Drangleic was really messed up now. It used to be a prosperous land, seemed to have happiness oozing out the edges. But now it was dark, desolate, and dangerous.
All thanks to a curse.
In the forest of giants fallen, there was a man, clad in Raime armor, holding a large sword in his left hand over his shoulder, and a greatshield in his right hand. He appeared in bad shape, sitting on the ground near a fire that seemed to use bones for fuel. There was a wooden sword in the middle of the flames, but it was somehow unscathed. The warrior reached into a small pouch at the right side of his waist, and pulled out a glowing yellow drink, in a green glass bottle. He took a small sip, which seemed to immediately heal most of his wounds. He set it next to the strange fire, which seemed to magically refill it, then picked it back up and stuck a cork in the open end of the bottle. He slipped it back into the pouch he pulled it from. He looked around, until his eyes fell upon a strange person standing a fair distance away. “Who.. are you..?” He said questioningly.