Once a valiant knight of an ancient order, Sir Drystan now walks in mockery of the honor he once upheld. His body, long since claimed by death, endures only through the Bloodthorne’s corruption. Roots and thorns winding through cracked armor, binding flesh and bone in cruel imitation of life. The sigil of his order has blackened and wilted, forever stained with decay.
 
Where the forest’s shadows stretch, Drystan answers. He steps through the twisted boughs like a specter, appearing where the Bloodthorne’s will demands, his blade dripping with sap and sorrow. Those who meet his hollow gaze feel a curse settle upon their souls, a whisper of the oaths he once swore, now twisted into vengeance eternal.