章 30: Chapter 30: All Roads Lead to War
Varré picks at dried flakes of blood off his mute grey trousers, dusting off the crimson residue with an indifferent expression.
Oh blood, what an interesting substance. As far as his personal knowledge goes: It's what makes the body tick, like it is something of a fuel that the heart makes, and the body uses to live, to operate, to function. He's not certain if that's the true reason for why most living things have a heart, but if those glintstone loving lunatics truly based their marionette designs off the human body, then the heart is something of a core for the body, the center where all power draws from.
Makes sense, right?
Sadly, unlike the glintstone cores of marionettes, the heart refuses to make blood once you cut it out of someone. The thing may pump once or twice more, before it ceases to create any more of that magical red liquid. Dragon hearts will continue to beat, but they pump dry air, no more do they produce the magical red liquid.
Oh, yes, that magical red liquid.
How Varré adores it.
Its warmth, its color, even its flavor. Such a unique taste, one that just about anybody can distinguish.
He loved it, enjoyed it when his patients bled out on him, spraying him with that lustrous crimson hue. He began to associate their cries with his desire; he began to enjoy it when his patients screamed in pain and bled; he began to look forward to it.
And when the Rune of Death was sealed?
Oh! How wonderful!
A true blessing!
Being able to cut someone open, and they came back to life? Oh, how he adored their expressions of pain! How he engorged himself in the crimson bliss!
Since the Rune of Death was sealed… how long ago was that? Twenty years? Thirty?
Oh, he can't really remember, not that it matters anyway. The years, the decades; they just began to meld together for him. Nobody really keeps time anymore; it doesn't really matter at all. As long as everyone is immortal; as long as Varré gets to keep cutting into his priso- … …his patients, He doesn't care if it's been even a thousand years. All the better for him.
Now, back to his love for blood.
Oh, he loves it! He loves it so much; the faces of anguish as he sew their mouths shut with his surgeon's needle, cut them open and let them bleed out in his clinic. Over and over again; he swears he might've gotten a little lewd at times. Not that it matters; he's having his fun.
…
Did he trail off?
Yes, he did.
What was he thinking about again?
…
Ah yes!
Blood: What is it?
"Oi Varré, you even listening?"
Varré halts his past-time of picking dried blood off his clothes; his train of thought about how amazing his life is comes to a halt.
He raises his gloved hand to get a good look at the red flakes stuck between his thumb and index finger, taking slight pleasure in the noise they make when he rubs the two finger together.
"Oh yes, of course." He says, his shrill voice muffling behind his pale white mask. "I have been quite attentive, I assure you."
He spares a glance away and at his surroundings, finding a handful of other pale masks staring at him. They're all down deep, far away from where any snooping Tarnished lowborns or senile Two Fingers can find them.
In the realm where the new dynasty shall take root, a realm that is basically paradise for Varré.
His fellow servants of their Lord wait for Varré to speak; their bloodshot eyes all staring at him as if he were something to scorn. What miserable deviants, do they not know who the most loyal among them are?
Varré, that's who.
Know your places, lowborn hooligans.
He sighs, flicking the crimson dust away from his fingers. It seems they desire him to speak further. Very well.
"I know nothing of a Tarnished with an accompanying golden light. Never even heard of such a figure."
The last Tarnished Varré met was an empty-headed child that wandered right into Godrick's soldiers; Varré watched in stimulating joy as the boy's back was slashed open. It was a beautiful cut; a wonderful spray. But besides the moment of pleasure, he didn't care for that foolish frog of a boy. There was no use for him; he was nothing but momentary entertainment.
The boy is surely apart of Godrick by now, nothing more than a twitching limb that's indistinguishable from the rest. Oh well. Good riddance.
Besides him, Varré has seen no other Tarnished for a time, surely no Tarnished that had a glowing light following them around.
"If they are something of interest to our Luminary Lord, Lord Mohg, then I would surely have brought them here by now, wouldn't I?"
One of the other white masks leans forward, pounding a closed fist on the table.
"Yet, you were in Limgrave at the same time as this Tarnished. It was your task to find more servants, search for the misguided Tarnished our Lord desires. How had you not seen anything?"
Other white masks nod in agreement; Varré glowers.
"Know your place, lowborn. Do not talk to me with such tongue, or I'll cut it out myself."
He's a noble, practically royalty compared to these peasants. He is even in Lord Mohg's good graces; how dare this fiend speak to him, Varré, in such a way?
Before another can moan and complain, Varré rises from his chair, pointing an accusatory finger.
"You bloodsucking lot! Useless clots, the whole of you! If you design to reside in Lord Mohg's chamber once our great dynasty comes to fruition, then find this Tarnished yourself."
He swings that finger about, voice rising to a snarl.
"Prove your worth, worms! Unless you desire to be more than mere dirt under our Lord's feet; find that blasted Tarnished and bring him here!"
Miscreants.
"Well? Move along now."
"…"
"What? What's that look supposed to mean? You got something to say?"
"…"
Patches stares down his fool of a subordinate; the highwayman stares right back. He regards not to say anything, like the air-headed bloke he is.
Patches should just leave him behind, let him dilly dally elsewhere if he wants to so badly. He's taken to messing with a bunch of big bricks lying all over the ground, stacking up the smaller chunks into something resembling a house.
Can't fight for squat, can't keep pace. What's the point in keeping him?
The rest of Patches's merry band stand a few paces ahead, waiting quietly to sally forth. This highwayman here is the only one lagging behind, and as his leader, Patches must come talk to him. You know, bestow some of his great wisdom onto this sorry excuse for a footsoldier.
Patches taps the side of his bald head with a gloved finger, cocking a steep eyebrow.
"Well now. If you've got nothing to say, then how about getting a move on yeah? Wouldn't that just be the best idea?"
He gestures to the hunched over highwayman, who's in the middle of leaning two thin chunks of stone together, making something of a roof for his little house. He finishes his little house construction, all the while maintaining eye contact with Patches. The single-minded fool.
"Can't exactly stay here. Did you see what happening to Bellard? Whole place is falling to pits and pieces! Don't you understand that?"
His depressing lark of a gang camped out on the outer end of Bellard's Gate, or at least what's left of it. The thing's center wall was blasted to pieces, threw chunks of itself everywhere.
They've come this far, tracking the merchant and his childish bodyguard; Patches is sure their quarry already ran into the city.
