Chapter 3

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Evening with the Snow Witch

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It was in the middle of the night when the Tarnished returned to the Church of Ellah for the third time. Having wrapped up business on the Weeping Peninsula, the Tarnished wanted to visit Kale both to thank him for his help and buy some last-minute supplies before he left for Stormveil.

After Irina's tragic death, the Tarnished decided it was high time he confronted the demigod atop the hill. The sooner he claimed Godrick's rune, the sooner he could claim the Elden Ring and, hopefully, restore the Greater Will's blessings upon the land so others wouldn't have to suffer such a fate. Furthermore, after gathering more runes and weapons, he finally felt prepared to face the challenge ahead.

As the Tarnished approached the church, however, he quickly noticed that something was amiss. The air around the church was noticeably colder than anything he had felt in Limgrave before, so cold that he could see his own breath. Furthermore, there was a presence that made his hairs stand on end and sent a shiver down his spine. This chilled aura couldn't have come from the merchant, nor any of the others the Tarnished had encountered thus far. Carefully, the Tarnished dismounted torrent and approached the church's front entrance. Through the opening, he saw that both Kale and his mule were nowhere to be seen.

The Tarnished swallowed nervously, hoping the nomadic merchant had simply moved on. In the back of his mind, however, he anticipated a repeat of what happened on the Weeping Peninsula. Silently, he drew his sword and crouched down, slowly entering the church to investigate the matter. As he crossed the ruined church's threshold, mentally preparing for what he might find, a refined voice called out to the Tarnished from just out of view.

"You, there, Wolf, a moment of your time please."

The Tarnished turned towards the voice and was surprised to see a strange woman sitting comfortably atop one of the church's crumbled walls. She truly looked distinct compared all others he had met thus far on his journey, with pale blue skin and four crossed arms. The stranger dressed rather abnormally, wearing silver robes with a fine fur cloak draped over her shoulders. Atop her head was a large witch's hat, its brim so wide as to almost obscure her eyes. She exuded a regal aura, exhibited in her manner of speech, perfect posture and ethereal beauty. Her demeanor along with her clearly displayed power made it apparent that she was someone of importance, a standout being amongst the others gathered in Limgrave. However, something about her also seemed fleeting, as if she were a mere illusion, one that would disappear without a trace with the coming dawn.

Seeing she had his attention, the strange woman smiled and beckoned him closer with a finger. Almost mesmerized, the Tarnished walked forward, stopping just short of the wall on which she was perched. "A pleasure to meet thee, Tarnished," she greeted him, slightly tipping her hat with a nod, "I am the witch Renna. I'd heard tell of a Tarnished hurtling atop a spectral steed. Upon looking into the matter, the talk, I surmise, is of thee."

The Tarnished nodded. Still mesmerized by her presence, he could barely offer a response. "You heard correctly."

"Ah, as I had hoped. Then mine coming here twas no error." Renna reached into her robes and produced a small silver handbell with intricate, ornate carvings on the rim. She reached down, and held the bell out. Though wary of gifts from strangers, the Tarnished took the bell from her hands. "I was entrusted with this for thee," she explained as the Tarnished examined the bell more closely, "by Torrent's former master."

"Torrent's former master?" He had originally believed Melina to be Torrent's former master. However, if Melina were to gift him something, he figured she would have simply done so herself. After all, even if out of view, she had been always by his side since their meeting. There would be no reason for her to gift him something in such a roundabout manner. If Melina was not Torrent's previous master, however, that meant some other mysterious benefactor had an interest in his success. "Counting Torrent himself, this will be the second gift I've received from them. Just who has been so invested in my journey to lend such generous assistance?"

Unfortunately for the Tarnished, however, Renna was not inclined to share any names. Instead, she simply told him, "I assure thee, Tarnished, thou hast nothing to fear. Torrent's former master has nothing but the best intentions and wishes thee good fortune in your quest for the Elden Ring." While still slightly unnerved that the witch insisted on maintaining such an air of mystery, the Tarnished thought it best not to question the motives behind this gift any further. Even though this mysterious benefactor remained anonymous, Renna herself had not yet given him a clear reason to distrust her, and a powerful friend could prove useful going forward. It would be important to leave a good impression and too much suspicion may sour her good will.

