No good like this. If more of these forsaken souls awaited, I needed to be certain I had full control of the only weapon I'd yet obtained. I lifted the club, tested the grip of my fingers, and decided there was nothing for it. Well... If I was Undead, then I'd simply have to make use of the fabled treasure the Undead call their own. I slowly inhaled, and dispelled the club into ash. As I exhaled, the ash reformed into the Estus flask I'd claimed earlier. I tipped it back against my mouth, wondering what it might taste like. The answer was immediate: fire.

It tasted like fire. But it did not burn: it was a nourishing warmth like I'd never experienced, giving me foggy reminders of childhood meals of hot soup. As the heat washed over me in a wave, I could feel my injured hand healing, the severed tendons winding back together, sliced or missing flesh reforming in an instant. I released the flask into ash and testingly flexed my hand: back to normal. Now then, for that glow...

I knelt down in front of the presumably Astoran knight and gingerly pushed my hands into the white glow. It reminded me of my own soul that I had collected earlier, though white like the Hollows, rather than the emerald flame I recognized as my own. And yet, it did not "speak" to me the way the Hollows' souls had. This was more like... the ashes of a soul long lost. And as my fingers found purchase on something nestled in these "soul ashes," I reckoned that perhaps these were the material possessions of a Hollow that had found its true death, the same way my own possessions now faded into ash until I needed them. As the glow faded, I pulled my hand back, and within it: another Estus flask?

No, this is *different.* Where the Estus flask I knew was hot to the touch, a vessel of healing flame, this flask was freezing cold; ice crystals jutted out from its humble stoneware, and a frigid essence swirled in its gray depths, making it glow blue. How fascin—