Damn these hands. Get away from me, foul beasts! Gods, is all grandeur truly dead? Is this a manor or an overgrowth?
Not far up the courtyard path, the trespassing knight was already in the midst of combat.
"Get back!"
A smaller hand monster was impaled and hoisted up into the air on a crimson-slathered blade. A downward slash sent it tumbling down the slope and continued on to hack into another hand's fingers.
Sweeping, broad arcs were cut by the flamberge, spilling blood from the repugnant knuckles and buying the knight some room to maneuver.
Four remained, and for his purposes that numbered four too many. Like a stake, he plunged the greatsword upside-down into the wrist-adjacent stub of one hand and went all the way through. Still, his nerves jumped up in fright as another hand skittered up his shin by the fingers.
His right struggled to extricate the sword, his left shoved the assaulting hand down with its palm.
A third attacker jumped up and latched onto his helm, jockeying atop the dragon ornament on its peak. Though Arthur was outnumbered, the virtue of pure force remained on his side. The hand on his leg learned this when a backhanded swing commenced, the steel gauntlet smashing with blunt trauma.
At last the flamberge was free from the hole it had created, and it made a new one within the center of the fallen hand now. Two lived, one coming forward and the other wreaking havoc on his balance from above. The pushing and pulling and pulling and pushing was hardly pleasant for his neck. A finger or two even worked their way into the slit of his visor, poking at his face. Indeed, the dragon ornament made for fine leverage.
With his off-hand the knight lifted his helm and hurled it straight to the ground, striking the monster that dared to approach him. As the two of his foes struck each other and his helm scraped across the stone path, he clenched his left hand around the end of his blade and tightened his right around the handle. This time, though, he was not guarding. No, he intended to maim.
The sword, brought down as a guillotine, finished the fight once and for all. Surely the blade would suffer for this, but the greatest concern of a sword is to rend… not to persevere.
Some fingers were severed and, though others resisted, all bone, muscle and flesh yielded to the unrelenting attack. The cores of the hands ceased to move, yet their lost fingers wriggled and squirmed. It reminded him, in an inverse manner, of insects without heads and the way they would function even past fatal wounds… but only briefly and in vain.
For but a second, Knight Arthur hesitated. He refrained from bending over to retrieve his helm, confirming that the creatures were truly finished. Even after prodding one with the tip of his foot, safely armored within its sabaton, he was cautious. At last, though, he grabbed the blood-stained helm and tucked it between his arm and chest.
The ascent continued. Large crystalline growths gave some vibrant blue to the dull-green grass that grew much too tall. Clearly the royal family must have been in a rough financial situation if they could not afford even basic maintenance of their estate. His opinion of the place fell further and further.
Through multiple archways that served only to add a bit of prestige to the walk, he came to a building at last. Up the rickety wooden stairs and into some sort of chapel, he found empty, dust-smothered pews… well-suited for a minute or two of respite and regathering.
He was in good health, and he would not complain about that. The bulk of the fighting, he hoped, lay behind him.
All was silent.
"Pray with me… would you, Melina?"
The knight's companion took a seat beside him on the wooden pew. To his left sat his steel helm; to his right she did.
"Of course."
O, Eternal Queen, though the taint of darkness sprouts across this land, let me be resolute. Who else could banish the dark other than you and your golden mercies, your grace in my being and my efforts? Let not the horror of what stood before or what lies ahead deter me. Bolster the virtues I hope for in myself, if even a single one is present.
Gauntlet-clad hands clasped against each other in prayer. Were there beads of prayer within his grasp, they would have hung loosely from in-between his fingers and palms.
'Marika… your purposes are mine, though mine are not yours. Still, we would mutually wish this Tarnished upon the throne… why else would he see grace when no others do? May he take the throne. For his sake alone do I pray. My own purpose is clear, and I am in possession of the resolve to see it through.'
Bare, spectral fingers sat folded in a lap, idle. They neither fidgeted nor wrung; she always was the calmer of the two. Oft reactive, rarely active.