His men have no clue where that priceless spear went, not that they even tried to look for it. But Patches didn't try either, he'd rather not put his neck on the line.
Things are heated down in the city right now; would be a very un-Patches thing to do; running down there like a gang of goons.
If he wants a good chance at collecting the spear…
...
Oh he just had a wonderful idea.
Why not, instead of risking his life for the spear, he finds the big boss of this whole invasion force? He hardly has the guts to take advantage of a weakened city, but he definitely has the brains to do some manipulating.
Wouldn't that be the perfect idea?
If he kisses up to the right people, he can get quite the payout in all of this. And hey, if that young fan of his gets caught up in one of his schemes and dies, then he gets the spear after all.
Oh, it's a wonderful plan!
He hasn't thought it out at all, but he doesn't need to. If Patches the Untethered is good at one thing, it's improvising. He's a master in the art, if he does say so himself. So if he can just find the leader of these rogue Godrick Soldiers, he's sure he can get in their good graces.
My oh my.
He's almost afraid of his own genius.
"Gentlemen!"
He says happily, speaking up. His highwaymen silently stare at him, but at least he knows he has their attention.
"I have a wonderful new plan! As endorsed by me, Patches the Untethered."
"Pick up the pace, Tarnished!"
The soldier makes it almost sound like an invitation.
I rocket up to my feet; my new sword lagging a second behind.
It feels like I'm swinging a dense wooden chair around; it takes a second full of strain and effort to get it moving fast enough to cut anything tougher than jello.
Just a moment ago, a misbegotten kicked me to the dirt, all because I wasn't able to swing fast enough to intercept it. Melina burned it, before an unlikely ally hacked at the misbegotten's neck from behind, nearly lopping that dipropionate head off.
The misbegotten fell, I rose to a knee.
The soldier who helped me barked at me to hurry; I answered in kind. I'm up and running, as the encompassing symphony of a heated conflict sings in my ears
Holy hell.
Follow the two soldiers to your right, look out for that misbegotten above.
I veer right, heaving the banished knight's greatsword on my shoulder for balance. I move quickly, as mortal combat unfolds all around me.
Our glittering mob, composed of nearly two hundred armed men, came charging out of the keep with a unified war cry, smashing into the battle that raged within Morne's walls. To put it bluntly, we plunged headfirst into a hurricane of colliding castle guards and misbegotten.
Everywhere I look, I see blood shed.
Everywhere I glance, I see a life snuffed out in horrifying ways.
A footsoldier to my left is parted nearly in two by a large misbegotten wielding a massive axe.
Asoldier takes off the arm of a misbegotten warrior, before spearing it through the chest.
A soldier ahead of me takes a kick, eating the blow with his rectangular shield. I run past him, stealing a glance back.
He answers the attack, impaling a misbegotten three times near the upper torso and throat.
That pointed tip peeks out from the misbegotten at me, erupting like a needle through fabric, with torn muscle and oily grime leaking out.
Crossbow bolts zip by overhead, plunging into the airborne bodies of flying misbegotten archers. Those flapping miscreants fire their own arrows at any target they please; soldiers take cover behind shields and buildings and boxes.
Duck!
A fletched arrow deflects off my chainmail hood above my neck.
Up on the ramparts, across the causeways. Down on the dirt, in between the trebuchets. It's all muddled with flashing weaponry and animated bodies. A soldier chokes a misbegotten out, a misbegotten pins a crossbowman down with its cleaver. A footsoldier rushes to their aid, an intercepting misbegotten tackles him. The two fall out of sight as they crash through a stable's wood walls, startling the horses staying there.
A misbegotten corpse splats onto the ground near my feet, fallen from the ramparts above with a warhammer lodged in its chest.
One of the trebuchets fires off prematurely when its rope is cut, taking off a large misbegotten's head.
I nearly slip on blood; I need to watch my step so I don't step on a corpse. Limbs go flying, blades against blades ring out from every direction. I'd go crazy if I tried to take it all in.
And an unending river of runes draws to me from all angles.
I take a swing at a nearby attacking misbegotten with their back turned to me, heaving that sword and bringing it down like a hammer.
"Graaah!"
I didn't know what effect I was expecting to make. But chopping the misbegotten nearly in two wasn't one of them. It's a 30 pound blade, thick edges closer to an axe than a sword. It's not made to cleanly cut like a straight sword; it's made to divide the misbegotten's skull, crash into its spinal cord and deflect, obliterating ribs and exiting out beneath its right arm.
My sword carries on down, skidding against the packed dirt.
I nearly gag, but watching a quarter of a misbegotten corpse slough onto the ground isn't the worst thing I've seen today.
A thick cleaver clatters to the floor, and the parted corpse topples away, giving me a view of a terrified footsoldier on the ground on the other side, his arm up to shield himself.
Our eyes meet; he looks confused.
I just saved him; it doesn't even register.
I hear a chuff, notice the sound of approaching footsteps that stick out like a sore thumb. I tear my gaze away, gritting my teeth. A misbegotten warrior makes a beeline right for me, weaving through the chaos to snuff me out.
I'm in a bad position, I won't be able to get my sword up in time.
So, I point with my offhand, shouting clear in my mind.
Melina!
A golden shooting star zips past my ear, homing in on the approaching misbegotten like a shining suicide drone.
Kindling, accept this meager flame.
A flash of gold, overrun a millisecond later by a flash inferno. The misbegotten bursts into flames, gargling as it loses its footing. I close in, heave my blade, spin to gain momentum, and finish the crawling, burning, and wailing misbegotten off.
Blood sprays, splattering the left side of my face.
Runes come, joining in with the rest.
I don't think about it, I don't dwell on what I've done.
I heave my sword back up, and take off, charging through the clashing hordes, following a towering man wielding a blood-soaked halberd like a war-torn beacon in the approaching night.
Edgar moves like a hurricane, spinning that halberd about with one hand to position it, until he goes two-handed, cleaving a downed misbegotten archer in two. Without breaking stride, he backhands a warrior with his offhand, spears another with his halberd's tip, and kicks one so hard, it sends the misshapen creature tumbling away a good thirty feet, crashing into one of the trebuchets.
