Patches fought the urge to vomit. He looked upon a grotesque being, his time in the military dulling his senses, but this was too far. Too monstrous.
From a tower in Stormveil castle, Patches was looking through his binoculars, his other troops guarding the door. From there he saw the form of Godrick the Grafted himself. However, this man looked nothing like the rumors said.
Godrick, instead of a functioning lower half with legs, had a dragons body instead, with hundreds of arms grafted across the torso of the being. Each of those arms had a blade or some sort of weapon on them. There was a dragons head grafted onto the base of his neck, twitching and writhing. His human head, hung low, below his torso, a sick grin on it. On the upper half of the dragons body, two massive troll arms laid, grasping two mighty axes. Two mutilated and bloody wings hung uselessly from his back, and Patches thanked the gods that he was not able to graft wings onto himself. He noticed a glintstone staff, one usually reserved for the Demi-human leaders around Limgrave, shoved into the mouth of the dragon head.
Patches' eyes widened, his heart pounding as the next figure entered the courtyard. Margit, the Fell Omen lumbered in, flanked by two members of the Night's Cavalry. Margit dismissed the cavalry and Patches saw them move to areas within the castle.
Another factor that Pelinal would have to know about.
He saw Margit and Godrick converse, but Patches knew if he got any closer he would risk death. He stood up and gathered his troop, then slinking out of the castle with the many passageways within Stormveil. He had created a map of Stormveil, and it included vital information, all the more useful when they decide to invade this place. As he rounded the corner, he rolled his eyes at the pathetic man who helped them get into the castle undetected. Gostoc, as Patches recalled.
Patches grumbled at the sleazy grin the man had, and dropped a hefty bag of runes on his outstretched hand.
"There ya go, ya sleazy bastard." Patches grunted out.
Gostoc grinned, weighing the bag in his palm. "Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen."
Patches snarled and turned the other way, leaving the castle grounds. Nonetheless, he had vital information for the Boss, and it would be useful in the upcoming battle.
When him and his crew got back to their makeshift camp, they banded together and combined all of the glaring weaknesses, strengths, and vantage points they noticed in Stormveil castle. Their goal was to create a scroll, filled with every weakness Stormveil had, and how to manipulate it perfectly. They were currently a fraction of the way completed.
Patches looked up from his fire and noticed the sky finally turning dark. He smiled to himself, the best part of his day approaching.
He gathered his crew, barrels of fire pots on their backs, and went off to conduct night raids on Stormveil outposts in the area.
As they approached the first outpost, a small fortification manned by demi-humans, along with ten soldiers of Godrick. Patches signaled for his crew to halt. He crouched low, surveying the area through narrowed eyes. The outpost was dimly lit by torches, its defenses seemingly relaxed in the late hours.
"Spread out," Patches whispered to his team. "Remember the plan. Hit them hard and fast. No survivors."
And then their victims worlds were engulfed by fire.
As the fire pots crashed into the outpost, the demi-humans and soldiers of Godrick were caught off guard, their shouts of alarm drowned out by the roaring inferno that consumed their makeshift defenses. Patches and his crew moved swiftly, taking advantage of the chaos they had unleashed.
"Move in! Secure the perimeter!" Patches barked, his voice cutting through the crackling of flames.
His crew, trained and disciplined, fanned out with precision. They moved like shadows in the night, their forms obscured by the billowing smoke and flickering light of the burning outpost. Each member of Patches' team knew their role: some engaged in close combat, dispatching enemies with ruthless efficiency, while others circled around to cut off any attempts at escape.
Patches grinned to himself, they were a hell of a lot better than the crew he used to run with. He'd give these men a group name some time, but that was for another day.
Offhandedly, he wondered how his fellow generals were doing. He snickered to himself. Probably not having as much fun as he was.
Alexander grumbled to himself, slamming his great sword down on another Tarnished that dodged a tad too late. They simply kept coming. Hours ago, he relished the challenge of worthy adversary's, but now it was simply becoming a bore. Maybe if they worked together, came at him in groups instead of singular enemies, he would have faced a genuine threat. But as the saying goes..
A Tarnished greatest enemy is themselves.
It wasn't untrue, they could come back from life however many times thanks to Queen Marika's grace, and he had a sneaking suspicion that his comrade Patches was one himself. The problem was, some of them were simply too busy killing each other, while a lot of them were lone wolves, the only other being they speak to was one of those 'finger maidens' that Alexander used to be told stories about.
Alexander had never met one himself, of course, but he always wondered if those stories were true.
And as if the gods themselves had heard his thoughts, a group of ten Tarnished came marching down the hill, spearheaded by a dark-skinned woman in barbaric clothing, with two axes at her waist. This one moved with purpose, with an aura to her that screamed 'dangerous.'
The next one he noticed made the liquids in his body boil, he knew this was a mighty warrior just by the look of him. A mountain of a man encased in obsidian-black armor. Every piece of his armor was meticulously crafted, not over the top to make him seem like a poser, but a warrior who earned his armor through countless wars. His helm, adorned with four horizontal slits for vision, gave him a faceless, inhuman visage. It was as if a walking fortress had come to life, moving with purpose and lethal intent.
On his arms laid a great sword, as big as his own. It was squared at the end, but still razor sharp. On the other arm, a great shield, with an unknown symbol painting itself across the bulk of it.
He readied his great sword as they approached. He recalled some familiar faces in the crowd, ones that were impaled at the end of his sword, but the rest were unknown.
"Halt. I am Alexander the Indomitable, general of the mighty Pelinal Whitestrake. Name your purpose, or be felled." Alexander rumbled out, voice a deep gravel. Deep inside, he was rejoicing. He truly did sound like a mighty warrior. These Tarnished must be shaking in their boots!