The prayerful silence became just a silence as the two individually concluded.
"Melina?"
"Yes?"
"... last week, while I recovered from my duel with Godrick… I spoke with Rogier late at night. We had much to discuss. History, magic, murder. One particular event - no, a chain of events - disturbed me a bit. He told me that somebody stole the 'Rune of Death', or a fragment of it, and used it to murder the most beloved son of Queen Marika. Murder a demigod… unprecedented. I did not think much of it until recently, so this may seem sudden, but there is something so profoundly wrong about that concept to me."
Upon his knees his hands rested. Washed countless times in countless basins and rivers, they still bore the pungent, iron stench of blood. It was one that only he could smell.
"These hands have killed… and they shall kill again and again and again until we have reached the end. I harbor no doubt that you witnessed as I put that wretch Godrick to the sword. He was but a pretender to a 'golden lineage', and he died as one. The kind of murder that struck Godwyn the Golden… that is different, though. His very soul was destroyed. You know this just as I do, nothing can die a true death without Destined Death. The Elden Ring is shattered… and no being may be put to rest. Everybody is returned in body and in soul, even if it takes so very long… but not Godwyn. He suffers an undeath most awful."
"Some things can never be made whole once shattered. That is an unfortunate fact in the Lands Between."
"I know. It… well, this is not the full extent of my concerns. Above all, I wonder just how angry Queen Marika must be at us for it. Her wrath must be great. Perhaps this is all a… a divine punishment, or a lashing-out. Rogier told me that the death of her son was the catalyst for the Shattering. I see little motive for a demigod to steal an aspect of Destined Death, for if it were sicced upon them in turn, they would be just as vulnerable as Godwyn. It would let all hell loose to have even a sliver of it in public hands. Surely… it would not be worth it, risking one's own destruction simply to kill the most undeserving demigod of them all. How a man of our kind might steal Destined Death is beyond me completely, but… the possibility…"
The Kindling Maiden grew more and more to understand her Tarnished knight's concerns… and their root. He hadn't spoken about this before… but she imagined he kept plenty of thoughts to himself.
"... you believe Marika to be merciful and kind, yes?"
He nodded with little delay.
"Yes… yes, of course. Her Eternal Majesty must be such, to consider somebody like myself worthy… despite all of my failings."
"Then… you should have nothing to fear. If Marika is as you perceive her… she would not blame anyone besides those responsible. She would not punish all of her subjects for the wrongdoings of one."
"I truly hope so. If I am wrong… perhaps the lot of us are forsaken. Perhaps we have all come to die. Would she really wish such? Would she bring us all to fight and die… us long-descended from the greatest generation of warriors, us who were destined for more?"
Melina placed a hand on his shoulder. Though she was burned and bodiless, and he was enveloped in thick steel, he could feel the contact for all it was. Comfort. Assurance. Friendship.
"Thank you."
"Arthur… pray with me again, if you would like."
A knight and a daughter, seeking a Great Rune… a fragment of the Elden Ring. A knight seeking the throne of a Lord. A daughter seeking the destiny from her mother.
With the blessing of the Sovereign Eternal, surely they would find the objects of their desire.
Where is the throne room in this damned hovel?
What groundskeepers would let this place fall apart like it has?
Would these bastards stop shooting at me?
Across the high walkway, overgrown with mossy-green and crumbled at the edges, magical traps sprung up under many a step. Raya Lucarian soldiers endured service as puppets, disposable and common. The knight cut their strings as he threw his full force into every swing of the greatsword.
I resent this place. The air is stagnantly-thick and the grounds are in worse shape than even the lavatory of a serf.
I want to go home. I could bring Roderika with me, and we could...
Ah, yes, there is an entire ocean and quite some land between here and home. Well, I want to go back to the Hold. Or Limgrave. That would be nice.
This small sword, this short thing of glintstone and wood, was hewn apart by the steel force of a flamberge. The stone-crowned sorcerer crumpled, skewered and kicked off of the undulating blade, tumbling half-down the flight of stairs. His small metal roundshield did him no good.