Dalia by his side matches his speed; she makes my footwork look like child's play. A long greatsword with a tapering edge twirls about her hunched form, moving so fast that it practically whistles through the air. Limbs and blood go everywhere, sparks fly as she effortlessly deflects incoming cleavers like she's swatting flies.
She spares a glance back, finding me amongst it all as her sword guts a warrior misbegotten.
"Little Tarnished!" She bellows, feminine voice echoing out from that tall helmet. "Keep pace with the warden!"
Little?
A soldier next to me slays a misbegotten that looked to end my life, showing a grim form of satisfaction on his face.
"You heard the lady." He teases in his deep voice. "Get moving!"
He gives me a shove, nearly losing his head when a misbegotten pounces a moment later, swinging that large cleaver at his throat. The soldier blocks but gets dropped by the force; his sword partially shatters from the blow. Another soldier beside him assists; the two part the misbegotten warrior into three pieces. That soldier laughs all the same; I can't even imagine how messed up in the head someone has to be to enjoy this.
Kindling accept this meager flame!
Heat washes over me; I jump back to my senses.
A misbegotten right in front of me drops with a disjointed scream, burning to death.
Stay vigilant. Please. Our enemy is all around us.
A lopped soldier's head rolls by, spilt blood stains my boots. A crude arrow zips past my face, a deafening blast rings out as a ballista obliterates one of the large misbegotten with an explosive bolt. Hundreds of fighters locked in combat all around Melina and I; what a terrible place to be spacing off.
My bad.
…
Blood leaking from my left eye, burning me as I slept by the breach. Melina, black flames, empyrean. The left side of my face feels warm, and it's not from the adrenaline.
"Tsk."
I force my thoughts away, picking up my pace. I'll deal with this later.
I have to go through two more misbegotten before I reach Edgar; our forces have been spread apart. I don't know much about medieval combat, but I can only guess numbers mean everything, even down to the man. Two on two could be an even match, same with five on five, or ten on ten. But as soon as one person needs to deal with two at once, or three or four…
Unless you're someone like Roard, Dalia, or Edgar, your chances of victory probably drop dramatically.
As it is, Morne's forces are outnumbered, and even as the number of fallen misbegotten rise, I'm beginning to see less and less Morne soldiers still standing.
It's like casting hot embers into the night. We may chase the darkness away, but we'll sputter out eventually. It's only a matter of time.
A loud snap sounds to my right; one of the trebuchets undergoes catastrophic failure. Ropes flay and tear, wood groans and splinters. The frame buckles, beam wrenching skyward as that counterweight crashes to the ground, flattening two misbegotten warriors and a inattentive footsoldier. The pivot point gives, and the beam becomes something of a colossal sword, swung down and cleaving into the surrounding crowd like a felling tree.
It's unlit ordinance slams dead onto the inner wall, making a noise I can't quite describe… It sounds like a massive marble statue getting struck by a concrete wrecking ball. It was unequivocally loud. Bits of disintegrated stone goes everywhere, dusting my hair a light grey.
I make it back by Edgar's side in the settling dust; he practically carves the path the main force takes.
We're more or less aiming for Morne's fallen front gate; I can only guess the reason why. These soldiers are doing their duty: protecting this castle. But they're also overextending themselves, getting separated and picked off, all to make sure I can get out.
Edgar is counting on me; these soldiers are putting their trust in me.
It's best I live up to it.
A soldier's voice bellows at my side, cutting off my train of thought.
"Dragon!"
…
My heart sinks into my chest.
"Dragon! Dragon!"
Edgar, Dalia, and I look skyward, along with nearly 30 others, catching a dark silhouette that whisks by overhead, bathed in the colors of the setting sun. The silhouette slams into the top walls of the keep, hooking onto the stone bricks with massive and wicked claws.
"Agheel!" I yell.
Why do I decide to say something?
Hell if I know, now's not the time.
I'm preoccupied with other things.
Agheel lands awkwardly, hissing as he steadies himself. Every movement he makes sends rubble falling away; he moves almost in slow motion due to his size.
How did he get in here? I guess the answer's simple. Without the trebuchets keeping him at a distance, Agheel can practically just saunter in.
Wings hooking on to the keep like he was a massive bat, serpentine head looking down on all of us like a house cat peering into an unguarded fish tank. His imposing size overwhelms the entire scene, that slithering hiss feels abrasive in my ears. His hiss grows into a guttural growl, flames puffing out from the gaps between the teeth that line his maw.
I know that sign.
"Breath attack!" I shout.
"Take cover!" Edgar bellows.
Dive left!
I hold my greatsword close, and I dive away, just as dragonfire engulfs everything I see.
FWOOOOOOOOSH.
I'm scalded by the ambient heat alone.
The roar of flames and the shrill nature of screams all around me are only drowned out by my own wail. It feels like I was dropped into a volcano.
Prince of death, stay your growing blade. Shadow of Markia, hide your sacred rune. Return the grace of gold to thee, under the light of the Erdtree.
Heal.
My partial air and eyelashes return, skin reverts back to its original color. I'm gasping for breath; there's little oxygen left in the air. Too close, far too close.
Thanks for the save.
The fire didn't directly touch me; I'd probably be mere ash if that was the case. I was able to take cover behind the destroyed trebuchet's base, which now burns to charcoal next to me. I may be alive, but everyone, either friend or foe that was around me... They aren't so lucky.
Fire is everywhere.
Ground and accompanying grasses reduced to black, metal parts of the trebuchets and swords exposed to the flames glow a dull orange. The air has an intensive mirage; I'm already sweating.
Agheel hit the front of the castle, as if he was specifically aiming for us; aiming for me.
The rest of the castle is still locked in combat; Agheel lets out a shrill roar.
Ballistae on the ramparts fire at the mythological monster, archers join in the volley.
The dragon hisses, shielding his head behind one of his feather-covered wings. Arrows and spear-sized bolts find purchase, small explosions ring out across Agheel's hide like detonating charges. The dragon returns fire, half of the ramparts are engulfed in silenced screams and vaporizing flames. Violent explosions from ignited explosives take away parts of the ramparts, fireballs eating up flailing souls and shaking the air.
Yet the remaining ballistae don't let up, and soon, Agheel takes off, whisking that partially severed tail about behind him. His wingbeats blast my face with hot wind, sending my lightly burnt hair flipping about on my head. He flies off with a parting shriek, escaping with multiple arrows and bolts sticking out of him.
