Death.
For most, Death came when one's life was at a close. Not a moment too soon, nor too late. A swift end for a soul that was on its last legs.
But sometimes, that was not the case.
Sometimes, Death was premature with its selections.
That was the case for one Luz Noceda. Her life was unfairly swiped from her when that… thing… that used to be the madman known as Emperor Belos, or Philip Wittebane as was his real name, had used whatever that flesh-eating goo seaweed magic had been on her, quickly yet painfully devouring away at her body, clothes, and even her soul.
She felt every second of it. Every bit of pain echoed throughout her body as it was violently torn apart from both inside and outside. Her skin, blood, internal organs, bones and whatever else had floated around in her body were being systematically replaced and destroyed by whatever that stuff had been.
Yet, despite the overwhelming pain. Despite the endless agony and suffering that she had experienced whilst The Collector tried and failed to stop her fate—her death. All she could do was smile.
It wasn't his fault. No matter how much he cried and said it was.
She had jumped in between him and that creature that once was Philip Wittebane.
It was no fault of his, nor anyone else, except Philip's.
"Eda, King… I'm sorry, Looks like we're splitting up again," Luz called out as she stared at them, their faces ones of disbelief and anger. Not at her, but at the situation as a whole. "I should be used to this by now, but I still don't know what to say…" her voice faded. She wanted to say that she had loved them, but by then, her body had been overtaken.
The bits of light that had comprised her soul spread out, and exploded, briefly stunning the massive monster that was Philip Wittebane, but it didn't do much of anything. All it did was annoy the creature.
Because that was all she had been to him, it seemed.
An annoyance.
Fitting, was it not?
And so, that was it.
That was the end of her tale.
Her soul was put to rest. A bookend on her life. She lived and died as she had been. A pure child of whom radiance lived and breathed through. That while she was a little goofy and wacky and weird, her heart had been in the right place.
But at the core of it all, she was a steadfast warrior. A protector of the innocent. Someone who wanted nothing more than to help others, even if it had been in her own goofy, and fun way.
She lived her life as she had wanted.
She lived her life as a Witch.
And paid the price.
[XXXX]
It could be said that Fate was an odd concept. That one's life was to be planned out before anyone could have a say in it. If that were to be true, then free will would be a lie. At least, if that is one's unique outlook on Fate.
"The fallen leaves tell a story."
But Fate is not so easily understood.
"The great Elden Ring was shattered. In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between."
Fate oftentimes can be cruel, but subvert itself into being different.
"Now, Queen Marika the Eternal is nowhere to be found, and in the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was the first to perish."
And on this day. After an untraceable amount of time had gone by, Fate decided to do what it did best and subvert itself.
"Soon, Marika's offspring, demigods all, claimed the shards of the Elden Ring."
Some might claim that what happened next to be all but mere happenstance.
"The mad taint of their newfound strength triggered the Shattering."
But, that was simply not the case. Because Fate can be truly, and totally unpredictable.
"A war from which no lord arose."
Sometimes, Fate took the form of a path. Self-made yet altered all the same.
"A war leading to abandonment by the Greater Will."
Sometimes, it took the form of a terrible disaster that forced everyone and anyone to rise and take charge. Like what happened on that accursed land so long ago. Where while the hero had died, their sacrifice was not in vain. They won, yet at the hefty cost of someone they loved.
In the end, Fate allowed the heroes to win.
But they would never see their friend again.
Until now…
"Arise now, ye Tarnished. Ye dead, who yet live!"
Sometimes, it took the form of a calling. A calling that even the dead could hear.
"The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all!"
Sometimes, Death doesn't have to be the end. Sometimes, it could be one's true calling.
"Hoarah Loux, chieftain of the Badlands."
A large man, thrice impaled suddenly shifted on his makeshift cross. Breath returned to him as he ripped one of the spears out from his chest. Blood slowly oozed out of the large wound, as the man stared, his lips upturned into a snarl. "Twas about time…" The man growled, tearing the other spears out of his chest as he landed down to the sanded ground, not out of anger, but of relief.
For but a moment, he felt the urge to let out a primal roar. To let those around him know that he had returned. But, he felt his bestial rage quell and the familiar sensation of Serosh's taming wash over him. The large, ethereal golden spirit of the Beast Man Warrior King looming over his shoulder. Its mane was long and flowing, and its dark, yet golden eyes glanced down at him, recognition and understanding in its eyes.
The two stared at one another, respect swirling in their faces as Serosh placed its right-clawed paw on the man's shoulder. It felt natural, yet not at the same time. Not that the man had cared all too much. He was simply glad to have him back.
Hoarah Loux—no. Godfrey looked over his shoulder and at his old companion, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "Tis been a long while, Serosh," Godfrey uttered, as Serosh roared with bated excitement. Godfrey looked to the fogged lands before his eyes, his expression returning to that of neutrality. "We shalt meet once more, My Queen…"
"The ever-brilliant Goldmask."
A shrivelled, barely alive man slowly rose from where he had collapsed. Power surged through his whole being, as a familiar sensation washed over him. Grace had come back.
Good.
As he rose, he felt the wind wash over his body, naked and free, showing every bit of himself to the world. Just as the Greater Will had intended. The sole exception being the binds he wore over his crotch. Not that he cared. He had been all but forced to.
No matter, he did not care.
For what did it matter? All he needed was knowledge. True knowledge. To understand The Golden Order.