The dark-skinned woman looked at him with a glare. "I am Nepheli Loux. I come on behalf of my father, Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing. You will take us to your leader." She growled out. Alexander pondered for a moment. He had no idea who this Gideon fellow was, but he sure sounded important. Alexander shifted his body to the side, allowing them access to the lift, before joining them on it. As he secured the Grafted Great sword to the back of his body, he looked at the Tarnished lot.
"No funny business warriors! You will be cut down before you can draw your weapons!" He boomed, inwardly smirking as he saw the angered looks on their faces.
Upon reaching the top of the lift, the doors opened into the expansive courtyard of Castle Morne. The ancient stones echoed with the footsteps of the group as they strode purposefully towards the heart of the fortress. Edgar awaited them there, watching over a forge that was being manned by a foot soldier, flanked by his trusted banished knights.
Nephelis eyes widened, taking in the sight of the courtyard. There were soldiers, training, eating, laughing with each other. Hanging above them, a massive Runebear, being used for meat. She also noticed a few wandering traders inside of the castle, arguing with the soldiers, showcasing their wares. It was as if she wandered back in time, to her small village in her homeland.
Edgar's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the sight of Alexander returning with an unfamiliar group of Tarnished. His hand rested on the grip of his halberd, a gesture both of readiness and authority.
"Alexander," Edgar's voice boomed across the courtyard, echoing off the weathered walls. "Who have you brought into our castle?"
Nepheli noticed a blindfolded girl hanging near Edgar, sitting on a bench. A daugher, perhaps?
"I present Nepheli Loux and her warriors," Alexander replied, his voice resonant with authority. "They seek an audience with Pelinal Whitestrake on behalf of Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing."
Edgars grip relaxed a tad, relieved that these warriors were not looking for blood. Eleven Tarnished warriors together were enough to fell entire castles. Edgar motioned to his banished knights. "Escort them with General Alexander. I will take over the training." Edgar said, walking towards a recruit that needed help with proper sword swinging form. The knights moved quickly behind the Tarnished, Alexander leading the group, and before long they reached the throne room.
Nepheli couldn't help but notice the lack of security the throne room had. An intimidation tactic, perhaps?
Alexander opened the door, and the Tarnished filed in.
"Did they suspect anything?" Godrick's voice was a harsh rasp, barely human.
Gostoc shook his head, his grin widening. "No, my lord. They took the bait. Patches and his hounds are none the wiser. They believe the passages are secret, just as you intended."
Godrick's grin widened, a horrific sight given the grotesque grafting of his lower jaw. "Good. Let them think they have the advantage. They will find only death within these walls."
His myriad arms flexed, some holding weapons, others twitching with restless energy. The dragon head grafted to his neck gave a low, guttural growl, its eyes glowing faintly with a blue light, the glintstone staff inside its mouth enchanting its fire. Godrick relished the thought of the impending conflict. His enemies believed they could outsmart him, outmaneuver him within his own fortress. How wrong they were.
"How goes the grafting of the knights, wretch." Godrick interrogated, now actively upgrading his soldiers with extra limbs, muscle fibers, and heads.
"Very well, my lord. The banished knights have taken well to the extra arm implants, and some of the bolder ones have grafted an extra head onto them." Gostoc said, kneeling. He was given a new position from his lord due to the remaining sanity he had left, and in turn was one of the only people who could truly console with Lord Godrick.
"However, Patches and his hounds have done raids on the surrounding outposts, my lord. Only thirty-eight of the fifty we had stationed around Limgrave are replying to us, and the misbegotten scouts are reporting that a lot of our outposts have been burnt to the ground." Gostoc said with bated breath, praying to the Greater Will that his lord would not smite him down for this unfortunate news.
Godrick simply laughed, a deep bellow due to his dragon body. "That fool thinks he can make a difference by attacking my worms. When the full might of Stormveil comes baring down on him, he will beg for mercy. It is of no matter. Stormveil is the heart of Limgrave, and a few missing outposts will mean nothing in the end." Claims Godrick, arrogance in his blood.
"Let them think they have the upper hand," Godrick continued, his voice a harsh rasp. "Their arrogance will be their downfall. Prepare the knights for the coming battle. Ensure that the grafting process is accelerated. I want them ready to crush our enemies underfoot. Use the Runebears if you have any avaliable. If you do not, then send out hunting parties."
Gostoc nodded fervently, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and admiration. "As you command, my lord. The knights will be ready."
Margit stood in the shadows, his form barely visible against the dark stone walls. That dregs conversation with Godrick had left him uneasy. He knew when an enemy was underestimated.
He was not uneasy for Godrick, no, the bastard could go rot in Caelid for all he cared, it was his great rune he was concerned about. If this Pelinal collected the great rune, Leyndell was at risk. Everything he ever worked for was at risk.
As Margit recalled eight more of his nights cavalry to Stormveil, he glared at the image of Castle Morne in the distance.
This pretender would fall.
"Margit," Godrick rasped, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Do you doubt our victory?"
Margit's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. "I do not doubt our strength, nephew. But I have seen many battles, and I know when an enemy is underestimated."
Godrick's sick grin widened. "Underestimated? These pretenders think they can challenge the might of Stormveil. They will learn the price of their arrogance."
Margit stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Godrick. "It is not the fleas I am concerned about. It is their leader, this Pelinal. If he collects the Great Rune, he could pose a threat to Leyndell."
Godrick's eyes blazed with fury. "Leyndell is mine by right! I will not allow this pretender to take what is rightfully mine!"
Margit sneered at Godrick. Turning around, he leaves the throne room. "My nights cavalry full force will arrive soon. Do not disappoint me by dying, nephew."
Godrick seethed as Margit departed, the Fell Omen's words gnawing at his pride. He clenched his myriad fists, the weapons held in each arm trembling with his anger. "Nephew," he spat the word with venom. "As if I need his counsel."