Perhaps I could simply settle in Stormveil, and dispose of all of the rotten corpses… and the blood… and the even-more-rotten corpses.
This 'mend the Elden Ring' business is hardly pleasant, you know.
Roderika, she could live there alongside… no, she must loathe the place even more deeply than I do, even after she bid her men farewell. No, that would not work.
Between the slow troll's legs, up the first flight of stairs and onward; Ranni's Great Rune awaited him and him alone.
Forget it, I am a knight. This is what I was made for. I'll not falter now.
The Elden Ring calls to me… grace calls to me. Even in my sleep I feel gold clinging to me, pushing my journey step-by-step.
Who am I to deny the conspiring forces of fate their champion?
The one set of stairs split into two, a long-dry fountain in the middle. The growths of ages hung from its levels. Proving a swift foe, the page stepped back and at the same time fired a flaming bolt. It pierced through his armor, lodged into the edge of his shoulder. May the Eternal Queen Marika damn the accursed cowards. Would they not fight him like men? Damn them all.
This is what I live for.
If I must, this is how I will die.
I would have it no other way.
Though swift, the page's thrusting sword could not withstand the sheer heft of the greatsword crashing against it. The servant's fineries were torn up like tissue in raging hands, blood soaking through from the gut-wound. His killer knocked his failing body to the side and rushed up the stairs.
I shall never die, though. I am all that is iron of the human spirit.
All that is steel of the flesh and bone.
All that I need to be. All that is needed of me.
Must have been some sort of ceremonial place, this shallow-yet-wide pool with chairs all around. He could hardly divine its proper use, but a new purpose for the space became apparent as the spirit of a mounted knight came into view. It had presented itself so suddenly, as if riding down on a beam of the sun's light.
O, Sovereign Eternal, I feel you are with me.
Roderika, dear, you dwell in my heart even as I am alone, for it is yours.
With the grace of gold and the love of a pure soul, who could yield?
This knight was not like that which he had fought on horseback earlier in the day. No, this one had a few tricks up his sleeve. At least, Arthur first presumed this adversary to be a man… though the silver armor's shape betrayed a feminine nature. No matter; man or woman, a battle is a battle.
"We fight as knights… not as dogs."
Around and around. Two spectral steeds, two knights. One a spectre herself, the other a man of absolute flesh and steel.
Around in a circle, the circle of the royal moongazing waters, galloping within the bounds set by grass and chairs. Water kicked up on either side in this measured dance of hooves and blades.
A glintstone greatbow's projectile narrowly missed, and a rushing swing of the flamberge was halted by a polearm's hilt. Through it all, they remained saddled and composed.
Indeed, Loretta and Arthur fought as knights… not as dogs.
The flamberge was sent flying from Arthur's hand by a swing of the war-sickle's blade. It took all of his steadiness to remain upright when the Royal Knight issued a sweeping slash to his chest. Not enough to cut through a thick steel breastplate, but enough for her to seize the initiative.
Though he braced himself for a second strike, instead he saw her raising up her armament and conjuring a quintet of magical swords above her. Two on each shoulder, a fifth over her head.
He had only made a few meters of distance before they fired off. The first duo impacted squarely upon his helm, one hit Torrent in the rear and the final pair smashed a chair apart in their miss.
A blow to the head from a couple of glintblades was only disorienting briefly. He'd had worse. His main weapon gone, Knight Arthur resorted to drawing the glintstone arming sword. Stopping to pick up his greatsword would be asking to lose this duel.
Loretta closed the distance. Swifter than he could react beyond readying his sword, she had guided her horse to leap up from the water and, in one motion, descended upon her foe with a magical, almighty slash.
In the few moments he had to process this attack, he was awed. The Royal Knight's blade gleamed with the power of glintstone, and he was but a speck of light filtered through the fog in comparison.
The slash hit him when she faced his side, and the back of his left leg - a portion covered only by his trousers - sustained a deep cut. It was a significant wound, and fittingly so, as first blood was drawn.
