Roundtable Hold

The pair appeared out of the blue mist and into a quaint hub with a large circular table at the centre. Sitting atop a pyre made of swords was a large beacon of light; its golden hue overshadowed the fiery hearth situated to its side. Several doors led to different parts of the Hold, with one set of double doors tightly shut, barring any and all from entry. Next to the fireplace was a similar statue of the woman with her arms held aloft—a miniature version of the one Vergil once saw where his journey began. There was something strange about the place. Though entirely unfamiliar, it possessed a dream-like quality that the swordsman had experienced under different circumstances. Without knowing why, he somehow possessed the knowledge that whatever this place was, it existed outside the boundaries of time and space. A distant clanging of metal hitting metal could be heard off to the distance, which caught the swordsman's notice. However, there seemed to be another visitor waiting for him by the fireplace.

The man was encased in grey armour adorned with what looked to be eyes and ears that were made to resemble a beard. His face was partially obscured by the helmet, with its slits revealing the man's greying and sallow features. On his right hand was a sceptre of curious make, its tip designed to look like a hand grasping a pearl. With a gravelly voice confirming the man's aged appearance, the man spoke.

"Oh, this is a rare occasion. I can't remember the last time a new Tarnished made their way to the Roundtable." The man turned and slightly bowed, acknowledging the maiden's presence along with her strange new companion. The demonic swordsman eyed him with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

"Very well. As your senior, I bid you welcome. It is safe here. You may let down your guard."

"That remains to be seen, but I shall take your words into consideration."

The man returned the swordsman's open hostility. From what the maiden gathered, the two somehow possessed a similar disposition—an air of disdainful superiority that masked a fragility none were allowed to ever see. The maiden chuckled, which drew both men's attention. She knew that they would be instantly at each other's throats. It seems the colour of their hair was far from the only thing the two shared in common.

"Allow me a word of advice, as your senior. You are a mere visitor to the Roundtable, nothing more. A house guest, yet to earn their keep. Remember your place, newcomer."

Vergil responded with a cold dispassionate gaze.

"Allow me to provide you with a word of advice as well. I know my place, and it is not beneath you. I will not lower myself to your whims or demands." He scoffed at the old man, looking at him as if he were little more than a lowly pest. He noticed the old man's mutual irritation and kept his gaze.

"It seems I am not the one who needs a reminder of their place here."

"What a troublesome individual…Perhaps you should reconsider. If you refuse to comply with my requests, then I am afraid we shall have to settle this elsewhere. As I am sure you are aware, I am a rather…powerful sorcerer, and I would hate to have you experience that firsthand."

"Try me."

"You would do well to stand down, boy. The Roundtable Hold is for champions who have slain demigods and acquired a Great Rune. This is no mere shelter from the rain."

"I sense no power from you, human. And by the looks of things, it seems you lack a Great Rune as well."

The old man turned his gaze towards Melina, the last comment having struck a nerve. Despite this, the sorcerer could feel a mix of unfamiliar energies radiating from the younger warrior. As much as he wished to expel the man from his presence and the Hold, he knew very little about the ashen-haired warrior at present and did not wish to fight against an unknown threat. Of notice was the fact that the kindling maiden had personally shepherded the warrior into the Hold…a case that was thus far unprecedented. For reasons unbeknownst to him, a great deal of unearned importance was being given to the unruly guest, and Sir Gideon intended to uncover exactly why that was.

The two warriors glared daggers into one another, each refusing to give the other the satisfaction of losing composure. However, only one knew of the Roundtable's pact of nonaggression and eventually, the old man let out a deep sigh.

"There's nothing left to say. Be at your leisure."

"As a man is, so he sees." The swordsman smirked upon seeing the old man's eye twitch and walked away in satisfaction. Judging by the old man's reaction, he likely was not used to having his authority questioned. He turned, almost forgetting about his companion.

"That was…disappointing."

"How so?"

"I was expecting a bit more than just a few sparks…"

The maiden let out a light chuckle.

"Never have I seen one who could render the old man speechless. Most would simply choose not to bother."

"I despise those of his ilk. Especially ones who blindly misjudge their worth. In any case, how do I leave this place?"

"Allow me to show you." She warily placed a hand on her companion's forehead. "In your mind's eye, you should be able to picture a map of sorts. Each site of grace that you have restored will make itself known. You need only imagine the grace by its distinct surroundings, and you will appear next to it."