He turned his attention back to Gostoc, who remained kneeling, his face a mask of subservience. "Double the patrols in the castle," Godrick commanded, his voice a harsh rasp. "I want every inch of Stormveil watched. If even a mouse gets past our defenses, I will have your head."
Gostoc bowed deeply, his voice quivering. "Yes, my lord. It will be done."
Nepheli Loux had never been scared in her entire life. Angry? Yes. Tense? Yes. But never outright scared.
This definitely took the top spot for the most terrifying moment in her entire life.
This man, no. This lord sat upon his throne, eyeing them as they entered, his eyes lingering on Tarkus and herself. She saw conflict in his eyes, battle, not unlike her fathers. She didn't remember much of her father, her real father, but only recalled his glowing, rage filled eyes. This was a lord who knew only war.
To his right, entombed into the ground, laid a mace colored white that was most definitely twice her size. On his left arm, some sort of mountable cannon? It was unlike anything she had ever seen in her life. It had a light glowing and smoking out of it, almost like it was ready to burst.
It was clad in an armor so ornate, so thick, that she wondered how he even moved in it. Even Tarkus would have trouble wielding that mace, combined with all that armor? No way. The eyes under his helmet, wings adorning the sides, looked down upon them, tearing apart their very beings, looking at their souls laid bare. She could see dried blood on the crevices of the lords white armor, this was no lord who hid behind his men.
What baffled her the most was the sheer size of him. Her father Gideon was told reports of the lord, saying that he was 'physically imposing.' But Nepheli thought he would just be an abnormally large Tarnished.
Nay, this lord looked to be a demigod, struck down from the skies. She would roughly guess that this man would be the same height as that wretch Margit the Fell. She wondered absentmindedly if she would gain a great rune if she slew this man.
She chuckled in her mind. Right, like she could kill this lord in single combat.
And then it spoke.
"Kneel."
Her envoy kneeled down, with only Tarkus and her still standing. Slowly, Nepheli kneeled down, with Tarkus still glaring at Pelinal.
"We come on behalf of Sir Gideon Ofnir," Nepheli spoke, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. "We seek an audience with the lord who calls himself Pelinal Whitestrake."
The voice of the lord toned down, a inquisitive tone entering his voice. "And I am here, listening. Name your question, stranger, and I will answer it as I see fit." Pelinal spoke, voice booming off of the walls.
Nepheli took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was no ordinary lord, and every word she spoke had to be measured carefully.
"My lord Pelinal," she began, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly, "Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing has heard of your prowess and seeks to understand your purpose in these lands. We wish to know your intentions and if there is a possibility for alliance or, at the very least, mutual understanding."
Pelinal's gaze bore into her, as if weighing her very soul. The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint crackling of the light emanating from the cannon on his arm. Then he spoke, his voice like thunder.
"Gideon Ofnir," he said slowly, as if tasting the name. "A name unknown to me. You claim him to be All-Knowing. A seeker of knowledge, a man of many questions. But does he seek knowledge for the betterment of all, or for his own gain?"
Nepheli swallowed, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "Sir Gideon offers cooperation. He recognizes your strength and believes that together, we can bring order to the chaos that grips the Lands Between. We can aid each other in our quests, share resources, intelligence, and manpower."
Pelinal leaned back, contemplating her words. "Cooperation," he mused, his tone skeptical yet intrigued. "And what guarantees do I have that Gideon Ofnir's cooperation is sincere and not a ploy to seize more power for himself?"
Tarkus rose, moving forward to slam his great sword onto the floor, kneeling. And then he spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. "My lord," Tarkus spoke, "I, Black Iron Tarkus, offer you my sword, my skill, and my shield. A gift of loyalty to you, from one leader to another. Ofnir to you."
Pelinal sneered. "Are you calling my soldiers weak? Subpar? How does this, 'All-Knowing' know that I truly need another blade?"
Nepheli's heart raced as she tried to find the right words. This man was not easily swayed, and Tarkus's bold gesture had put them in a precarious position. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before speaking.
"My lord Pelinal," she began, her voice steady and respectful, "We do not presume to judge the strength of your soldiers. What we offer is not because we doubt your strength, but because we recognize it. Gideon Ofnir is not a man to make alliances lightly. He understands that true power lies in unity, in combining the strengths of many to achieve a common goal."
Pelinal's eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt. Nepheli continued, feeling a surge of determination.
"Black Iron Tarkus is a warrior of unmatched skill and honor. His offer of loyalty is not an implication of weakness, but a gesture of profound respect. Gideon Ofnir seeks an alliance built on mutual respect and shared purpose. He believes that by working together, we can bring about the order and stability that the Lands Between so desperately need."
Pelinal leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "And what exactly is this common goal that Gideon Ofnir envisions? What is it that he seeks to achieve by forming an alliance with me?"
Nepheli's eyes met Pelinal's unwaveringly. "Gideon Ofnir seeks to reclaim the Great Runes, to restore balance to the Lands Between, and become Elden Lord. He believes that by uniting the strongest and most capable warriors, we can end the chaos and strife that plague these lands. Your strength and leadership are vital to this cause. With your support, we can forge a path to a future where order prevails."
"Leave me." Pelinal ordered. "I will think of this offer, and tell your lord to meet me here in one week from now. I will not create a decision of importance without the most essential figure with me." Pelinal rose, and stared at Tarkus, still kneeling on the floor. He placed a gauntlet on Tarkus' helmet, his voice becoming a thunderous boom.
"Black Iron Tarkus, soldier of Sir Gideon Ofnir. I strip you of your title, and your service. I, Pelinal Whitestrake, Lord of Morne, hereby grant you a new title. Because of your mighty stature, and unbreakable will showcased in this very room, I hereby name you Tarkus, the Ironclad. You will be my armor, my protection in this new age, protecting the lives of its subjects and its leaders. Do you accept this title?"