And so, with his sunflower mask in hand, one that radiated with bright, glistening Gold, he gathered his things, slipped the mask onto his face, and silently left the room he had died in.
There was no time to waste.
He had been so close to mastering his technique to commune with The Greater Will. Just as those Crones had done ages ago.
Goldmask would prove to the world that True Order lay within. No matter the cost.
"Fia, the Deathbed Companion."
A young woman arose from a bed next to a rotted, feted corpse. For some, that would be a shocking sight. To Fia, not so much. Her long, blonde hair draped far down her body and covered her breasts, sheltering them from sight. Her slender yet curved body was bare, as she had not expected to awaken.
Yet, here she was, alive and well.
The ritual failed.
How disappointing.
"This is quite vexing…" Fia murmured to herself. She felt alive, yet did not believe herself to be. But this warmth… "Ah… Grace has returned, it seems…"
"No…!" A shrill voice called out from a doorway, as light glimmered on Fia's bare body. "You whore! Our lord is still dead! You lied!"
"…quite vexing indeed…"
"The loathsome Dung Eater."
A man dressed in armour befitting that of an Omen slowly began to rise, wrath filling his chest, twisting his already twisted, contorted heart. "Fools… all of them…" The man spat, his body filling with a power he had yearned for.
Grace finally returned to him.
He would make The Golden Order pay.
For him and his soulborne ilk.
"I'll curse'em. Curse'em all…!" The man began to laugh, a bitter, manic laugh befitting a madman. "I'LL CURSE YOU ALL~! YOU FECKLESS BEASTS! YOU, YOUR CHILDREN, AND EVERYONE WHO BREATHES!" The manic laughter ceased, as he reached for his blade, though, to call it a blade would be an insult to most weapons.
In truth, it was a spinal cord, but one laced with metal and gold to keep it from being broken and bent. A brutal weapon for a brutal monster such as himself.
Not that he cared. All he cared about was spreading his Pox and his blessed Curse. Pain was needed for it, and so his weapon would bring said pain.
It had been a long while since he had wielded it, but it hardly mattered.
It would never matter.
He was The Dung Eater.
The Curse Monger.
He would tear it all down.
"And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing!"
A man in his coffin slowly rose, gripping the sides with shaky hands. He was buried in a mount of ears and rotting flesh. Yet, he cared not for any of that. His once devoid-of-gold eyes shimmered, as a small smile crept to his face.
"Finally. I can continue my quest," Gideon uttered, pulling himself out of his open-air grave. He knew this would happen. He had predicted as such. Grace would return to them all, and he had been the one to figure it out.
After all, he was the All-Knowing. Of course, he would know.
His body rippled with life and power as he made his way to his supplies. He needed to return to The Roundtable. The rest of his materials were left there. Only his armour and his sceptre had been buried with him, much to his chagrin.
"No matter. Time will give me back what is rightfully mine," Gideon rumbled, as he made his way out toward the doors of his tomb. "It always does."
And that should have been all.
That should have been everyone.
But it wasn't.
"And one other…."
Despite all odds. A small, tiny piece of Grace floated and made its way to a deep, dark void. A void filled with gray sand. An afterlife, yes. But one of nothingness. One where the souls of undetermined worth went to await their judgment.
The tiny, barely negligible piece of grace floated and fluttered. It zigged and zagged through the air like a cotton ball. Until finally, it came to a body. The body it had been guided to.
"….Whom Grace would again bless."
The bodies open-faced hand, brown and small, upturned toward the sky. Fingers slender and young, befitting of a young maiden. One who had not been fully grown, and one who did not deserve death. But nonetheless met it anyway.
The rest of the body had been bare, save for bandages covering the top part of its torso, and the lower part of its waist. Short, purplish brown hair rested atop their head, just barely covering their ears. A small scar rested atop their left eye and the right corner of their mouth.
Their body was small.
But then again, it made sense. Especially given whose body it had been.
It was the body of a child, of which had been evident.
"A Tarnished of no renown."
Slowly, as the Grace landed atop their hand, their eyes began to flutter open, as a brief hint of pain washed over them, then faded. They recalled, if only briefly, their death. It was foggy, and not much of their mind had retained the information, but…. They knew it was painful.
They looked down at themselves, confusion marring their face. They stared at their body, mostly bare to the air as it had been. No sense of embarrassment, just pure confusion.
Confusion at the fact that they were alive.
Confusion as to where they were.
But more importantly….
"Who… am I?" They thought, their eyes sparkling with gold, reflective of the Grace in their eyes.
"Cross the fog, to the Lands Between."
A loud, booming voice filled their head. They squinted, before looking toward them. A large barrier of fog rose before them, large and near-unending. Was that what the voice meant?
"To stand before the Elden Ring…"
The small child began to rise to their feet, every bone in their body aching, every muscle screaming for them to stop, only for it to end. A singular memory flashed back to them, their eyes widening. A name, a face—her face, and a purpose.
"Oh, yeah… I'm Luz. Luz Noceda…" She thought as she reached out toward the fog.
"And become the Elden Lord."
"And I will become the Elden Lord…"
And as Luz Noceda, renownless and memoryless stepped through the fog, and as the golden light hit her body, one last memory came to her. One last purpose. One last goal. A place, a face, a smile, and a loved one.
"I will find that isle, and the girl in my dreams. The girl with the golden eyes and purple and brown hair. The girl who I love…!"
And then, there was silence.
[-To Be Continued-]