The Prawn Cook
For how frequent lightning strikes were here, the Altus Plateau saw little rain. Far less than Liurnia. Perhaps that dry spell was the reason for how shallow the moat was, the one in which Big Boggart camped. The water barely came up to his calf in all but the deepest spots. The walls of the city towered over him, a far greater defensive presence than the pitiful ring of water. It could still repel any would-be intruder. Not that Boggart had plans to enter the city.
No, he was here for the only task for which he had any affection. Boiling prawn. His pot was currently stuffed with them, the water only beginning to bubble. The prawn here were smaller than their counterparts in the south, but they had a delightfully rich flavor. It was as if the electricity in the air found its way into their flesh. Boggart did not miss his fights with the larger crayfish and crabs. Their meat was delicious, but the effort was exhausting. He still preferred a meal that did not come with the possibility of being on the menu himself.
Boggart finished boiling the prawn. He added a dash of seasoning and ate his share. He sold some to a merchant that made camp within the outer ring of Leyndell and stowed the rest for tomorrow. There was no telling how long he would be outside the capital.
He could not entirely explain why he had traveled to Leyndell in the first place. His shack in Liurnia was bare bones, but it had served him adequately. The guidance of grace no longer met his eyes, that golden tether lost forever. It had faded almost as soon as he set foot in the Lands Between. Boggart held no pretensions of any heroic deeds within the city. That was for fools and better men than he, more of the former than the latter.
Boggart supposed that it had been boredom and opportunity. He grew restless, his routine in Liurnia chafing rather than comforting. The soldiers' numbers had thinned. They were on the move, forced into border conflicts in the south. The route through the old mine shafts was abandoned, its former inhabitants slain or forced out. Boggart suspected he knew who had been through the area first. The plateau was more hazardous, but he slunk his way past the first ring of defenses and found the moat, where he lingered. This outer ring was choked with bodies and wrecked siege weapons, the scars of countless sieges. Old, withered men picked over the ruins still and ancient golems guarded the walls, ignorant of their crumbling limbs.
From this distance, the glow of the Erdtree was dazzling. Your eyes would adjust eventually, but on a first glance it was painful. Boggart marveled that a man like him could come so close to such a site of grace. Had the former citizens of Leyndell felt the same, waking each day in awe of the miracle they toiled under? Or had it grown mundane, a fixture in their lives taken for granted? Every so often he could hear the faint sound of trumpets drift over the wall. He wondered what souls still roamed the streets of the golden city.
The light dipped below the horizon and dusk swallowed the land. Boggart dimmed his fire. He knew at least one person in that city. The Tarnished. The same one that bought that necklace for the foolish girl. Boggart had expected him to return and attack him, angry at how he had been conned out of his runes. Instead, the Tarnished bought prawn and spent an afternoon in lazy conversation with him. The man had made a habit of returning every week or so. At least until the last few weeks.
Boggart was never one to care much for the company of others, even before his spell in prison. He could enjoy a visitor every now and again, but companionship wasn't something he lacked. Even so, something nagged at him. Was it the fear and hate in that girl's eyes when he stole her necklace? He had been asking himself why he did that, something he hadn't done with his casual banditry in the past. Was it old habits? Boredom? Boggart was so used to playing the role of the brute that the possibility of not exercising it scared him. The Tarnished didn't seem to view him in such a light. There was no making it up to the girl though. And the string of victims before her.
The Tarnished and Boggart met once more in the moat. The Tarnished looked surprised to see Boggart so far north. He was used to people underestimating him. They saw the iron mask he wore and heard his rough tongue, the callous way that words rolled off of it. They could not imagine much for Boggart. A former prisoner and a thug was all that most took away. He didn't mind. It was a shield as much as anything. To appear simple was to appear nonthreatening to those with real plans. Boggart initially believed the Tarnished was like him. But then he realized that the man had a real goal. The greatest goal one of their kind could aspire to. The Elden Ring. Judging by the fact that he was at Leyndell, Boggart supposed the Tarnished was closer than anyone else.
They sat around this same fire four days ago. The weird horse that he rode trotted playfully through the water, while a small creature that introduced himself as the Tarnished's seamster hid behind a tree. They didn't talk much, neither of them were prone to long speeches. But Boggart detected a weariness in his companion. There was a slump in his shoulder, a slow gait in his walk. He was a man nearing the end of his journey and feeling the weight of every step.
Boggart shivered thinking about the warning he issued. He heard talk from a merchant on the plateau that a most vile prisoner was held in the depths of the sewers. One so blighted with curse it would drive anyone mad. There was only one person that fit that description. The Dung Eater. That name conjured the feeling of sweat clinging to his brow and the echo of screams pounding his ear drums. The kind of fear that clamped tight like a chain and refused to ease its hold. Boggart could still see his friend dying in that dingy prison cell, his own back pressed to the wall, screaming for any way out. If that monster was in Leyndell, no one was safe. Not even the Tarnished. He did his best to banish the thought. Sleep came easily, even if his dreams were rarely so cooperative.