Tarkus' eyes blazed beneath his helmet. "Yes, my lord."
Pelinal nodded, a gesture of solemn acceptance. "Rise, Tarkus the Ironclad. You are now bound to me by honor and duty. Serve me well, and you shall know glory like no other."
Tarkus rose to his feet, his massive form casting an imposing shadow in the dimly lit throne room. Nepheli felt a surge of relief and pride for her comrade, but she knew the true test was yet to come.
"Return to your master," Pelinal continued, his gaze shifting back to Nepheli. "Convey my message. I will expect him here in one week's time. Any betrayal will be met with swift and merciless retribution."
Nepheli bowed deeply, signaling for her warriors to follow suit. "Thank you, Lord Pelinal. We will deliver your message with utmost urgency."
As Morgott pondered the recent developments of Stormveil, a soft knock echoed through the chamber. He straightened, his eyes narrowing. "Enter," he commanded, his voice a deep rumble.
A cloaked figure stepped into the room, their face obscured by shadows. Morgott recognized them as one of his informants, a master of espionage and subterfuge.
"My lord," the informant began, bowing deeply. "I bring news from the south. It seems that Pelinal Whitestrake has been approached by an envoy from Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing."
Morgott's eyes narrowed further. "Gideon Ofnir," he murmured, his tone thoughtful. "That jumped up fool digs himself into a grave. What is his interest in Whitestrake?"
The informant stepped closer, their voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It appears that Gideon Ofnir seeks an alliance with Whitestrake. His envoy, led by Nepheli Loux, has proposed a cooperation to reclaim the Great Runes and become the next Elden Lord."
Morgott's grip on his staff tightened. "And how did Whitestrake respond?"
The informant hesitated for a moment, as if choosing their words carefully. "He did not outright reject the proposal, my lord. He has requested a meeting with Gideon Ofnir himself, to take place in one week's time at Castle Morne."
Morgott's mind raced. This development was both intriguing and troubling. An alliance between Gideon Ofnir and Pelinal Whitestrake could tip the scales of power in unforeseen ways. It could threaten the fragile stability he had worked so hard to maintain.
"Very well," Morgott said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Continue to monitor the situation closely. I want to know every detail of their meeting and any plans they might forge together."
"Yes, my lord." The informant spoke, before vanishing out of the room.
Pelinal Whitestrake watched as Nepheli Loux and her warriors left the throne room. He felt a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The name Gideon Ofnir was unfamiliar, but the proposal intrigued him. An alliance could strengthen his position, but it could also be a trap.
He stood, and turned to Tarkus, who was awaiting his orders. The man was massive, bigger than the banished knights of Edgar. A useful asset to have. And Pelinal suspected that the great sword he wielded was no stranger to combat.
"I have a task for you, Tarkus." Pelinal continued, "You have seen the mighty tree that lies on the outskirts of this castle. I have no doubt that a being lies there, in wait. Your order is to go there, find whatever, whoever, is there, and bring it to heel. I do not care if it is alive or dead, only that it is subdued. Are my orders clear?" Pelinal commanded.
Tarkus took up his sword and rose. "Aye, Captain. Is there anything else?"
"I want you to create a frontline for my troops with Alexander. Head down to the courtyard after your task, if you still live, and round up a group of men that are the biggest and strongest physically, and find Edgar. He will supply you with great shields and weapons. When Ofnir comes, I expect a battle ready and monstrous troop." Pelinal ordered, seating himself on his throne once again.
"Aye, Captain." Tarkus bellowed out, turning to leave the throne room, and head to the lift. The jar warrior that they met first walked beside him. Beside him, Alexander's booming voice filled the air. "Ah, Tarkus! A warrior's loyalty to his lord—a tale as old as time! Pardon my manners, friend. I am Alexander, the Indomitable. I sense we'll be comrades in arms from this day forth!"
Tarkus grunted, a rare smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "Just Tarkus will do. None of that fancy title shite. Let's get this done."
Alexander let out a booming laugh. "Ah, Tarkus! No need for fancy titles when we're in this together, eh? Just two warriors doing what needs to be done. Call me Alexander then if you'd like. I wish you luck on your labor, mighty warrior!" His voice carried a certain warmth to it, but still had the keen edge of a veteran inside it.
Alexander left Tarkus, some foot soldiers informing him of a beam that they needed to put up, and Tarkus boarded the lift alone. Walking out, he saw the minor Erdtree, looming over him. He knew of the monsters guarding it, corrupted by the Shattering, and even Sir Gideon had warned them of straying too near to the tree.
But he was Black Iron Tarkus- Nay, he was Tarkus the Ironclad. And he would be damned if he failed on the first task his new lord gave him.
Edgar smiled as Irina fought Alexander, the two having a friendly sparring match. He had found her with his banished knights, surrounded by misbegotten warriors. He relished the look of fear in the dregs eyes as he brought his halberd down on them. She had become great friends with Alexander, the old jar telling her stories of the mighty opponents he had dueled. Including himself.
Edgar still rolled his eyes when he remembered how Irina laughed when Alexander told her that he 'beat him into the ground.' It was not even that far! Nonetheless, he always laughed and told both of them that Alexander had to 'retreat' from his onslaught, which usually shut both of them up.
Still, he paid rapt attention to the fight in front of him.
Irina, her heart pounding with nervous excitement, raised her sword in a shaky salute. Alexander, grizzled and weathered but still formidable, responded with a reassuring nod of his jar body, a wooden sword in his arms instead of the Grafted Greatsword. They circled each other cautiously, the way they moved a stark contrast in their levels of experience.
Irina relied on the heavy footsteps of Alexander to calculate where he is, her blindness weighing her down more than her physical capabilities.