He decided to move on to the gift itself. While the bell certainly was pretty and likely made a pleasant chime, he was sure it had some underlying purpose beyond such mundane uses. "If you're unwilling to share my benefactor's identity, perhaps you could tell me a bit more about the gift itself?"

"Tis a bell for calling forth spirits. Summon them with it, from ash unreturned to the Erdtree," the witch answered. Renna reached in her robe once more and pulled out a small cloth pouch. Handing it to the Tarnished, she explained, "With ashes such as these, spirits will obey thine command but briefly as they recall battles past. Now it is thine, to do with as thou wishest. The ashes which I havest imparted will surely be familiar to a warrior such as thineself."

The Tarnished, taking the ashes in hand, raised the bell and rang it. After the silver bell chimed, three large spectral wolves appeared by his side in a cloud of enchanted ash. The three wolves turned towards the Tarnished and gave him a friendly look, wagging their tails. They circled around him, familiarizing themselves with his scent and giving his hand the occasional nudge. Despite some fowl run ins with their kind throughout his journey, the Tarnished could not help but feel a kindred connection with the wolves. "What are their names?" asked the Tarnished as he gave each a gentle scratch behind the ears.

Renna seemed surprised by his question, but answered truthfully, "I know not the names of these spirits. However, their souls tell a tale of a nameless Tarnished with whom they hunted beside and, eventually, perished beside as well. I dare say, thou art a perfect match considering, wouldn'st thou agree?"

"I should hope not, considering what you said about their last partner's fate. Nevertheless…" The Tarnished for a moment before naming each. "Guts, Sif, and Valtr. Are these agreeable?" The wolves tilted their heads to the side in response. The Tarnished doubt they understood, but felt a bit better now that he had at least given them proper names before sending them out to fight his battles.

"Thou art an odd Tarnished. I would have thought such sentimentalities lost on most witlessly pursuing the Elden Ring" said Renna, somewhat perplexed by the entire display.

The Tarnished felt slight deja vu from his earlier conversation with Blaidd. Trying to leave a good impression, the Tarnished decided to give a romantic explanation. "Funny, another I've met told me something similar. It's true that I am not compelled to do so by the Greater Will. But if a nameless one such as myself is to take the title of Elden Lord, it feels hypocritical not to bestow titles on the others who help me along the way."

Renna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Thou art certainly humane, Tarnished. Though, I suspect such niceties are wasted on such temporary specters."

The Tarnished chuckled, slightly embarrassed and internally berating himself for believing that such a line would have landed him in her good graces. "No, I suppose not. More practically, however, it would be troublesome to issue specific commands in the heat of battle if I cannot address them individually."

The witch seemed more satisfied with pragmatic reasoning and acquiesced, "As I expected. A tactical answer, fitting for a Bloody Wolf."

Bloody Wolf? When she had first called him by the name "wolf" he believed she had merely referenced the white wolf's fur adorning his armor. He supposed he was likely covered in blood and grime, though he doubted the witch was referencing his hygiene. However, that title, Bloody Wolf, seemed far more specific. Curious, he asked "Fitting for a Bloody Wolf? What do you mean by that?"

Renna cocked her head to the side and then smiled in a way that, to the Tarnished, almost seemed somewhat mischievous. "Tis true after all, then. Thou hast but fleeting memory of thine past."

Tis true after all? Who could have told her? Thinking back, he had not exactly been hiding his amnesia. Anyone watching him closely could likely discern his status with relative ease. No matter how the information reached her, the Tarnished hoped that her ability to so succinctly confirm his lack of memory meant that she herself knew something of his fragmented past. "Did we know one another before my banishment?"

The snow witch shook her head. "Apologies, Tarnished but I knoweth not of thine name nor thine lineage. However, while thou art nameless and without renown, thine armor, however, speaketh of a history long forgotten by many in the Lands Between." Looking up to the moon, Renna then said "The time has come to bid thee farewell. I shall allow thee to return to your quest. Forgive mine intrusion, Tarnished."

