I’ve been here before. Its tricks and traps are notched into my mind and its hidey-holes leap out as if illuminated by spotlights. I’ve stalked these lonely halls with a dozen different avatars and now familiarity is etched into the Undead Asylum’s sodden brickwork. As I trudge through Dark Souls’ foreboding prologue I’m steered by a sense of grim déjà vu. Where I once blundered ham-fistedly, I now carve a bloody trail with flexes of muscle memory and precisely timed ripostes. I’ve grown since I first came here, and escaping the Asylum’s cloying grasp has become effortless: a molehill worn down from a mountain, but it wasn’t always this way...