With a deep breath, Irina made the first move, her movements hesitant but determined. She lunged forward, her sword arm trembling slightly as she aimed for Alexander's guard. He easily sidestepped her attack, his sword moving with practiced ease to deflect her blade.
"A mighty blow Irina! That would surely fell a dragon!" Alexander teased, bringing out a hearty laugh. Much to her chagrin, even Edgar had to bite back a chuckle.
Undeterred, Irina pressed on, her lack of experience evident in her raw, unpolished technique. She tried to remember the lessons Alexander and Edgar had taught her, focusing on her footwork and trying to anticipate his next move. But Alexander, with decades of combat honed into every muscle, anticipated her every feint and thrust.
Alexander, with a swift and calculated move, disarmed Irina with a gentle flick of his wrist, her sword clattering to the ground. She stumbled back, breathless and sweating, but her eyes behind her blindfold shone with pride and determination.
As he surveyed the training grounds, Edgar couldn't help but feel pride swell up in his heart. His troops, once civilians of the Weeping Peninsula, who never held a weapon before in their lives, had taken to training like a fish does to water. The newfound morale from their lord invigorating them.
The banished knights, once being able to take on fifty of the ground troops by themselves without breaking a sweat, could now only take ten before being overwhelmed.
That was also thanks to the two of his knights smithing skills, the division of men chosen to learn having taken to it massively. Nearly all of their troops were now clad in chainmail and plate, with a sallet-like helmet adorning every soldier he could see. Most of the soldiers rags had been repainted, their lord personally issuing a new symbol. A red diamond, outlined with yellow, right on the chest of the tunic.
"You fought well, Irina." Edgar grumbled, still not completely onboard with the idea of Irina training with weaponry.
She simply snickered. "Father. I am fine, truly. You need not to worry about me every passing second."
Edgar simply grunted, still unconvinced.
"We will see."
Patches and his hounds, a name he came up with after hours of thinking, silently moved through the forests of Limgrave, rumors spreading of a Nights Cavalry patrolling the area. His men had picked up and skinned some wolf pelts, and Patches had to admit, they looked quite lethal.
Each of his men wore a wolf pelt as a cloak, keeping them safe from the natural weather, plus doubling as a blanket if in a dire situation. They kept the top part of the heads, with the snout and teeth and eyes on, making them hang over their heads.
They stalked through the forest like a pack of wolves, scouting their prey. Before long, Pax, the best tracker of all of them, picked up a scent.
"I smell death. The hunt draws near. This Nights Cavalry will not see another moon."
And then they came across it. A Nights Cavalry in the flesh. Two hookclaws laid by its side on each arm, its horse trotting forwards, almost zombie-like.
Patches gulped. Maybe they were a bit in over their head.
But nonetheless, he carried on.
"Jarn, take the fire pots, position yourself on that hill above him. I want Pax and Sevro to stalk on each side of him. Brand and Vult, stay behind me." Patches ordered.
Jarn nodded, taking the fire pots and vanishing into the undergrowth. Patches saw him position himself above the horseman. He turned to address his group. "Alright, Jarn knows the signal. It's an eagles cry. Vult, you have hunter experience so I want you to do the cry. Pax and Sevro, when that bastard gets lit up, you two move in, strike at whatever's left with those throwing knives you made. Join us when Vult, Brand, and I charge into it. When you get close, rip and tear into what ever is left." Patches whispered. Pax and Sevro nodded, vanishing into the undergrowth as well.
Patches turned to Brand and Vult, nodding at the latter. Vult let out an eagles cry, the Nights Cavalry snapping at their direction, hookclaws raised.
And then, right before the Nights Cavalry was about to investigate, fifteen fire pots rained down on it, along with hundreds of throwing knives.
With the horse still thrashing, the rider raised its hookclaws, deflecting some of the incoming knives. But the relentless assault began to take its toll. The creature's armor heated up, causing burns that forced it to break formation and stagger.
The beings horse dispelled itself, too damaged to stand.
Patches knew this was their moment. "Now! Charge!" he bellowed, leading the assault. Brand, Vult, Pax, and Sevro surged forward, their wolf pelts blending with the shadows of the trees. They moved like a well-coordinated pack, encircling their prey.
The Nights Cavalry swung its hookclaws wildly, attempting to fend off the attackers. Patches ducked under a swipe, using his agility to close the distance. He stabbed at the creature's legs, aiming for the exposed joints in its armor. Brand and Vult took to the sides, hacking and stabbing at the arms to bring it down.
The monster managed to land a glancing blow on Vult, knocking him to the ground. But Patches was quick to react, leaping onto the creature's back and driving his dagger into the gap between its helmet and chest plate. The rider let out a strangled cry, its movements growing more erratic.
"Finish it!" Patches shouted. Brand and Pax surged forward, their weapons finding purchase in the weakened armor. With a final, coordinated effort, they brought the Nights Cavalry to its knees. Patches walked up to the rider, leaning down.
"Tell yer boss that Patches the Fearless did this to ya."
Patches brought down his pike, stabbing right between the helmet and neck plate, killing it instantly. Patches reached down, and grabbed the hookclaws. They'd shrunk down to his size, thank the gods, but he'd need practice with them.
Letting out a few practice swings, Jarn whistled, moving down the hill.
"New claws eh, boss? Now you really look like a wolf!" Jarn laughed out, the rest of his crew snickering with him.
Patches let out a crooked grin, covered in blood, he must look like quite a sight. "Shut up ya bastards. Let's move," Patches commanded, his voice cutting through the early morning silence. "We have more of Godrick's dogs to put down."
He was right. These hounds were a LOT better than his old crew.
Tarkus tightened his grip on his great sword and shield, the familiar weight reassuring in his hand.