Clashing blades, disgruntled cries, and serving flesh still rings in my ears, but my immediate area is devoid of combat.
I'm given a chance to breathe.
"Edgar!" I shout, looking about, keeping my sword at the ready. "Edgar, are you alive!?"
Surely he wouldn't be snuffed out so easily… right?
If he's dead…
Irina…
"Damn lizard."
"Go slow, sir."
"I'm fine."
Oh… thank God.
I spin, finding a familiar looking pair exit a burning house to my right. It's Edgar, and the knight Dalia, along with a few other survivors. They're alright, for the most part.
More soldiers pop out from random places of cover nearby, recollecting their thoughts and nerve.
Nearly half are still alive, the rest were either burned to death, or they lay bleeding out between here and the keep. Edgar himself is injured; the plate around his left shoulder looks heavily dented.
Dalia helps him out of the burning building; she looks unscathed herself.
She looks my way, seemingly put off by something.
She stares a moment longer than what's considered normal.
"What are you, fireproof?" She asks incredulously.
I shake my head.
"Don't think so, last I checked."
I don't think I would've died, but I definitely wouldn't be able to stand, let alone move unhindered.
As to how…
Edgar and I exchange a glance; I can see the pain in his eyes.
...
Melina, could you heal Edgar?
She hovers about by my head, never leaving my side.
I am sorry, but I will not. I can only use so many incantations in a day, and I will use them only for your benefit.
Keeping Edgar alive is beneficial.
Yet, I also will refrain from exposing our certain advantages. They can know I use fire, but they may not know that I can heal.
I will not argue on this.
Well… can't argue with that…
Dalia is still staring at me.
"Must be luck then."
She surmises, though it sounds like she doesn't believe her own words.
But she'll need to believe it for now.
If I tell her Melina healed me, then she would surely ask me to heal Edgar. I'd be stuck between a rock and a hard place. So, I shrug; it's not like I'm unlucky by any account either.
Edgar pushes away from Dalia, using his halberd for support.
"Thank you, Dalia. I assure you, I'll be fine."
He looks back my way, then scans the area around us. He spares a glance back toward the keep, where his men and misbegotten are still locked in combat. Anger builds up behind his stern eyes.
"Tarnished Lance, while it is by mere coincidence, the way is clear. Go on ahead."
He looks toward the knight at his side.
"Daila, take five able men with you, and accompany Lance. I will stay back and take care of things here."
Dalia watches him silently. I can't see her eyes, but I've gotten better at reading someone from their body language. She is deceptively secretive, but it's obvious in this case. She wants to stay, stay and fight here, alongside everyone else. But she gives what I can only guess is a salute and straightens her posture.
"Of course, milord."
I guess I get an escort.
Edgar nods, wielding his halberd one-handed.
"Good. The rest of you! With! ME!"
"Little Tarnished, where is Lady Irina?" Dalia asks.
I would get lost in this city easily; I'm not the best with having a sense of direction. It doesn't particularly help that I'm jacked up on adrenaline at the moment either; my head feels like it's swimming.
Melina, do you know the way?
Yes.
Thank God.
"Follow me." I answer.
Our group of eight leaves Morne, filing back out into the deteriorating city.
Unlike within Morne's walls, Godrick's soldiers are out here. While they won't outright attack us, especially when we have a knight in our company; they won't face us without a plan. The'll try something cleverer, and it's not the only problem. We'll need to tread lightly this time around; it's a whole different game when there's more than just Melina and I.
Five soldiers, one knight, a Tarnished with a big gleaming sword, and a glowing spirit leading the way; we're anything but inconspicuous.
Well, all things considered, these six temporary allies of mine are rather light on their feet. For being a bunch of seven-foot behemoths, I'd think just about anyone could spot us.
Yet we meet no resistance for a good five minutes.
Though, it doesn't last long after that.
Hide!
"Quick, hide!" I hiss.
These people don't respect me at all; I'd like to think that, so I don't have any expectations.
Yet they listen, and when two Godrick soldiers pass by ahead, they see nothing in that dark alleyway to their left.
We're up and moving as soon as they're gone, following Melina.
Why'd they listen to me?
…
Whatever.
I bet they just see me as an extension of Edgar; they're listening to me because Edgar told them so or something…
Yeah, that's probably it.
Two blocks down, I usher them to stop. They do, and a small group of idling misbegotten never notice the seven armed individuals that settle quietly just a corner turn away.
I peek out behind the building we hide behind; Melina joins me just beneath my chin.
An opening in the rows of houses, looks something like a small park. It's currently inhabited.
I see two of them.
Three. There is another in the nearby alleyway.
I eye up that alleyway; one would never guess a disfigured creature rested within its confines.
Is there another way around?
We would need to backtrack quite a ways. It would be best if we pressed through.
Alright.
My communication with Melina isn't instantaneous. To the soldiers; I've just been standing and staring quietly for about twelve seconds. They may not look it, but they're on edge. We're deep in conflicting territories, and any shadow could house an enemy waiting to pounce. Sure enough, one of the soldiers speaks up in a low voice, leaning his head out and away from the soldier in front of him.
"What's with the firefly?"
I look back his way, taking a quick glance at Melina.
"She's my spirit."
What a random question. What's more, why now?
He goes to say more, but Dalia turns her helmet to look directly at him. The only stronger indicator to "shut up" would be to outright say it; the soldier falls silent. Guess she found the question odd too. That, or she hates getting sidetracked. I kinda get that vibe from her.
"What's the situation?" She asks, directing her attention back at me.
"Three misbegotten up ahead."
"Is there a way around?"
I shake my head.
"We'd need to backtrack quite a ways. It'd be best if we take them out and press forward."
Dalia doesn't nod, doesn't ask questions or doubt me.
"Kal. Drew." She spits out two names.
Two soldiers, one with a straight sword, and one with a warhammer and shield, in the group perk up. The one with a warhammer hands his shield to another soldier, testing his weapon in his hands.
"Yes ma'am."
He, and the other with a straight sword, slip by me with a passing glance; I guess Dalia wants them to take care of this.
In the shadows of the buildings on each side, and under the dimming light of the coming dusk; straight sword leads the attack, spearing the closest misbegotten through the jugular. Before the creature can even comprehend why it sees a bloodied blade jutting out of its throat, the soldier jerks his blade clockwise, like a mechanic tightening a nut with a wrench.