"Interesting…" The swordsman rested a finger near his chin, allowing the maiden's words to sink in. "And if I wish to travel between sites…?"

"The same method applies. Now that I have granted you entry into the Hold, you may use all its resources in any way you see fit."

The man nodded in understanding and then walked towards the sound of metal clashing against metal. In the next room was an aged, bearded blacksmith, whose features reminded the swordsman of the rebels in Castle Morne. To his back were enough weapons to supply an army. Each expertly crafted yet discarded as another addition to a line of personal failures. The smith spoke without looking up at the new visitor.

"You're a new face. No matter, it's all the same. Lay out your arms. Let's get smithing."

The swordsman cautiously eyed his belt and parted with his weapon, which was chipped and battered almost beyond repair. Its sheathe was in a similar state, barely resembling the material it first originated from with chunks having been lost in combat. The blade, frayed as it was, faintly pulsed with a bluish energy unique to its wielder. The smith's eyes grew wider as he carefully observed the slender blade.

"Blade nicks, blood, rust, bends…What in Marika's name did you do to this? It's serviceable, I'll give you that, but if it weren't for the magic holding this thing together, I'd have suggested tossing this out a long time ago."

"I am aware that my weapon has its flaws...as it has undoubtedly fallen into disrepair."

Vergil noted the dire condition of his blade—its edges chipped and worn—a constant reminder of the strange land that he now found himself inhabiting. He had hoped that regularly infusing the sword with demonic energy would help alleviate its shortcomings, but its poor condition begged to differ. As much as he was loathe to accept another's aid, his efforts at maintaining the earthly weapon had thus far been inadequate, and he would need the blacksmith's help to restore it to a more acceptable condition. The smith was nothing if not dedicated, if the piles of discarded weapons were any indication.

"I trust your judgment and craftsmanship, so please apply your skills as you see fit. If you are capable, I'd like to have it repaired and enhanced as much as possible."

"You really make a blacksmith cry, you know that?"

"I have no idea what you mean by that. I did not intentionally damage my weapon if that is what you are implying."

"Didn't mean anything by it. Now, this here's going to take a lot of work, and I'm in need of supplies specially suited for it. You wouldn't happen to have smithing stones, would you?"

The swordsman grunted and presented some dragon scales, minerals, and smithing stones he had found throughout his journey. He also decided to discard his estoc, which had long been relegated to a sidearm in case his katana gave out. Neither of these were of demonic make, thus Vergil held little sentimentality. Still, he appreciated how the tools had helped him survive thus far.

"How long will it take?"

"Give me a couple days. Bloody thing's so worn down a single swing'd be enough to break it."

"I am awa—wait, the sword is being affixed by magic?"

The Misbegotten smith looked closer at the blade and nodded.

"Can't say I've seen magic of this type before, but it's definitely been infused with something. No mistaking the way the blade shimmers…" The smith takes a closer look. "There is one thing about it though…"

"What is it?"

"It's got a lethal crack. I'm not exaggerating when I say that one swing could break this thing. It's sharp, almost unreasonably so, but it's on the brink. Magic or not, I've no idea why you would want to keep such a thing."

The swordsman looked at his left hand, slowly clenching it in suppressed irritation.

"I have my reasons…"

"Suit yourself. Now go on. Watching me won't make it go any faster."

"Hrmm…" The swordsman decided to explore the rest of the Hold in the meantime.

Roundtable Hold – Two "Days" Later

Melina watched as the wandering swordsman left the blacksmith to his own devices. The man cared little about the other inhabitants of the Roundtable and seemed much more interested in the dusty tomes that adorned the Hold's library. To his surprising credit, Sir Gideon recognized a well-read individual when he saw the swordsman's efforts and reluctantly directed Vergil toward the texts he sought. Of all the visitors that had come and gone through the Roundtable Hold, none other had ever shown interest in the libraries of knowledge contained therein—something that begrudgingly provoked a modicum of respect from the old man, as much as he was wont to deny it. To the armoured sorcerer, the swordsman's didactic pursuits came with an added benefit—what better way to keep an eye on a rival than sitting right across him?

