A crow cawed, and the corpse stirred.

The landscape reeked of death, once crimson blood now congealed and darkened, coating nearly every surface, earth, armor, weapons, corpses and even the trees lining the far sides of the scene of carnage. Dark clouds hung above the field, and a vast murder of crows, vultures and other scavengers rotated above the field, lazily descending to feed.

Corpses lay all around the field, tangled limbs and the blades and armaments of the fallen twisted and laid upon one another, making large sections of the muddy and bloody earth beneath them entirely invisible, as well as forming piles as tall as a large man. Rain began to fall now, cold water splattering over flesh and steel, any warmth that may have remained evaporating into low clouds of mist.

As the crows screamed, the corpse stirred with vigor, his pale hand still grasping his broken blade. What would be written off as death throes at a passing glance, quickly strengthened the more he moved. His grip on the blade loosened, and he dropped his ruined weapon to the bloody mud.

Slender fingers dug deep into the mud, searching for traction, eventually finding a plate of steel. With this new, unnatural strength, the corpse pushed against the plate, and began to lift the rest of the body. His movements were stiff and slow, alien to this existence.

His other hand found traction on what could have been a former comrade or enemy's armored leg. No matter what they were, he was thankful for them, as with this extra leverage, the corpse was able to push himself to his knees, lifting his face from the mud.

Now kneeling, the corpse wiped the mud from his face, and blinked several times, the theater of carnage becoming clearer with each blink. First, he saw armor glazed with gore. Next, the twisted visage of a man forever frozen in his final moments. Finally, the scent hit his nose. Rot, strong as a mountain, all consuming as a mother's love, paired with the metallic scent of blood. Despite the grizzly scene before him, the kneeling corpse was not disturbed by it.

Rather, he was disturbed by his utter failure to remember the events leading to his current situation, for a heavy haze hung in his mind, permeating all facets of his memory, concealing anything beyond a vague outline of the recent past. He saw through the eyes of a dying man, presumably himself. A single outline sat above him, though he could not comprehend it.

He did not know where he was, but the reason for his arrival was clear. There was something here, that was responsible for this. Whatever had brought about this carnage and this rot, he was to slay it, should it be able to be slain. Wielding his feeble fingers, he pulled at the leather straps holding the armor to his torso, the weight of which was making it difficult to stay upright.

On his first attempt, the steel buckle proved beyond his capabilities, his fingers simply slipping right off of it due to the buckle being made slick by the rain. His hands shook uncontrollably, whether from chill or utter confusion, he could not decide.

He dropped his hands to his sides, and began to gather his bearings. This time, he managed to hook his fingernails underneath the edge of the buckle. From there, he tugged at it, but rather than loosening it, he simply ripped the entire device from the armor, leather strap and all.

While not his intended goal, he simply reached up and replicated his previous motion on the strap on his other shoulder, and the heavy plates of tarnished steel fell from his chest, clattering against the bladed mud beneath him. Blood and muck splattered his legs and boots, as if to remind him what to do next.

Now unencumbered, the corpse began to stand, unsteady legs barely holding him upright. His body swayed from side to side, though after a few seconds, a sense of balance came to him, and he straightened and held himself still. A core of internal steel held him steady. His charge may have no name, but it was watching him. In fact, it had been for some time now.

With a shaky step forwards, the corpse began to stiffly wander across the former battlefield, his arms and shoulder twitching slightly every few seconds as he shook off the effects of rigor mortis. The mud sloshed beneath his boots, and the odd blade collided with his toes, bouncing away at his advance.

The corpse clumsily checked himself for wounds, and though his clothes were torn and ragged, he felt only smooth, cool flesh beneath his fingers. Next, he traced his face, feeling no wounds.

The man's hair was medium length, and he took a tuft in his hand and pulled it before his eyes, to find that his hair was bone white. He stopped walking, and ran his hands through his hair, stopping only upon seeing something standing in the corner of his eye.

As if it was his nature, he spun towards the threat, yanking a short sword from the chest of one of the men next to him. What stood behind him was a horror like a man… at least he hoped it was.

A long, heavy black cloak hung from the man's body, a dark hood pulled over his face, dense shadows rolling from inside like tendrils of smoke. Long white hair hung from the void, like endless bridges leading to nothingness. 

Despite the increasing downpour of rain, the thing was entirely dry, any and all water failed to touch him, as if the rain itself could not, or would not, fall on this thing. Six arms splayed out from the folds of deterrent cloth. A tarnished golden lantern hung from one hand, vile emerald flames burned in its basin. Once more, the rain simply refused to touch the eerie flame.

The corpse tried to speak, but found no words in his throat, for nothing could address this abomination properly. So instead, all he did was raise his blade, and point it at the monster of a man before him. The thing simply tilted his head at the gesture, and a ser of emerald eyes flickered to life, a piercing gaze tore through the shambler. His stance faltered, as an uncanny white smile severed the face of the void.

"Standing corpse. Do you have a name?" The hooded figure spoke, his voice sharp and raspy, cutting into the corpse's ears like a saw blade. Tense silence hung between the undead and abomination, as the pale fallen searched his mind, looking for anything that could perhaps be a suitable name.

The fog that permeated his mind was thick, unbreachable in places and not others. In regards to a name, the corpse could think of nothing. A vacant symphony of disjointed voices and sounds echoed, providing nothing for the shambler to offer the abomination. A dull echo from that watching outline sounded above the rest. He focused on this echo, as he forced words from his throat.

"No." The corpse spoke, his voice weak and empty at its first usage, rough as the abomination's voice, sharp like a jagged blade

"A tragedy. Do you remember anything from your past?" The abomination spoke again, his voice just as cutting as before, but now mixed with something that sounded like genuine sadness.

"Fighter. Killer. Protector. I... must kill again. To.. Protect." The corpse responded, his voice now ever so slightly stronger than before, as if the voice had invigorated him in some way. The more he spoke, the more he recalled. The echo became sharper, stronger.

"...Ho...llow..." One word was all the echo had to provide. It was enough.

"I was... Hollow." The pale shambler said. He fell silent after this

"Your name shall be Hollow. As the Unhallowed, you have much to do, and a name weaves a legend. Leave this battlefield, for it is a memory. You know why you are here, to slay the one behind this. Know its name, and slay this cowardly god and it's faithful. The White Hand controls all past its time. Cut the strings, and reanimate this stagnated world." The thing pointed at the hills of still corpses around him, and they began to shift, tangled limbs snapping and steel splitting, the formless mass giving way as they were dragged apart.

A path was born, between walls of corpses piled a thousand high on either side, extending as far as Hollow's eye could see.

"Stranger, what are you?" Hollow called after the vanishing monster, with far greater strength than before, as if a simple name was the missing piece.

"The first, and last sinner. I will accompany you, for we have the same charge." With those words, the Sinner began to walk, waving for Hollow to follow him. 

Hollow looked down at the weapon in his hand. The blade was heavily chipped and twisted, the tip was bent upwards, clearly having bent when it made contact with the back of its victim's armor.

He took the blade in his hand, and snapped the top half off, making the short sword little better than a dagger. A quick glance to his left revealed a strangely nostalgic sight. A marred hand axe protruded from the wall, buried in a fallen warrior's skull.

Hollow tore the axe free from the skull with a single swift tug, and he began to follow after the shambling void. 

A crow cawed, and the corpse walked.