The misbegotten's head is far too big for their thin throats; I couldn't help but see it as odd. It looked like they might accidentally snap their neck if they so much as turned to look at something wrong; and while they are unnaturally strong, muscle can only do so much.
The misbegotten's head completely twists off; its tongue stuck out as the light leaves its eyes, before the eyes roll into the back of its head. Runes come; the other soldier runs right by.
The second misbegotten could only turn around, before a large hammer comes crashing down from above onto its forehead. Its head buckles, arms spasming for a moment as a keen crack rings out. The soldier immediately strikes again, before spinning the hammer around with a flick of his wrist, embedding the spike end into the misbegotten's eye.
He kicks it away, blood leaking from its mouth.
The third one.
"The alleyway!" I shout, leaving my cover and drawing my greatsword.
Sure enough, that third misbegotten comes, leaping into the air with a quick flap of its small, misshapen wings.
It decides to attack warhammer.
Straight sword beats me to it; he shoulder checks the misbegotten from the side, knocking it out of the air. Warhammer falls upon the downed creature, its runes find me after three stomach churning cracks.
…
Ah.
I avert my gaze.
It's not a pretty sight, seeing what a hammer does to a skull.
I step over the corpse, following Melina.
"This way."
We press on, leaving the three corpses behind before any misbegotten or Limgrave soldier is the wiser.
I'm the one up front, yet Dalia stays uncomfortably close to me. It's like she expects me to bolt when I get the chance, which is understandable. For all she knows, I could be getting second thoughts. Her blade is drawn, so maybe that's a possibility. She just wants a reason to kill me…
So does she need to be so close?
"How much farther, Little Tarnished?" She asks.
Little? Again?
Tell our knight we have three more blocks.
"Three more blocks. Miss Irina and Kalé are holed out in a cellar." I dash away my lingering doubts. "If nothing's happened, then they're waiting for me there."
Dalia hums.
"And? Do you intend to bring her back to Castle Morne?"
Two more blocks. I shake my head.
"No. Edgar asked that I take her somewhere away from Bellard."
We wait a moment before crossing the street.
One more block.
"I'm not sure where, but-"
"That won't be necessary, Little Tarnished."
She cuts me off.
I can see Kalé's house now, but I turn on the knight.
"What? But Edgar said-"
"Edgar, instructed me to return his daughter to him. Surely he told you?"
She cut me off again
…
This is the first time I'm hearing of it.
"He didn't say anything like that."
This knight… she's rather excited to get to the point. No small talk, or personalized dialect. Just saying what needs to be said, rarely deviating. She's the same height as Roard was, but their personalities are completely different.
Basically, she's hard to talk to.
"Then I shall inform you on his behalf: We are to return Lady Irina to Castle Morne. That is our objective here."
I wish I could see her eyes, know if she's lying or not. Why would Edgar send her daughter away, just to want her to come back? It makes no sense.
"I-… You're-…" I trail off.
Then again, what am I supposed to do? I saw this lady kill three misbegotten in a single, fluid attack, cleaving through them like they were made of wet cardboard. I can call her a liar, then what? She could threaten me into agreeing with her, and I couldn't do jack to oppose it. And if I try and run with Irina, she would easily be able to stop me.
The last time I took on a knight; it didn't bode so well for me.
It took everything Melina and I had, and we were even fighting an injured man at the end of the day.
Lance, we need to hurry. Misbegotten have picked up our scent.
I jump.
Wait. They can do that!?
I turn on Dalia.
"Look, we can talk about this later, okay? Come on."
I turn and run, the five soldiers following me not a moment behind. Dalia stands there for a moment, only a moment, watching me like a hawk as I go.
She exudes a strange form of hostility, one that makes her clench her sword's handle tight.
She…
…
…
…Did she just giggle?
"This is the place."
The sun had set halfway through our jaunt through the city; it's almost completely night now. Amongst the sounds of calming combat, I can faintly hear crickets chirping.
I, and six others, stand over a large set of reinforced wooden doors, which have been dug out and installed into the ground itself. There's no sign of a struggle or conflict of any sort, so the chances look high that my friends are still down there.
I lean down amongst the idle soldiers, reaching for one of the door's handles.
A big hand practically slams into my chest, partially knocking the wind out of me.
"What, are you crazy?"
The soldier with the warhammer whispers, giving me a dumbfounded and irritated expression.
"You tryina give miss Irina a heart attack?"
What? I was just gonna open it.
But warhammer doesn't seem to really care.
He muscles his way in front of me, leans down, and knocks. He follows a familiar pattern, the same one I used at Morne's shrouded entrance.
After he finishes, he waits; we all do.
I can barely make out the cellar doors in the encroaching dark, let alone make out anyone else around me. Distant fires give some lighting, but it's negligible at best. Where's the moon when you need it? At night, the sounds of battle in the city naturally died down, though some still persist.
What has replaced it though, amongst the chirping crickets and crackling fires, are the chuffing cries of misbegotten, which sounds like they're trying to imitate wolves, howling at the star studded black sky.
It's harrowing.
The warhammer soldier does the knock again, and a voice answers after a pause.
"Go away, there's no refugees here."
It's muffled, but I recognize that smoker voice.
Dalia and two of the soldier give me a look I can't make out in the dark, though I get the message. "Who the hell is this guy?" Is what they want to say. I clear my throat, slipping by the warhammer soldier.
"Oi Kalé, it's me. Open up."
Kalé goes silent for a moment, before I can faintly hear a relieved chuckle.
"Ah, misbegotten can mimic a child's voice now? What has this world come to?"
… I feel a vein bulge above my eyebrow.
Without thinking, I stomp on the cellar door with an abrupt thump. We hear, what I can only describe as, a merchant shouting in surprise, before falling down a short flight of stairs. When the cellar door opens, I see a familiar face peeking out, clutching his forehead gingerly.
"Ah, Lance! I'm glad you made it back." He eyes the knight and soldiers with me. "And you brought guests too… Excellent."
We file in, with Kalé closing up and locking the cellar doors behind us.
I feel a shiver travel down my back, remembering old things again. But it's short lived, and the small spike of panic settles before I show anything on my face.