Not many of the books in the Hold were written in the common tongue, but the younger warrior had plenty of time to spare, as he attempted to decipher the meaning behind some of the more obscure texts. To this end, the maiden was able to provide useful guidance on the words she recognized. At some point, a blindfolded man of the cloth attempted to suggest some texts regarding the Golden Order but immediately backpedaled once he realized that the man had no intention of joining it. A sharp, murderous glare was all it took for the man's survival instincts to take over. From what Melina observed, Sir Gideon appeared to share the same sentiment regarding the holy practitioner, and eventually, the two warrior-scholars engaged in a silent competition of sorts, each searching for answers they would never share with the other. Where one was engaged with past victories and obsessed with tracing the future from the past, the other focused on more practical matters of political allegiances, territories, and recent history. Vergil needed to know the factions that existed in the Lands Between, and how he could best maneuver himself once he set off once again. The process was tedious, especially when it came to sifting theological dogma from historical fact, but the precocious half-demon found it refreshing to immerse himself into the realm of words and ideas after fighting for so long. Soon he received the blacksmith's call and left the library, making a mental note to look further into Carian spellcraft at a later time.

"I take it that the task is complete?"

The blacksmith motioned towards his workbench as he continued to work on another weapon. The low hiss of the fiery forge was shortly interrupted by the continuous clanging of the smith's hammer. Vergil grasped his weapon, recognizing the craftsmanship behind its reconstruction. He looked at it with a critical eye, checking for signs of defects or damage, and was quite pleased when he found that there were none. Twirling the sword in his hand, the blue demon could hardly recognize it as the same entity he once wielded; it was as if the sword had been reborn. Gone was the lethal crack that ran along its length; likewise, the jagged teeth that had become of its edges. Vergil tested out the feel of its swings as he got into a familiar position and engaged in an oft-rehearsed sword dance. Through repeated waves and slashes, he noticed that the sword had become noticeably lighter yet despite this, the material felt more durable. Most alarmingly, Vergil found himself able to keenly sense the sword's latent energies and how they responded to his presence, lightly humming as if it longed to rejoin with its lost counterpart. Somehow, the smith had altered the sword's properties, transforming it from mere steel into a suitable conduit for his innate demonic energies. As Vergil examined the enhanced katana, he noticed some areas that could still be improved. Despite the changes it adopted, the sword still paled in comparison to the Yamato. Regardless, it would have to suffice until the swordsman found a way to return to his world. With a satisfied grin, Vergil replaced the sword into its sheathe and approached the blacksmith.

"You have my thanks for your skill and work. The blade feels stronger, sharper, more durable...and I can feel the difference immediately."

The smith simply grunted and continued to toil on the next weapon on his agenda. To Vergil's surprise, the smith was chained to his post. Said smith took notice of the swordsman's lingering gaze.

"I see you've noticed the chains. Nothing special. I'm a prisoner, and these are my chains." The high-pitched clang of the hammer hitting heated metal persisted as the Misbegotten prisoner spoke.

"I'm trapped by the Hold, undying, smithing for your fools." He takes a short pause. "That's all there is to it."

Despite having the tools and the strength to abscond with ease, the smith remained rooted to his post. Vergil was puzzled by the choice as there appeared to be no captors present in the Hold.

What sort of prisoner does not dream of escape?

Against his better judgment, the warrior spoke.

"I have met those of your kind under similar circumstances…"

The blacksmith cuts him off.

"Nah, don't read too much into it. I've no grudge against you. My being a prisoner is no fault of yours."

The pause was accentuated by a couple of clangs from his hammer.

"Besides, I don't mind smithing. Despite my differences, the weapons get stronger, all the same. Given time, technique never fails."

The swordsman nods in agreement.

"Besides, it helps me forget. The sheer terror of her…"

Vergil had no clue who the smith was referring to, nor did he find himself caring. Having had his fill of the Roundtable Hold for the time being, Vergil plotted out his next destination. As the maiden instructed, he closed his eyes and pictured the landmarks and places he had previously rested at, and sure enough, the graces he had once visited appeared in his mind's eye. Thanks in no small part to his research and the maiden's efforts, Vergil had determined the most probable locations of the so-called Shardbearers—demigods who each possessed fragments of the Elden Ring. If their might matched even a fraction of their legends, then they would doubtless be good targets to further draw out his strength. However, he needed a way to advance his mastery over the powers of sorcery—so as to not be found wanting in his current state. For that, he needed to journey towards the biggest library in all the Lands Between.