He advanced cautiously, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement. The ground was littered with the remains of previous challengers, their bones picked clean by scavengers.
A rustling sound to his left drew his attention. He turned just in time to see a malformed beast lunge at him, its claws extended and teeth bared. Tarkus sidestepped the attack with surprising agility for his size, bringing his great sword down in a powerful arc. The blade cleaved through the creature's torso, severing it cleanly in two. Gold and black ichor splattered across his armor, a testament to the corruption of the Erdtree, but Tarkus paid it no mind. He had faced worse.
Another creature, emboldened by the fall of its comrade, charged at him from behind. Tarkus spun on his heel, his sword meeting the beast's advance with a resounding clash. He pushed forward, using his massive frame to overpower the creature. With a mighty shove, he sent it sprawling to the ground. Tarkus rushed forward and slammed his shield down onto its neck, killing it instantly, its body twitching as life left it.
As if on cue, a larger beast emerged from the shadows, its eyes glowing with a malevolent light. This one was different, more formidable than the others. It stood on two legs, its muscular body covered in coarse fur. In its hands, it wielded a massive club, the weapon caked with the blood of previous victims. Tarkus could feel his eyes widen. 'An evolved runebear?' He mused, readying his weaponry.
Tarkus felt a thrill of anticipation. This was the challenge he had been waiting for. He raised his great sword, the blade glinting in the faint light. The beast roared, a sound that reverberated through the trees and sent shivers down the spine of any lesser warrior. But Tarkus was not afraid.
He charged at the beast, his movements precise and calculated. The ground shook beneath his feet as he closed the distance, his sword poised to strike. The beast swung its club in a wide arc, aiming to crush him with a single blow. Tarkus ducked under the swing, his muscles coiled like a spring.
With a mighty leap, he brought his sword down on the beast's arm, severing it at the shoulder. The creature howled in pain, black blood spurting from the wound. But it was not finished. It swung its remaining arm wildly, trying to catch Tarkus off guard. He parried the blow with his shield, running inwards, using the momentum to drive the blade deep into the beast's chest.
The creature staggered, its eyes losing their glow as life drained from its body. Tarkus yanked his sword free, stepping back as the beast collapsed at his feet. He stood over the fallen foe, his chest heaving with exertion. The battle was won, but his mission was not yet complete. 'Now, to take the head. Captain would need proof-' His thoughts were cut off.
Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed through the clearing, shaking the very ground beneath him. Tarkus turned to see the source of the sound, his eyes widening as a massive creature emerged from the shadows. This was no ordinary beast; it was a monstrous abomination, a fusion of man and beast, its body covered in twisted, writhing vines.
The creature's eyes glowed with an unholy light, and its mouth opened in a snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth. It wielded a massive axe, the weapon crackling with holy energy.
He braced himself, his grip tightening on his sword. The creature charged at him, its movements surprisingly fast for its size. Tarkus met its advance head-on, his sword clashing against the axe with a resounding crash. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through his body, but he held his ground.
The creature swung its axe in a wide arc, aiming to cleave him in two. Tarkus implanted his feet into the ground, raised his shield, and met the attack. The axe slammed against his shield, but Tarkus held firm. Using his strength, he lifted the creature with his shield, and slammed it down beneath him. Tarkus roared and ripped down his greatsword, aiming for the neck, but the blade bit into the creature's side, eliciting a roar of fury.
The being then rose up into the air, holy magic surrounding it, and slammed down with all its might.
Tarkus raised his shield to block the blow, the force of the impact driving him to one knee. He gritted his teeth, using all his strength to push back against the creature. With a mighty effort, he shoved the beast away, rising to his feet once more.
The two combatants circled each other, their eyes locked in a deadly dance. Tarkus knew he could not afford to let his guard down for even a moment. The creature was powerful, but it was also reckless. He needed to find an opening, a moment of weakness he could exploit.
The beast roared again, charging at him with renewed fury. Tarkus waited until the last moment, then sidestepped the attack, his sword slashing across the creature's back. The beast howled in pain, but it was not finished. It swung its axe in a wild, desperate arc, catching Tarkus off guard.
The blow struck him in the shoulder, the holy energy searing through his armor and into his flesh. Tarkus grunted in pain, but he did not falter. He swung his sword with all his might, driving the blade deep into the creature's chest. The beast staggered, its eyes losing their glow as it fell to its knees.
With a final, powerful thrust, Tarkus drove his sword through the creature's heart. The beast let out one last, anguished roar, then collapsed to the ground, its body dissolving into a pool of golden ichor, leaving only its heart to loot.
Tarkus stood over the fallen guardian, his chest heaving with exertion. He had won. The minor Erdtree was secure, all threats dealt with for now. He rested his blade on the ground, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over him.
Tarkus picked up the heart with heaving breaths, and started making his way back to Castle Morne.
As he walked away, his great sword resting on his shoulder, Tarkus felt a sense of grim satisfaction. He had proven himself in battle, and he would continue to do so. For his lord, for the Lands Between, and for the future that lay ahead.
Tarkus the Ironclad had claimed his first victory, but he knew there were many more battles to come. And he would face them all with the same unyielding determination, the same iron will that had brought him this far. He would not falter. He would not fall.
Pelinals gaze turned towards the courtyard, where Tarkus was assembling a group of soldiers for training. The man was a formidable warrior, a useful addition to his forces. Pelinal expected him to simply just survive, not butcher the beings that were there. But when he saw him, covered in blood, heart of a beast in his hand, Pelinal knew that he was given a monster.
The envoy from Gideon Ofnir had left him with much to consider. An alliance with the All-Knowing? It was a tempting proposition. Strength in unity, they claimed. But Pelinal knew better than to trust words alone. He had seen too many false promises, too many betrayals in his time.
Rage tugged in his heart at the thought of promises. He had made a promise to Huna, to protect him. And yet he still died, arrows ripping apart his body.