I get a sight of this room again, with its table and stocked shelves; it's large map and accompanying instruments. The lantern's still lit, though it seems the candle inside has nearly melted away completely. Beside it, scribbling down onto sheets of paper, is a blind young girl, concentrated on her work. It looks like she's writing poetry, or something similar. Short stanzas, stacked atop one another with similar lengths in the lines. If it's not poetry, then maybe it's just a form of practice?
Whatever the case, Irina sets down her fountain pen, perking her head up at our footsteps.
"Sir Tarnished, is that you?"
I sigh.
It just dawned at me that I failed, in a way. Irina wanted me to get her father out of the castle. But because of an unexpected visitor, and a sudden invasion; I got a little sidetracked. That doesn't even cover the biggest problem: Edgar isn't going anywhere.
"Yeah, it's me."
Something of a smile spreads across her face.
"Then, father?"
She turns her head in the direction of the other footsteps she hears, maybe hoping she can discern one out amongst them as her dad. It's as if she would somehow recognize him from his gait alone; her smile diminishes as she hears the unique rhythms of each soldier.
Finally, Dalia takes center, dropping to a knee in front of us all. Her tall helmet slightly bends as she lightly bows, giving the young lady a portion of respect.
"My apologies, Lady Irina. Your father was unable to come today."
Irina dips her head a little, sinking back into her chair.
"Oh, Mistress Dalia. I'm glad to hear you're well."
Dalia deepens her bow.
"As do I, Lady Irina."
Irina falls silent for a moment, before she takes a deep breath, seemingly regaining her composure. She's a rather well-mannered girl, though I guess that's only natural given her status.
"And? Who else has come to visit me this evening?"
The soldiers all gave their names, giving coordinal bows as they did so.
I learned the warhammer soldier was Drew. Which means the one with the straight sword is Kal. Alongside them, Wallace, Ivan, and Faxin make up our company.
…
I think that's how I would spell Faxin. It sounds like "Fauzin", but that name looks weird, so I'll stick with Faxin.
Besides the last soldier, they've got relatively normal names.
Irina seems to know them too; her timid smile returned with each name. I soon told Irina, with Kalé in attendance, of the situation at Castle Morne, leaving out the part about everyone almost getting vaporized by Agheel. Irina already looked worried enough when that part came around, so I glossed over it. I was getting to the part with Edgar's favor, when Dalia interjected.
She said we were to return Irina to Castle Morne at once.
Irina looked confused, and she was justified to be so. Kalé either got something from my face, as he always does, or he felt the change of atmosphere. Whatever it was, he suddenly stands up, giving Dalia an incredulous look behind that cloth face mask of his.
"What. You mean leave right now? Are you nuts?"
Dalia turns her helmet directly at Kalé, never having left her kneeled position since the conversation started.
"Is there something the matter? Merchant Kalé."
Kalé crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair.
"Aye, there's something very wrong. Why in blazes would you go outside now?"
Before Dalia can retort, Kalé continues.
"Sun's down little miss knight, and last I checked, the smoke hanging over this fair city is blocking out the moon."
"Your point?"
"Misbegotten can see in the dark, and I'm certain you can't."
He gestures toward the cellar doors behind us.
"Going out now is a fool's errand; you'll get jumped and you won't even see it coming."
Dalia looks my way…
Why's she looking at me? What am I gonna do?
"That won't be an issue." She says. "It seems we have a guide that's exceptional at detecting threats."
Oh…
Crap.
Dalia turns to look at Irina, as if she's choosing to ignore Kalé's rebuttal.
"I assure you, Lady Irina, we will not let any harm befall you."
Lance. Do something.
It seems Melina's on the same page too.
"Sorry, but I can't see well in the dark."
I say quickly, crossing my arms. I've been leaning against a wall this whole time; it just feels comfortable.
"There's no way you can rely on me out there right now."
Did that sound weird? I made it up on the fly. Melina would be able to see any threat from a mile away.
Getting back wouldn't be an issue.
Yet, I'd like to talk to Irina in person, if I can. She knows her father better than anyone else, and Dalia seems to respect her. If I can tell her what I heard from Edgar, maybe I can get an insight. Maybe I can get her to convince Dalia otherwise?
That won't work if we leave for Morne now, and if Dalia's lying, then I couldn't bare to see Edgar's face, after he trusted his beloved daughter in my company.
Dalia stares right at me; I swear I see her eyes for a split second in that darkness of her visor.
...
She wears an emotion I've never seen before…
... Huh?
I can't describe it, can't relate it to anything else.
…It's off-putting.
"Very well." She says, rising to her towering height. "We shall stay here tonight. Will that be alright with you? Lady Irina?"
Irina still looks confused, but she lightly nods.
"Yes, that will be alright."
There's no bedding arrangements.
Kalé and I snuck up into his house to grab anything that could be considered a pillow; I filled him in while we were alone.
"That knight's up to something, that's for sure." He remarked, snatching three pillows from his own bed.
"Know anything about her?" I asked, searching his closet for anything thicker than a shirt.
"Not much. She's Edgar's right hand, one of the two knights stationed at Castle Morne."
I can only imagine the other knight is the one I saw commanding the trebuchets. I wonder where he is now?
"Other than that, word on the street is she's a little messed up in the head."
"How so?"
"Got a knack for staring, and she'll kill anyone who gets on her nerves without remorse. Watch your words around her."
When we returned, I found myself naturally staying away from Dalia.
She propped her greatsword up against a wall, but it doesn't mean she can't just kill me with her own bare hands. Knowing how much I've opposed her today; I'm lying if I said I'm not at all nervous.
So, imagine the sinking sensation I felt when she plopped herself down right next to me after I sit down.
I pretend not to notice, slipping my greatsword and partisan off my back, removing my chainmail. I go through my normal nighttime procedure I built up in my time travelling with Kalé, ignoring the nearly eight-foot tall warrior sitting next to me.
She looks like she's waiting for me to say something, but I choose to ignore her.
Now's not the time for loud conversations.
The atmosphere is beginning to settle.
The other soldiers have begun to wind down, Kalé's made himself comfortable on the table. This room is small enough that Melina can go anywhere she pleases; she's currently wandering around, seemingly studying everything she finds on the shelves. Irina has been given the best bedding, and she's already fallen asleep. After how chaotic today has been, I'd rather not stir up things again.
…
This has probably been the most eventful day in my life. Yeah, it totally has.