The shrieks cut through the malaise of his sleep. He rolled from his resting spot and braced against a nearby trunk. The cries grew in pitch before ceasing abruptly. Boggart could not bring himself to look beyond his hiding spot. He listened to an unpleasant ripping noise, the sound of flesh rending. He heard a thin chuckle and the faint noise of footsteps through water. Gripping the edge of the trunk, he leaned out. A shadow made for the walls. It found a crack in the seam, partially obscured by overgrown foliage. The shadow crouched and vanished into it.
Boggart hid for nearly an hour before emerging. He moved towards the source of the screams and stopped with a jolt. There was a pile of bodies, including the merchant. They were arranged in a ghastly fashion. Defiled. He turned to the crack in the wall. The Dung Eater was free. He raced back to his camp and packed feverishly. Every fiber told him to flee south to flee so far the Lands Between were nothing more than a bad dream. He paused when he grabbed his iron ball, that hunk of metal he used to pound his foes. His friends face floated before Boggart, his last agonized expression painted on his eyes.
Before he knew what he was doing, Boggart had arrived at the seam in the wall. He pulled back the shrubbery. The crack went deep, but it was angled downwards. Water trickled down its rough slopes. He took a gulp of fresh air and began to descend. It was dark, but Boggart's eyes were used to it. His old prison had no reservations about casting them into the pitch black and leaving them to grope and pray in the void.
The path went on for a long way. He could not keep a solid sense of direction, but Boggart understood that the way was not into the city, but below it rather. He had heard of the labyrinthine sewers that lay beneath Leyndell. He arrived at a passage covered haphazardly with a plank of wood. He pushed it aside and entered. The smell choked his nostrils, the stench of rot and waste and other stranger smells.
Boggart dropped from a platform into the sewers. Spacious chambers of worn stone stretched out before him. Water dripped constantly and he could hear warbled sounds from around every corner. It would be too easy to get lost in a place like this. He pulled out his knife and etched a small sigil in the wall nearby. The prisoners used to employ these to communicate without the guards knowing.
Boggart methodically worked his way through the sewers, marking his path at major junctures. He fended off imps that hid in the shadows and lunged at the first sign of movement. He had no real way of knowing, but he could feel the Dung Eater's presence down here. There was that same disturbance in the air, the noxious tint to the smell that went beyond the sewer's usual accommodations. By the time he escaped his last imprisonment, the whole gaol had been ripe with it.
He rounded a corner and nearly had his head pulped by a hearty swing of a gnarled club. Boggart rolled into the open of the passageway and faced his opponent. It was a hulking creature, horns curling out from its visage as heavy breaths flared from its nostrils. An Omen. A guttural roar from his rear told Boggart there were more of them.
The first interloper reared back for another swing, as the thunder of footfalls behind him signaled a simultaneous attack. Boggart ran towards the first, before flattening himself to the ground and scrambling to the side. The two Omens collided with one another, a tangle of limbs and bestial curses. Before they had a chance to right themselves, Boggart was up and sprinting through the maze. He ran till his lungs burned and found a corner to hide in. The growls and grunts grew faint.
As silence returned, the distant sound of a metal door slamming startled him. Boggart waited till he was sure of his safety and then headed in the direction of that noise. More defiled corpses marked the path, of people and Omens and others. The air was dank and heavy.
Boggart's legs took on that stiff quality, as they rebelled against his intentions. Every movement was a test of willpower. Against his control his teeth began to chatter violently. He felt the weight of his iron ball, thought of it smashing the Dung Eater's skull and used that to move forth. Step by step into the darkness.
As he climbed a ladder, he heard a raspy laugh and the sound of swords clashing. Boggart hesitated near the top. They clanged once, twice, then the third time was followed by the sound of someone falling and the laughter rising in volume.
"Thought you could kill me? I am Dung Eater. A scourge upon the living. All you have accomplished is your own defilement."
Boggart's blood ran cold. His knuckles were white against the rungs of the ladder. It took all he had to lean forward to see who the Dung Eater's victim was.
The figure sprawled on the ground was the Tarnished, slowly trying to crawl backwards. His sword was flung across the room. He was in terrible shape, his helm dented, blood oozing from a half dozen slashes and knives and crossbow bolts lining his shoulders. The murky pools of water on the sewer floor were mixed with his crimson trail. Even without the Dung Eater, there was a good chance he was fatally wounded.
"If only you arrived in better shape, it might have been a real challenge. I've had a sore lack of those lately," the Dung Eater said, looming over his prey.
Boggart climbed to the top. The Dung Eater slowed and turned. He wore a rounded armor adorned with hornlike protrusions. A sun medallion dangled off his chest. Boggart could see one of his foul eyes leering through a crack in the helm.
"What's this? A fine day this is turning into. More to defile."
Boggart did not reply, could not even if he desired it. He adopted a fighting stance. The Dung Eater hefted his sawtooth blade and started forward.
The first few strikes from his foe were exploratory. They tested his patience, felt out the space of their arena, a boxy chamber with only one real exit. Boggart tried to get in closer, but was met with wild swings that forced his distance.