Pelinal's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned to see Edgar approaching, his expression one of respect mixed with concern.
"My lord," Edgar said, bowing slightly. "The preparations are underway. Our forces are training hard, and the morale is high. But I must ask... do you truly trust this Gideon Ofnir?"
Pelinal's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing. "Trust is a rare commodity, Edgar. Gideon Ofnir may be useful, but trust is earned, not given freely. I will meet with him, and I will judge his intentions myself. Until then, we prepare for any outcome."
Edgar nodded, his expression resolute. "As you command, my lord. The men are ready. They will follow you into battle without hesitation."
"Good," Pelinal replied, his voice a low growl. "We will need every ounce of their loyalty and strength. The days ahead will be fraught with danger and uncertainty. But we will prevail. We must."
"Gather Alexander and Tarkus, we will meet in the war room together. Our outposts have secured most of the Peninsula, we now move forward to Limgrave." Pelinal commanded.
"Yes, my lord." Edgar spoke, before turning and exiting the throne room.
When Edgar left, Pelinal let out a sigh, and looked upwards to the night sky.
"Akatosh... Kynareth... What would you have me do?"
Pelinal Whitestrake stood in the war room, surrounded by his trusted advisors. Edgar, Alexander, and Tarkus listened intently as Pelinal outlined his strategy.
"We will advance into Limgrave," Pelinal declared, his voice resolute. "Our outposts have secured the Peninsula, but we must not grow complacent. Gideon Ofnir's envoy may seek alliance, but we cannot trust him fully. We must be prepared for any outcome."
Maps of the Lands Between were spread out, annotated with notes and markers representing various factions and troop movements which were supplied from the scouts that Patches had sent.
Edgar stood at attention near the door, moving to the table, while Alexander and Tarkus were already present, their expressions serious. A palpable tension filled the room, as everyone awaited Pelinal's words.
Pelinal took his place at the head of the table, his presence commanding immediate attention. He leaned forward, his piercing gaze scanning the maps before him.
"Edgar," he began, his voice steady and authoritative, "report on the current status of our forces in the Weeping Peninsula."
"My lord," Edward began, "Our troops have secured most of the Peninsula. The morale is high, and our forces are well-equipped thanks to the efforts of our blacksmiths. The banished knights have integrated well with the recruits. Training is ongoing, and we are ready to advance at your command."
Pelinal simply nodded, an acceptable report.
Edgar spoke up, his expression serious. "What is our first move, my lord?"
"We will divide our forces," Pelinal explained. "Edgar, you will lead a contingent to Fort Haight. Secure it and use it as a staging ground for further operations. Fort Haight is critical for controlling the eastern approach to Limgrave."
Edgar studied the map, nodding. "Understood. It will be done, my lord."
Pelinal then turned to Alexander, the warrior's body shaking with anticipation. "Alexander, your strength is unmatched. I need you to rally the troops and prepare them for the front lines. You will lead the charge from the bridge into the heart of Limgrave. Your presence will inspire them, and your combat prowess will be crucial in the battles to come."
Alexander's eyes lit up with fervor. "Ah, milord! Fear not, my friend. I shall rouse the hearts of our soldiers, and together, we will crush our foes beneath our might!"
Pelinal allowed a small smile at Alexander's enthusiasm before addressing Tarkus. "Tarkus, you will lead unit of your warriors to cut off the western side of Limgrave from Stormveil, allowing nothing past. Target merchants and supply wagons in the area."
Tarkus nodded, his expression determined. "Aye, Captain."
Pelinal continued, outlining their overall strategy. "Our goal is to create a pincer movement, cutting off Godrick's forces and squeezing them between our two fronts. Edgar's forces will pressure from the east, while Alexander's troops hold the line and push forward from the south. Tarkus, your team will create chaos within their stronghold, starving them out, making them desperate."
Edgar's eyes gleamed with understanding. "This will divide their attention and resources, weakening their overall defense." However, Edgar still had one glaring question.
"My lord, what will your role be in this campaign?" Edgar asked, his tone respectful but curious.
Pelinal's gaze moved from the map to his commanders, his eyes filled with steely resolve. "I will lead the central assault, along with Alexander. My presence on the battlefield will draw the enemy's attention and force them to commit their forces to our front. This will give you the opportunity to execute your missions with less resistance."
"My lord, your plan is indeed bold, but I have questions about the movements to Fort Haight. If we face a great defense, how will we ensure our men hold the line long enough for reinforcements to arrive?" Edgar questioned.
Pelinal, his gaze steady, replied, "We will use the misbegotten scouts we acquired after I killed their leader to establish a series of hidden supply caches along the route to sustain your forces. Our scouts will be positioned to alert us of any significant enemy movements, ensuring we can react swiftly."
Edgar, his concern evident, asked, "And how will we maintain the morale and stamina of our troops during prolonged engagements? The rigors of battle can wear even the strongest men down."
Pelinal's eyes gleamed with determination. "We shall implement a rotation system for our frontline soldiers, allowing them periods of rest and recuperation. Reserve forces will be ready to support any faltering positions. Our supply units will work tirelessly to sustain our army's strength. My only glaring concern is the lack of magic users in our force. Edgar, has your daughters teachings caught on to any of the troops yet?" Pelinal enquired.
"No, my lord. They do not possess the aptitude for magic as she does." Edgar answered.
Tarkus queried, "What if the enemy mounts a formidable counterattack? What contingencies do we have in place?"
Pelinal's expression grew resolute. "Should the enemy rally in force, we must be prepared to adapt. Edgar, if Fort Haight becomes untenable, retreat to the Bridge of Sacrifice. If you have taken the fort yet are bogged down, hold for reinforcements. Alexander, if you are overwhelmed on the southern front, and I am not there, regroup at the Bridge of Sacrifice. Tarkus, if Stormveil sends out soldiers to deal with your group, you are to retreat back to the front where Alexander and I will be fighting and assist us. If we are not there, try to make contact with Patches. From what I hear, he lies within the Mistwood, assassinating targets for us."