Scratch my days here in Elden Ring, I can't think of any other point where so much has happened in so little time ever in my life before. From how things are going, from how much I'm learning; I have a feeling my days are only going to get more eventful from here on out.
Well, guess I'll need to get used to it.
I don't know what to do and I'm trying not to make eye contact with Dalia, so I unsheathe my new greatsword propped up against the wall next to me, admiring its shine and testing its weight. I use a scrap of bundled bandages, giving my best effort to wipe the blood off its cavernous sides, picking at where the dried flakes have collected around the intricate designs near its base.
…
It is truly a big sword, yet it has a strange form of balance to it; I can't quite explain the feeling. It's like it wanted to keep moving, wanted to spin about once its momentum picked up. Its balance is something else. It is a strange feeling, especially considering its weight. I've never used such a heavy sword, and it's really long too. It'll take some getting used to, and I feel sluggish using it, but I honestly like it; I hope I get to keep it.
My arms are sore now, and I feel I might've pulled something. But its reach, and its stopping power; they're exceptional.
I only wish it was a little lighter.
Maybe I'm just wishing I'm a little stronger. Guess I'll have to see if I can increase that next time Melina and I are at a breach. I got a lot of runes today, so I'm sure I can do it if I get the chance.
Whether she became impatient or she thought of something, Dalia speaks up, making me nearly lose my grip on my sword.
"I know what you're trying to do here, Little Tarnished."
I tense up.
Dalia removes her steel colored helmet, popping that frogmouth helm off with a light whooshing noise…
Why?
Why has everyone in this world I've met so far look like a supermodel?
Melina and Irina, or Roard and Edgar if you swing that way. Even that talking doll Ranni or the half-wolf Blaidd, if you're really messed up in the head. I'm excluding Patches or Boc, but they're a different matter.
What I'm getting at is: anyone not grey and wrinkly is cream-of-the-crop in terms of looks, and Dalia is no exception.
She gives off that young but mature woman with a sharp eyes look, accented by blue eyes and dirty blond hair she keeps tied in a simplistic braided ponytail. With her monotone words, she sets her helmet down by her side, before turning to look directly at me…
That emotion. What is it?
Seriously?
What kind of emotion is that?
Nobody has ever looked my way with a look like that in their eyes… Never in my life.
Is it anger?
It looks like anger.
Yet I've seen plenty of eyes filled to the brim with that emotion before when looking at me.
It's not the same.
It's different somehow.
There's anger, and it's mixed with... possessiveness?
The heck is that supposed to mean? Possessive and angry?
Does she have a personal vendetta against me?
Does she want revenge?
She holding a grudge against Tarnished?
Whatever it is, the mystery emotion grows in intensity when we lock eyes, and that nulling form hostility begins to leak off of her again.
I advert my gaze.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I shuffle away, she thankfully stays where she is. I think for a moment that she's reaching for her greatsword; I see something like that in the corner of my vision. But I'm sure my mind's playing tricks on me.
If she wants to kill me, she wouldn't do it where Irina could hear.
She'll bide her time; I'll need to watch my back.
When she does nothing but stare, I retreat.
"Well, I'm going to bed."
I lie down, turning away from the knight…
I never noticed the unnatural smile that cracked across her monotone face, and the armored hand she raised, to lightly rest against her contorted cheek.
I just made an enemy.
Are you awake?
I don't bother to stir.
It's quiet as death in this cellar room; someone could never guess that we've crammed nine people within its confines.
It's not like it's that small of a room, but due to the shelves and the table; we're all packed so close together that I would be brushing up against people if I reach out to either side of me.
Yeah. I'm awake.
Everyone else seems to have passed out, even Dalia, who rests while sitting up, never bothering to remove the rest of her armor.
I was just starting to drift off; today's events had recently began to settle in my head. But I'm already sure what we're about to talk about; I knew this was coming.
What's up?
…Who is the queen of Black Flames?
Ah, the elephant in the room, right off the bat.
Well, who do you think she is?
Is she you?
I… do not know.
...
Do you think I am her?
I'm not certain.
I open one eye, staring at the dark ceiling above. No sign of that golden light.
Our unexpected visitor talked a lot about her, that's for sure.
Ranni.
…Yes. Ranni.
That talking doll made certain I understood we were talking about Melina.
But should I believe her?
If I do believe her, then things would make sense. But Ranni made Melina sound like a monster; an unstoppable, deranged, and unstable warmonger that threw everything into chaos long ago.
Melina isn't like that at all.
She's aloof, rarely says more than what needs to be said. One could even call her shy. She doesn't share much about herself unless I ask, and she is more robotic in her speech than most anyone else I've met.
But she's kind; she looks out for me. She helps me even when she has her own grievances, and she refuses to abandon me even when I strained our relationship to the breaking point.
Even if she really is this Gloam Eyed Queen, I'll only ever see her as Melina: The soft-spoken maiden that has supported me through thick and thin on my travels thus far.
Ranni is weird. She made it sound like we were talking about you, but she never directly said it.
She told her story, and told me not to trust Melina. But from my viewpoint, she was talking about two separate people.
Even If the Queen of Black Flames of the past was Melina, she's far different now.
Her memories are gone; she's just like me.
I'm holding some great secret too, if I really did put this spell on myself. Maybe I'm an evil person, maybe I actually came to these lands long ago and stirred up some chaos, before I put a spell on my own memories and retreated to that stranded graveyard, retreated to where I awoke.
Ranni didn't seem to recognize me, but there's always a chance.
There's a chance I'm dangerous too.
Yet I have no title.
I'm just known as a Tarnished by most, known as Lance by a select few. Gloam Eyed Queen and Queen of Black Flames are titles; they're names that were given to invoke something in someone, anyone, who knows what the name means. I've had so many different names and new terms thrown at me since coming to this world, yet they meant nothing to me at first. I only knew the weight those names held, once I learned about what lies behind the name.
Gloam Eyed Queen is apparently a name that can be associated with who was considered a terrorist; a threat to everything in ages past. Some would fear the name, others would worship it. They could imagine the bearer of such a name is so many different ways, imagine what they would look like. Ranni says that the young maiden by my side is the bearer of that name.
So, do I go and slap the name Gloam Eyed Queen on Melina? Brand her as a murderer? Warmonger? Demon in human skin? Do I see her as a person that invokes those?