A sound blow… but no more. No more shall I bleed.
Torrent, though sent back from catching the end of the attack, remained upright. Ever the stalwart horse, he was. If he were an average horse comprised of skin and bone, perhaps he might have been cut in two. Such was the strength and weight put into the swing.
His rider was prepared for the next incoming attack - an overhead slam. He brought the arming sword up to intercept it… but not with the blade of steel. No, he summoned forth its magical greatsword, an equalizer that could stand against the sheer weight of Loretta's polearm.
In a chain of motions, all resolute, the war-sickle was directed away, the colossal greatsword drawn back and then swung straight through Loretta's midsection. All of his focus, all of his resolve, all of his will was put into that one swing… for such a worthy adversary deserved no less than his greatest effort.
The magical greatsword was a mystical thing… its size and power seemed to scale with his focus. As he poured his energy and his mind into the blue blade, it grew longer and more powerful. Indeed, it became to steel what steel was to iron - the apotheosis of a warrior, an ascended means of waging war.
Whether it worked because of her nature as a spectral illusion, or the sheer power of the Carian greatsword (or a combination of both), he knew not… but as Loretta's horse staggered back, a slight grin formed. He had brought the beginnings of a rout, a triumph waiting to be carved.
As the Royal Knight began the encircling ride again, so did he, and she cast up the sigil of the Carian family. It hung over her helm's golden embellishment as an emblem of pride, deep-blue pride in her choice of master.
All or nothing. No guards, no evasion.
The two knights faced one another, as did their horses. Torrent let out a fierce huff and stamped at the shallow water below. The knight of Marika thrust the Carian greatsword to the sky, for he was ready; the knight of Rennala spun the silver war-sickle within her hands and imbued its blade with glintstone once more.
HYAH!
Spectral silver raced towards bloodied steel, and bloodied steel raced towards spectral silver. The two had a commonality in that their weapons were of glintstone nature, and they equally struck their targets. Each knight went for the other's chest, and no place else.
At last Knight Arthur was knocked from Torrent, crashing onto his back within the water. The glintstone greatsword had retracted into its scabbard-sword of steel and gold during the tumble.
He rolled onto his knees and raised the blade to guard against any subsequent swing, but witnessed Royal Knight Loretta's spirit dissipate into the air. Another worthy opponent gone.
"We may call this a draw, madam knight… for true victory is in the honor of a fight, and we have shared in it."
Past the water, an archway led to a most… magical area of Caria Manor.
Ruins of brick, mossen by time, were shrouded in a typical Liurnian fog. Giant glintstone growths were quite abundant, but he was here to do more than gawk at unusual environmental pieces.
Three towers, he could make out. The closest two lay inaccessible, sealed by magical barriers. The third was not.
At the highest level of the high tower, the knight stood before the princess, his unsteady and injured gait muffled slightly by the red carpet. That carpet's color was good; his bloody trail might be less conspicuous.
"Greetings. Are you Lunar Princess… Ranni… wait, I know you! What are you doing in Liurnia, Renna?"
That blue woman from Limgrave was here.
"Ah, again we cross paths. I said my name was Renna when last we met… but such was a lie. I am the witch Ranni. Thou'rt an unexpected visitor."
Of course she lied. The true royal way.
"Then forgive my trespass… Your Highness."
The knight took a knee, and his wound brought pain. It was just as in his homeland, showing his subservience to the royals he would one day fight for.
"Wait… witch?"
"I stole Death long ago and search now for the dark path… that I might upend the whole of it, and rid the world of all that came before."
"I am sorry, what? 'Upend the whole of it'? Wait, you 'stole death'?"
Behind the visor of his helm, the intrepid knight raised an eyebrow.
"Indeed, I stole Death. Does thine ambition bear relation to such an act as mine? Thou must have some business in mind, to come all this way… though I have no memory of inking thee an invitation."