"Captain, who is this Patches? I know he is one of your generals, but I know little of the man himself. Can we truly trust someone whose methods are so... unconventional?" Tarkus enquired.
Alexander, his voice gruff yet tempered with respect, added his perspective. "Tarkus, I've fought alongside Patches. He's a wild one, but his heart is in the right place. He knows how to hit the enemy where it hurts." Alexander lets out a booming laugh. "He's got no fear at all, that one." Alexander rumbles out.
Tarkus nodded, accepting the answer.
"You have your orders" Pelinal barked out, sending the men away. "Prepare, we will move after this meeting with the 'All-Knowing.'" He said, moving to his throne room.
"Margit." Godrick sneered out, draconic body filling his throne room. "You are bold to enter my throne room after the treachery you showed me."
"Godrick." Margit spoke as if there was rot on his tounge at the mention of his name. "There are movements, from the pretender's army. They are planning to move into Limgrave. Do with this what you will." Margit turned and went to leave, but was stopped by Godrick mentioning his name.
"Margit." Godrick smiled a sick grin. "Come, we will seek war counsel. I have no intention of handing Stormveil to this.. False idol."
Margit stilled. He could simply leave, however, if he did, he would be handing the great rune over on a silver platter. He growled, and faced Godrick.
"He seeks to isolate us." Margit explained.
Godrick frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "How so? We.. have access to all of Limgrave." he echoed, clearly unfamiliar with warfare. "Explain."
Margit approached a table where a map of the Lands Between lay spread out, pointing to the markers indicating the advancing positions of Pelinal's army. "They intend to divide our forces, nephew," Margit explained impatiently, "and cut off our supply lines from Stormveil. Their goal is to surround us and isolate our stronghold."
Godrick studied the map intently, trying to grasp the implications of the strategy. "Is there no way to stop them?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"There is, however I am uncertain of whatever tactic he will use. He could strike on any day, any hour, any second, and we would be far too weak. You could have predicted his movements with misbegotten scouts, however you lost them with Castle Morne. Your only choice of action here would be to surrender a part of Limgrave to him." Margit said, already growing tired of his nephews incompetence.
Godrick's eyes narrowed at Margit's blunt assessment, a mix of anger and shame crossing his draconic features. The truth in Margit's words stung deeply; he had underestimated Pelinal Whitestrake's cunning, and now Stormveil faced the prospect of being outmaneuvered on its own grounds.
"You speak of surrendering territory," Godrick muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "To the pretender... to Pelinal. I will not entertain such weakness."
Godrick swallowed. He would have to endure this humiliating act only once, and then never think of it again.
Slowly, Godrick began to bring down his body, kneeling before Margit.
"Morgott. I give you permission over my castle, and my troops, for however long this pretender lives." Godrick muttered. Margit was suprised, which he hid under a veneer of impassiveness. However, an undiscernible glint appeared in his eyes.
This reminded him of the sewers, when he would play war games with Mohg.
"Rise, Godrick," Margit commanded evenly, his voice carrying authority. "Your pledge is noted."
Godrick stood slowly, his jaw clenched with a mix of defeat and humiliation. He had made his decision, albeit begrudgingly, and now he would have to live with the consequences.
However, a dark part of him rejoiced, for now Pelinal was not facing off against Godrick the Grafted, no.
Pelinal Whitestrake was now locked in a war with Morgott, the Omen King himself.
Pelinal sat upon his throne, body not needing sleep, only a couple minutes of relaxation needed.
He closed his eyes as he felt Huna appear, feminine hands closing over his gauntleted ones.
He could not bear to look at him, the pain, the arrows, everything. It made his heart break every time he laid his eyes on the visage of him, so life-like, so human like. Pelinal could not believe that it was simply an illusion. It made him want to go into an ungodly rage, to rip and tear anything that crossed him.
He could hear Huna's voice, whispering into his ear, ignoring his helmet all together.
"Huna," Pelinal whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible beneath the weight of his emotions. He could almost feel the gentle breath of Huna's voice against his ear, a sensation that both comforted and tortured him.
"Why did you leave me?" Pelinal's voice cracked with pain, the question echoing through the empty chamber. His fingers tightened involuntarily around the armrests of his throne, the metal groaning faintly under the pressure.
"I failed you," Pelinal admitted, his voice raw with regret. "I couldn't protect you."
Huna's presence seemed to waver, a flickering echo in the dimly lit chamber. The ghostly figure reached out, as if trying to touch Pelinal's armored cheek, a gesture that held both tenderness and sorrow.
"You are not alone, Pelinal," Huna's voice whispered, a faint echo in the stillness. "I am with you, always."
And like the wind, Huna disappeared. Pelinal wanted to do anything, to scream, to shout, to rage. But he couldn't. So he sat there. Drafting. Planning.
Stormveil would be his.
Blaidd moved up the steps to his mistress, two large scrolls in his hand. Reaching the top, he kneeled to Ranni.
"My lady, the situation in Limgrave is.. Concerning. Here are the reports I have gathered from my time in Mistwood and the Weeping Peninsula." Blaidd spoke out, Rannis ever watchful eye on him.
Ranni unraveled the scrolls, and seemed to read all of it in mere minutes.
"So.. A new piece enters the board. Not a king, nor a queen, but a lord. Interesting." Ranni spoke, delicate voice reverberating through her tower. "I thank thee, Blaidd. Thou have proven most useful." She said, closing the scrolls.
She would be watching this conqueror, very closely. And if he got in her way, he would die.