aimed at the unprotected parts of his decaying body, but he is faster than expected. With a roar, he throws me back, the air fills with the hum of magic – red, skull-like forms gather around him, dark spirits that rush towards me.
The first ones touch me, beating against my armour like hungry animals. I feel the cold penetrating deep into my bones, and yet the pain only drives me further. I cut through the ghosts with a wild swing of my sword, but there are too many of them. The Elder Ghru rears up again, ready to crush me, but I am faster. I slip under its arms, feel the foul breath of its rotten body on me, and plunge the blade of my sword deep into its belly.
His roar echoes through the swamp, but he does not fall. Instead, he throws me back, staggering, and I see new swarms of red skulls gathering around him, ready to devour me. But I am Morgrim, and I know no fear. With a final, desperate charge, I plunge through the flickering spectres, each step bringing me closer to the beast, until my sword strikes again. This time, I sever its putrid neck.
The Elder Ghru staggers, its monstrous body quivering before it collapses like a rotten tree. The stench of its death fills the air, and I stand over it, my blade still dripping with its putrid blood. The battle is over, but the swamp… the swamp lives on. Always hungry, always lurking. But I am not broken. Not yet.
I wipe the blood from my sword and look at the dark path ahead of me. The swamp has done its best, but I am still here. Whatever may come – the Abyss Watchers, the tomb of Carthus – it will not change anything. I am the shadow, death itself. And death is not afraid of what is coming.
