The chosen undead.

Risen from the dead to reignite the flame of life and restore balance to the world. That's what you would've done.

The doors swung open with a loud creak. The hallway stretched on for about three of four dozen feet before ending in a bed. On the bed sat the most beautiful woman you had laid your eyes on. You knew who she was. Everyone did.

Gwynevere. The princess of sunlight. Forsaken in this bastardized holding cell that used to be her bed chambers. On her ankle sat a chain attatched to the bed. The chains were glowing red but not burning her.

Most likely done by her husband. The Flame King Flann. Done in a fit of jealousy, he and Gwyndolin banished Gwynevere to cast a permanent sun across Anor Londo, snuffing out the sun for everyone else.

Your armor took a beating. It was barely holding on. You could feel your body growing colder. Your Estus was sitting empty at the doorway. The last swig has been used to keep you breathing. If just barely. As you staggered into the fair lady's bed chamber, she lifted her head. Her face was soft. Her features were kind. The robe of silk and gold lay across her body like sand on a beach and snow on a mountain. She was breathtaking. Beautiful. Gorgeous. She was everything anyone would ever need. Ever.

And here she sat, imprisoned. Kept hidden from the world and used for her powers and left to die.

She stared at you with pity. With humility. With sadness and despair.

"Oh.. chosen undead.."

She sat up.

"Why have you come here.. why have you risked so much."