"You're leaving?" The Tarnished asked, a bit disappointed their time had come to an end. Renna seemed knowledgeable and there was much still he wished to learn from her. Not only that, but, despite her vagaries and somewhat distant attitude, for some reason speaking with her felt comfortable and familiar. Their conversation had been a pleasant respite from his difficult travels.

Renna nodded back, "Mine reason for visiting was but to impart to you the summoning bell. Now that our business hath concluded, I must be on mine way. I doubt we shall meet again, but all the same, learn well the Lands Between. On thy quest, thou may find the answers you seek."

Then, with a wave of her hand, a cold gust blew through the church and the Tarnished watched the Witch Renna disappear from sight. As her form dissolved into the night sky, he caught whispered words of parting, barely audible over the conjured winds.

"How long will it be, I wonder… Before the Tarnished tire of obeisance to the Two Fingers?"

Though he did not fully comprehend the meaning behind those words, he at least understood that they likely amounted to heresy. If she opposed the path set by the Greater Will, though, assisting one ordained to restore its blessing was a strange way of doing so. Perhaps it was foolish, but the Tarnished still felt compelled to trust the witch, or at least Torrent's previous master, who had sent her in the first place.

Another thing stuck out to him, now that the witch had left the church. He had not broached the subject before, for fear of offending a powerful sorceress, but the Tarnished could not help but notice a strange mark covering her closed right eye. The tattoo nearly mirrored Melina's mark, both in placement and design. This feature, along with their shared connection to Torrent led the Tarnished to wonder if the two were connected somehow. Perhaps they both worked under Torrent's mysterious first master, or shared familial bonds? The Tarnished hoped that, further down the line, Melina might open up more about her past and that, perhaps, he would learn the answers then.

"Ah, Tarnished? You alright?"

The Tarnished turned and saw Kale sitting in front of a warm fire as usual with his instrument in hand. "You were staring out in the distance like you were deep in thought, so I didn't want to interrupt at first. But after a while I was beginning to get worried that something'd happened to my most valuable customer."

Taking a seat near the fire, the Tarnished reassured Kale, "I haven't lost my mind yet, don't you worry. Also, most valuable customer? I assumed I was your only one."

Kale laughed heartily, "Not so! That unpleasant masked one, Varre, stops by on occasion to purchase a thing or two. So, low standard that it is, you are in fact my best customer."

"Then let me add to my repour," the Tarnished said, preparing to conjure runes for payment, "I'll be buying up most your shop before heading up to Stormveil."

Kale raised an eyebrow, "Finally heading up to face Ol' Godrick, huh? You sure I can't convince you to simply let it be? Would hate to hear that you got grafted onto one of his horrid creatures."

"I appreciate your concern, but I should be continuing on my journey. Can't stay in Limgrave forever."

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The Felled Omen

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"Put these foolish ambitions to rest, foul Tarnished."

The Tarnished would be lying if he said that the omen's offer was not tempting. After all, Margit had spent the past several hours, quite literally, beating the life out of him with nothing but an oversized wooden cane. He had expected resistance on his path to Stormveil. The road up to the fortress itself had already been rife with struggle, lined with knights, feral wolves, and even trolls. However, all else paled in comparison to the formidable foe that now stood between him and Stormveil Castle.

Margit tossed three projected daggers before rushing forward and bringing his cane down with terrifying strength. The Tarnished quickly rolled to the side, letting the cane swing past him and crack the very stone underneath. Seizing the opportunity, the Tarnished swung his own weapon and landed a powerful slash with his greatsword.

A rush of satisfaction overcame the Tarnished as his blade cut into the omen's hardened skin. Not wanting to lose momentum, he tried for another, hoping to keep his opponent on the defensive. However, as the Tarnished reared back for another heavy swing, Margit suddenly reacted with shocking speed for his monstrous size. The omen conjured a golden dagger and quickly slashed to his side, catching the Tarnished off guard before leaping back and throwing the knife. The magic dagger found its mark, landing a solid hit square in the Tarnished's right shoulder.