Stolen death…
"... well, yes, some business dwells on my mind. I simply… came here to inquire as to the whereabouts of your Great Rune, which I am told you discarded. If you have no need of it, then I would ask you relinquish it to me."
"Ah, another Tarnished groping about for power at the behest of Queen Marika. Quite the dogged one, aren't we?"
Slight offense was taken. Arthur was always a tad thin-skinned when it came to the nose-in-the-air words of his supposed 'betters'... even now, as that skin was covered by thick steel. Still, it would do no good to succumb to wrath; such a thing should only be brought to bear against the unjust. Godrick, and the like.
This short witch-princess hardly seemed to be of the grafted bastard's depravity… though, looking at her more closely, she did have four arms. Two sets of hands rested in her lap, folded over each other. It was perhaps the only bodily feature more 'unique' than her blue skin.
"... if you would seek to view my goals in such a light, then that light does not necessarily leave shadows. I do seek power, this is true, yet I am no dog leashed by grace like some believe us Tarnished to be."
"Grace hath no need to leash you in order to direct you along its chosen path. An incentive might prove more compelling than a directive. The Rowa raisin and the stick… as Torrent may prefer to see it. Indeed, Marika findeth no issue in enabling her bidding to be done."
Her words were still so above-it-all, so haughty and self-assured… but he ceased to take offense, for his mind was occupied with another train of thought…
She… stole Death. Her.
The knight stood up, despite his leg's injury. He cared not if it was insolent or if he acted in a manner beyond his station.
He would never kneel before her again. This he swore.
"Enough. Tell me… did you kill Godwyn the Golden and lead to this mess we all must suffer? Did you? Tell me!"
"Indeed. I stole a fragment of the Rune of Death, and used it to forge the godslaying black knives through fearsome rite. I did it all."
Arthur thrust an accusatory finger towards her; had he been four feet closer, it would have poked her in the one good eye she had.
"Foul killer… you! It is your fault that these lands are a hell, that the Ring itself is in pieces… that all of us Tarnished are here to die. That so many have died already, and so many others cannot die. Prepare yourself for combat, or resign and perish; either way makes no difference to me!"
The expression on Ranni's face (or, rather, faces) did not change. She was cold and leaden, a perfect exemplar of the Carian night.
"My purpose resteth beyond this earth. What hopest thou to profit in opposing it? Wouldst thou consider thyself a bulwark to the 'unholy', a contender fit for Lordship? Queen Marika surely views thee as a fine piece upon her golden board and little else… for the time being. Thou'rt liable to be expelled from her graces… once she catches wind of thine odoriferous breath and lacking wits."
The knight's hot blood, burning within a suit of steel, unwound him further and further. He balled his fists as the fumes of exasperation grew more unbearable by the second. His hand searched his person for the spirit-calling bell, and he flung it straight into the chest of the blue witch who, a month prior, gave it to him.
"Speak not to me of the 'unholy', you vile witch! Any purpose that would involve causing war and destruction as you have is unholy. Unforgivable. I've no need to suffer haughtiness and lecturing at the hands of a murderer! You know nothing of Her Eternal Majesty, so banish her mention from your poison-salivating mouth. One who killed the golden son of Queen Marika must be of a foul kind."
His hand moved up to ready his flamberge. Behind his eyes burned a blackened magma of anger. Even with the severe laceration upon his leg, he was willing. He was ready.
I should do it. Right here. Right now. I must. If I am a knight, I must put vile murderers to the sword… my oath demands no less, even if it was only sworn to myself. She is a fraction of the size of that grafted bastard, and sits smugly with her empty hands folded, just taunting my blade to cleave through her… I should simply…
One step closer, one hand on the hilt, one inch out of the sheath.
"Act in Queen Marika's honor, then. Her favor surely is all-powerful. If thy wish is now to die so eagerly, come closer and taste Death. Godwyn and thee shall be of the same end."
Her tone and expression - utterly devoid of fear or anger - drove a shudder through the knight's soul. It was like ice, and her one-eyed stare froze up his courage, cooled over the magma of fury.