Boggart found his opening and rushed in. He smashed his iron ball against Dung Eater's side. The fiend grunted and staggered. Dung Eater countered with a backhanded smack of his fist that boxed Boggart's helm. He stepped back and was nearly caught by the sword. They returned to their previous distance, circling one another.
He was at a real disadvantage from too far away. Only up close did he have a chance. The Dung Eater bellowed and lunged forward with an overhead slash. Boggart leapt to the side. He put all his weight into a punch that clipped Dung Eater's brow. The helm let out a ringing cry. Dung Eater kicked out and caught Boggart in the thigh before delivering another slash. Boggart was forced to block this one with his gauntlets. He grit his teeth as the jagged edge found purchase through his armor. Blood dripped down his arm as the Dung Eater pressed forwards, backing him to a wall. He was pinned.
"You and me we go back don't we?"
Boggart struggled to break free, but the man was heavier than him. His arm was shaking as he tried to hold back the blade, his other limb caught at an awkward angle.
"I got your mate last time we met. Only fitting I get you too." The eye bored into Boggart's own, gushing with malice.
He looked over at the Tarnished who was still slowly crawling to something. Boggart realized he wasn't going to his sword. He was making for a small vial of blue liquid, stained by muck. He was nearly there, but not in any time to help Boggart.
Boggart lifted his leg to brace on the slick wall and kicked out with as much force as he could muster. He rammed his head forwards, his helm slamming into the Dung Eater's head. The man yelped and released his pressure. Boggart fell forwards. He got up hastily and ran towards the phial. He kicked it towards the Tarnished as a followup swing from the Dung Eater grazed his thigh. He cried out in pain.
Boggart staggered towards the Dung Eater and hammered him with strikes from his iron ball. It was almost unbearable to put weight on his leg, but to go on the defensive again was a death sentence. His blows rang out again and again. Golden light swirled in the background, but Boggart was too focused on the Dung Eater. He launched an uppercut that sent the fiend lurching backwards. Boggart tackled him. They rolled in the nasty water. He got on top and continued his assault, smashing his helmet. That eye was still locked onto Boggart. The Dung Eater was laughing.
Boggart felt something sharp at his side and flicked his eyes down to the knife buried in his ribcage. Before he could do anything, the Dung Eater punched him in the jaw. Blood flooded his mouth. He fell onto his back.
"What a performance."
The Dung Eater was on top of him, knees on Boggart's arms, not that he had the strength or the sense to use them anymore. The fiend's helmet was cracked open, his warped face leaking through the cracks.
"I admit I forget most of those I defile. But you? You I'll remember."
Boggart cursed him softly, which only led to another burst of broken laughter. The knife was wrenched from his side, its tip held high.
A hand rested on Dung Eater's head, almost gently. Light pierced the ceiling and the Dung Eater screamed out. His limbs went rigid then soft, as he slumped beside Boggart. He smelt of burnt flesh as the last of the lightning dissipated.
Boggart crawled away from Dung Eater's corpse as the Tarnished knelt by him.
"You did it mate. Got 'im. But 'e got me."
Boggart felt distant. He lowered his head to the floor.
"Why ain't it me? Why ain't it ever me?"
A warmth met him, blanketing his body. He raised his head to the Tarnished extending his hand.
They limped out of the sewers, back through the walls into the moat. It was dawn by the time they emerged. Boggart got the remainder of the prawn and held a small feast.
"You saved my hide back 'ere. I was a goner if not for you."
"My life was over if you hadn't have intervened," said the Tarnished.
"Come now. You hero types always have a trick up your sleeve. E would 'ave looked away for a moment and you would 'ave gotten him good."
The Tarnished didn't force the matter. They ate for a while in silence.
Boggart sighed and reached for his helmet. It had been a long time. He took it off and placed it by his side. The night air was cool on his cheeks.
"I'm not one for fancy words or bleedin emotions. Never 'ave been. But knowing that monster is gone, well, that makes things a little more right in the world."
"Did you do it for your friend?"
Boggart smiled sadly.
"Funny thing that. I been 'round a long while. Figure most of us Tarnished 'ave been. I remember the gaol. The way I was treated. Why I got put there. How I survived. But that friend? I can't even remember his name."
The Tarnished watched from across the fire.
"I knew 'e was a good sort, the one that had your back through thick and thin. Was a nasty place, that prison, for a nasty sort, and 'e made it that much more bearable. And then I go and forget him.
Suppose all I had left was how 'e died to that monster. Least I could do was pay the Dung Eater in kind. All my friendship is worth these days."
The Tarnished stopped eating. He pulled off his own helmet. He had a rugged face with messy red hair, that appeared trimmed by his own hand. Stubble coated his chin. His eyes were a deep dark blue. Something gesturing at warmth glided across it.
"Boggart, it's been a long road. Every time I think I'm near the end there's one more step. You made sure that wasn't my last step."
"Careful mate. Keep that up and 'm gonna get all weepy."
The Tarnished grinned.
"Guess even this is too much for us."
"You stick to swinging that sword around and I'll stick to cooking prawn. And don't forget me when you're sitting on that throne. Even a lord gets hungry, I figure."
The night was cold, but Boggart didn't feel the chill anymore.