The Tarnished cried out in pain and anger, his frustration rising with each mistake. He felt the dozens of deaths he suffered at the hand of the Fell Omen crawling up his back, stoking a feeling of rageful bloodlust. Just how many times had he been crushed underneath that heavy cane? How many times had those golden knives gutted his stomach or stabbed through his heart? He would be damned if he let the omen kill him again. With a battle cry, the Tarnished charged forward with reckless abandon, swinging wildly at Margit.

The Omen was, however, unimpressed. Nearly effortlessly, the Omen sidestepped his attacks and returned with yet more blows, beating the Tarnished with his cane like an old master disciplining his pupil. With an angry grunt, Margit landed one last powerful blow, stabbing his cane forward, into the Tarnished's chest. He felt his ribs crack against the oak cane and his breath escape his lungs. Blood spewed out his mouth as the blow sent the Tarnished tumbling backwards until his back slammed with a CRACK against the gate's entrance.

"As always," Margit mocked, his voice dripping with contempt, "thou tarnished are but rabid dogs, set upon this land like a pestilence. Thine desperate flailing is evidence enough. Thine mere effort to reach the Elden Ring insults the great Elden Lords who came before."

Though the omen's words stung, the Tarnished reluctantly admitted they held some truth. His frustration was blinding him, weakening his blows and dulling his mind. At this rate, he would not pass to Stormveil Castle even with a thousand deaths. It was time to take a deep breath and change approaches. The key to defeating this foe was not to fight harder, his previous deaths at the Omen's hand proved that much. To defeat a skilled fighter such as Margit, the Tarnished knew he had to fight smarter, more carefully.

The Tarnished pulled his crimson flask from his bag and took a sip, feeling his bones mend and his torn muscles knit back into place. He only had so many tears left, so he would have to make the remainder count. Next, he held up the silver bell that the witch Renna had gifted him and gave it a ring, summoning three snarling wolves his side.

Standing to his feet, the Tarnished held his sword out and ordered the wolves, "Circle around and wait for an opening! Strike when his back is turned!" The wolves howled in response and rushed towards Margit, following their master's orders.

Sensing the Tarnished's change in demeanor, Margit raised his cane at the ready in response. Encircling Margit, the wolves quickly went to work, each snapping and jumping back whenever the omen turned to face them. Sif was the first to commit to an attack, lunging at Margit's calf, fangs at the ready. Margit quickly responded in kind, batting Sif away with his cane. Just as Margit's cane hit Sif, the two others lunged in, with Guts sinking his teeth into Margit's right shoulder and Valtr tearing into his thigh.

The Omen grunted in pain and grabbed Guts by the scruff of its neck. Tearing the wolf off, he swung it downwards into Valtr, knocking it off and throwing both wolves to the ground. In that moment, however, the Tarnished seized the opening. Lunging forward, curved greatsword in hand, he let loose a vicious slash, catching Margit across the chest. Margit quickly whirled around, trying to catch the Tarnished off guard with his projected knife. The Tarnished was one step ahead however, and quickly jumped back out of the knife's range.

Pivoting on his back foot, the Tarnished jumped forward and brought down the weight of his great sword, cleaving into Margit's shoulder and knocking the omen to his knees. He then reared up and, with both hands, swung the bloodhound sword into Margit's side, once, twice, swinging through with all his might and throwing the omen onto his back. After, the Tarnished stood back and caught his breath as he watched blood pool around Margit. Was it finally over?

Before the Tarnished had the opportunity to celebrate Margit stirred, then slowly stood up, brushing himself off. Through gritted teeth, the Omen spat almost reluctantly, "Well, it seems thou art of passing skill. Your attire was not for show, warrior blood runs in thy veins after all." Holding out his free hand, the Fell Omen summoned a large golden Warhammer and propped it up against his shoulder. Turning to the Tarnished, he pointed his cane forward and shouted, "However, I have felled far greater warriors than thou!"

Margit lept to the sky, holding his hammer aloft and brought it down with earthshattering force. The Tarnished managed to dodge aside just in time, but Valtyr and Guts were not so lucky. The wolves yipped in pain as they were crushed underneath Margit's mighty hammer. The Tarnished leapt back in as Margit regained his footing, catching the omen across the back before rolling back and out of range.