"You would not…", the knight asserted as he shook his head.
His leg-wound - bloody and bleeding - struck him now. Of all times, it had to be now. He was driven to his knees by it, one leg weary from the journey, the other slashed at the thigh. His right arm propped him up, keeping him from falling flat on his chest.
Arthur looked up at her, and the way she looked down on him now… it was sickening.
She was confident, but not arrogant… for arrogance would imply that she could not make good on her threats. He could feel it, she was not bluffing… at least, not entirely.
"Didst thou forget, Tarnished? Even with thine injuries vanished, thy demise could come about with a half-snap of my fingers. I need not even move. If I could destroy a demigod, such a wild ruffian as thee poseth no issue… even if 'tis thee who Marika conjureth her finest blessings for."
I am. I am. Why, then… can I not avenge her son? Avenge all lost in the Shattering because of the wretched woman before me?
This damned body… this damned heart… when I need them the most, they falter.
...
What is this? Where nests of gore and flesh surround my heart with fear, even the strongest of human foes do not… but she… she is a devil, for she has done so.
Dear gods.
"... alright, you. Consider it a mercy of my own… self-restraint by which I do not make good on knights' reputation for putting witches to the sword. Marika damn you."
He painfully forced himself to rise, hesitation plaguing his voice. The witch… utterly unaffected. Unmoved. Unbelievable.
"Her benediction surely shines upon thee, o noble Tarnished."
"Grace lights my way, and… agh… warms my spirit even in the bleakest heart of hell. I bestow upon you my coldest regards."
"Thou'rt unwise to my own ways if 'cold regards' are meant to sting."
The witch's reply, delivered with total apathy, elicited only a scowl from Knight Arthur.
"You know very well what I mean! Good-bye."
The indignant knight stormed straight towards the doorway, Ranni's only acknowledgement being an aloof huff. As he turned his back, the bell found itself hurled directly at the rear of his helm. The petty force of the petty act was befitting her small stature, and it achieved much more in irritating than injuring… especially as the bell chimed out from the impact with the helm.
"What in… very well, Your Lowness. The day will come when you face the reckoning of the Eternal Sovereign Marika, and we shall see how many bells you can throw at her."
Arthur took the bell back into his possession, half-tempted to return it again with equal or greater force, but ultimately disinclined to do anything other than leave.
In all of his anger, the knight forgot of the immense height and nearly fell from the top of the staircase which led down the tower.
Projections, transparent in all but spectral-white outline, waited inside as he made the descent. No doubt that witch meant them to jeer at him.
"... and that goes for you, as well, Iji! … actually, mind that not. You are a good fellow."
"You… you found Lady Ranni, I take it?"
...
"Oh, hello, Blaidd. I was just leaving, but it is good to see you."
"Ahh, long time, friend… but why are you…"
...
"... and it goes doubly for you, you masked devil!"
"What? Who are you? Another provincial Tarnished who…"
If that wretch Varré has shown anything, one cannot trust those in masks. I imagine this robed fellow is a smug knave.
Before leaving, he backhanded a stack of books on a table.
Ah, no matter. That is it. I am leaving. I have had enough of royals with multiple sets of arms. I loathe this place. I fought that cavalier and those damn hands for nothing.
The knight grumbled to himself as he departed for the Roundtable Hold once more, not stopping until the Table of Lost Grace stood before him. He never could complain when Queen Marika's blessings made themselves known.
Though he was delayed from meting out justice to Ranni by his injuries and her threat, he was not defeated… nor was he forever deterred.
His helm was placed on the table, as were his swords, and he slumped into a wooden chair. Grace, nestled within and above the circle of armaments embedded into the table, shone more brightly than ever before. The Table of Lost Grace… lost to all but him.
This… is not over. You bested my lesser part of man, warded me off… but in due time, I shall return.
I am Her Eternal Majesty's steel blade, and her golden light sheens my surface.
The Carian night, dark and cold, shall be vanquished by the blinding light of a golden dawn.