Do I find that title suiting of her? The girl that watches over me almost as a parent would?
I have a Rune of Death in me; maybe I was a terrible person too, before I forgot it all. Maybe I had a title that instilled fear into any and all that heard it; had a name that anyone would associate with a demon incarnate.
But I'm just a kid.
Who am I to judge?
At least, that's how I sorted it out in my mind.
I'm not sure what you heard in my head, but you don't need to worry about it.
Even if she was telling the truth, I don't care if you had some messed up past.
The person I know is you.
So, you do believe her?
…I never said that. She could be manipulating me, for all I know.
I don't trust her.
Then, why have you kept the ring she gave you?
I go silent.
The ring is stashed in my satchel; I could fish it out if I reach over.
I…
…Your memories then?
I remembered Torrent; I remembered the ring.
Yeah.
And that is enough for you to keep it? For you to trust her?
You make it sound bad when you put it that way.
Lance, I am sorry; but you are far too trusting.
...
You do not know me. I do not even know myself.
If I am what Ranni says, then I am a danger to you.
I don't care.
You should.
Well, I don't.
I feel like I'm tensing up, the thought of dozing off seems far away now.
Do you not find it strange? Why do you not question why I say I have no memories?
I have no memories of this place either.
You and I both know I'm hiding something from you.
From me.
…
Are you hiding things from me too?
How would you know? How can you be sure?
It pains me to know that if I said I am not hiding anything, you would believe me.
Would I? I have so far. Why does that need to change? Because some lady told me so?
I try, I really do.
I try to be honest; I try to say I am your ally. I
try to be understanding, yet if I wanted to, I could burn you.
Right here.
Right now.
I can feel her presence nearby, barely hear that faint twinkling noise her rune makes as she draws closer to me.
It feels like she's standing over me, looming above my lying figure with her hand pointed at my head.
She could burn me; I've seen her do it to others many times before. In a way, she did burn me before, when shed tears scored half my face black.
She could easily kill me, as her hand reaches down, ready to clasp tightly on my throat and utter that five-word incantation of her's.
I could kill you. I can.
But I know she wouldn't do that.
…This has been eating away at you, hasn't it?
Her silence is my answer.
How long? Since she saw her father? Her mother? Since her closed eye bled, and her calm demeanor cracked? How long has she been dwelling on it? Realizing that her past may have been different from what she thought?
She must wonder who she is, must fear what she may be. She must feel alienated; I can somewhat understand the feeling.
At a time like this, I can't be anything but sincere. It's what she needs.
Even if you are her, if you are the Queen of Black Flames, my opinion of you won't change.
…You are far too gullible.
You do not know what I am.
Maybe. Maybe you are what Ranni said.
It still won't matter.
You said you won't give up on me, so I'm sure as hell itself not gonna give up on you, alright?
Fighting and running about today; it gave me a chance to clear my head. Gave me the opportinuty to settle my thoughts, let me know how I feel about our situation. I don't need to know everything about Melina to trust her.
That's not how trust works for me.
Trust, in my case, in this world, is putting my life in someone else's hands, not ever knowing for certainty if they'll betray me. Digging for every answer, destroying a relationship so you know for sure they can't and won't hurt you; that isn't trust.
I may be gullible, but I choose to trust you.
I don't need to know everything.
So, choose to put some trust in yourself, alright?
You are the most I could ever ask for, and I don't need anything else.
You're my partner, and that'll never change.
Those memories I saw, of Melina crying in pain at my feet, of her burning a city down to ash as I swoop in the defeat her; they were probably made up by Ranni. And even if they weren't, if they were somehow a glimpse of the past, the future. Somehow a glimpse of some unimaginable fate, then I'll make sure they never happen.
If that means swallowing up the questions I have now, so be it.
If that means throwing myself into the jaws of hell to bring Melina back in that unknown future; so be it. I can't be selfish forever.
You promise?
I promise.
…
Huh.
Me? Giving the pep-talk to someone for once?
Never thought the day would come.
Well, we got a busy day tomorrow, so I'll be dozing off for now, ok?
…
…
…
Very well.
Sleep soon finds me, and my consciousness slips away, as a young maiden contemplates quietly to herself, alone in the dark; wondering just what should be done about her, and the boy who decided he'd trust her even if she burned the world down to ashes.
Blaidd hops from rooftop to rooftop, effortlessly clearing the gaps between buildings as if they were small cracks on the road.
His boots slam into landing after landing, before they feel nothing but air. He moves like something of a springhare, traveling across Bellard's inner city from a high vantage point.
He can smell Darriwil's scent freshly lingering in the air, though the alluring odors of sweat and death muddle it.
All around him, even this late in the evening, battles rage in the streets. While the fighting has become more concentrated than an all-out brawl, Castle Morne still struggles to retake its city.
Though, that is their reality; this is how wars without Destined Death are conducted.
Morne can continue to fight for years, recycling it's 4,000 troops over and over, never taking any ground. Unless one side overwhelms the other and disposes of all of the corpses, both sides will continue to revive and die, becoming more and more desperate until Bellard is reduced to nothing but rubble and wandering putrid corpses.
At this rate, that will be Bellard's fate.
The city will destroy itself, its residents having died and revived so many times that they'll become nothing more than decayed figures of their former selves. Such is the curse of these lands; such is that curse that has taken so many other civilizations and armies before.
Such is Marika's twisted sense of humor. Of honor.
It's harrowing to see what's become of this city. It really is. It took him aback when he first saw the state of things, but it's of no concern to him. He's this far south for only one reason; he doesn't have time to play the hero.
He merely needs to eliminate Darriwil, and then he can return to his Mistress's side.
That's his mission, as bestowed to him by Mistress Ranni.
He has seen civilizations fall before, Bellard will be no different.
…
Kalé and the Tarnished boy Lance would have arrived here three days ago.
Despite himself, he has a fleeting thought.
Are they alright?
Seeing the state of things here, they might've fled somewhere else. But knowing Kalé and going off of Blaidd's initial impression of Lance; there's a chance they're still here.
Well, if he runs into them, that's that. He'll say hello, might just recruit Lance if he's still up for it. Who knows.
Whatever the case, Blaidd makes a beeline for Castle Morne as night falls, only duly taking notice that the front gate is already wide open. It doesn't matter if the castle's been overrun, he'll head there regardless.
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