From then on, Margit's assault was relentless. The omen unleashed a flurry of attacks that the Tarnished hadn't even seen before. However, the Tarnished kept his wits about him, dodging swings and pushing every opening that presented itself. Sif attacked ferociously as well, biting and swiping at Margit whenever his back was turned. The battle was arduous, but the Tarnished could tell, even with Margit's newfound vigor, he was gaining ground with each exchange. All he needed was the perfect opportunity to hit the omen with everything he had to end the fight.

Sif pounced and bit Margit's ankle as he swung his hammer at the Tarnished, pained grunt from the omen and throwing him slightly off balance. Taking advantage of the omen's lost footing, the Tarnished dashed in and swung for his opponent's arm, hoping to wound it and cripple the Omen's ability to wield his enormous cane. Margit was one step ahead however, and leapt back, narrowly avoiding the Tarnished's blade. From afar, Margit hurled three knives at Sif, each one finding its mark before the spirit wolf could react. Sif howled and fell to the ground before disappearing in a cloud of ashes, leaving only the Tarnished to stand against the omen.

"Only one wolf remains," Margit snarled, conjuring up his hammer once again, "your wretched path ends here."

Once again, Margit leapt in the air, holding his hammer aloft, ready to bring it down with all his might onto the tarnished warrior. In that split second, the Tarnished's mind raced, trying to piece together a plan to end things as soon as possible. The omen was close to falling, that much he could tell, but his failings earlier in the fight left him low on healing supplies and he no longer had a numbers advantage.

Then, a memory suddenly crossed his mind. A memory of his battle with Knight Darriwill, the bloodhound sword's previous owner. The Tarnished recalled how the bloodhound knight moved, using the weight of the large blade to create momentum, allowing him to quickly and smoothly jump and dash after each attack. Perhaps, if he wielded the weapon similarly, he could mimic such a weapon art.

The Tarnished rolled to the side, dodging the hammer's blow. Then, with all the force he could muster, the Tarnished swung his sword up, slicing Margit across the shoulder while leaping backwards with a flip over Margit's quick counterattack, following the momentum of the swing. The Tarnished landed a good distance from Margit, with his feet and free hand lightly touching the ground and the bloodhound greatsword slung over his back, the same stance he witnessed Knight Darriwill adopt so often. Then, with all the power he could muster, the Tarnished leapt forward.

Margit anticipated the charge, but not the speed with which it came. The Tarnished Margit's heavy swing pass right over him as he closed the gap, just fast enough to avoid getting swatted aside by the heavy wooden cane. Twisting his whole body, the Tarnished let loose a horizontal spin slash, gutting Margit straight across the stomach with a powerful attack. The force of blow caused the Omen to spit blood and stumble backwards, just barely catching himself on his back foot. The Tarnished, conserving the swing's momentum, leapt high in the air and then, with one last spin, brought the sword crashing down into Margit's collar.

When the Tarnished looked up to assess the damage, he knew the battle was over. His sword had cut deep into Margit's shoulder, cleaving past the mess of gnarled horns and lodging itself down, deep into the omen's chest. The Omen sputtered, almost in disbelief and fell to his knees, dropping his cane.

Margit looked down at the grisly wound, almost in disbelief. "I shall remember thee, Tarnished, smoldering with thy meager flame." The Felled Omen raised his arm weakly and pointed to the Tarnished, looking him straight in the eyes, his determination never wavering. With a raspy, but still powerful voice, Margit promised, "Cower in fear of the night. The hands of the Fell Omen shall brook thee no quarter!"

With his last words spoken, the Omen crumpled to the ground before exploding into golden ash and dust, leaving only the sword which delivered the final blow behind. As soon as his foe was no more and the rush of battle subsided, exhaustion finally caught up with the Tarnished. He fell to his back, breathing heavily and feeling almost too weak to stand.

He had done it. He was tired, broken and beaten but he had done it. And while he knew there would certainly be more challenging foes ahead, foes that likely far surpassed the Fell Omen, he let himself bathe in the satisfaction of victory for the moment.