The Gods must die.

The problem with Oaths, even ones whispered, is that they are merely a promise. A pact with one's own self or, at times, with someone or something other.

Nonetheless, pact or not, promise or not, on their own, Oaths convey no strength.

No boon.

And if he is to carry out his self appointed task, strength is something he sorely needs and very much lacks.

The bite of the howling wind makes him clutch and pull the frayed robes closer to his withered frame. It doesn't help much, but its better than nothing.

Glancing at the sky and the westering orb only makes his scowl and the lines on his cheeks deepen, the gnawing of his stomach not helping matters but that is easily ignored for the most part after all the practice he's had since…

The distant howl of what he prays is wolves and not something worse finds his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his blade, preparing as he stops upon the cobblestone path, ears perched, waiting, the rush of blood filled with something primal. Of a body instinctively preparing to fight for its life if need be helps drive back the fatigue and the fog that's been clouding his thoughts ever since he'd all but been thrown out of Leyndell.

The drumming of his heart joined by the rustling of the grass fills his ears.

But no more howling.

Waiting a few moments longer, he allows his guard to drop and immediately the fatigue returns with a tenfold vengeance.

Something which is almost enough to make him bark a bitter laugh.

But he knows better than to do so.

Both because doing so could potentially alert the pack and also…

With a weary sigh his feet start dragging across the stones once more.

Shelter first, I'll hunt tomorrow.

He needs every scrap of strength he has left.

The Erdtree no longer favors nor fills him with its nourishing light after all.

And only now does he realize how much it mattered. When his bone ache non-stop, his muscles struggle to move at even a fraction of his old speed and his whole body burns with what he suspects to be a low grade fever.

The hunger doesn't help either.

Worst of all?

He knows that if he could but rest for a few days, he could recover—

Well no, not truly.

But while his old strength and the lofty heights he'd been aiming for might be out of reach for now…or ever. For he no longer cares for the seat. Let the damn thing rot and burn for all he cares.

Feeling as if he's but one missed step from death, that he can deal with.

Only, time is the one he doesn't have.

For who would care to help a tarnished of all things?

Grudgingly allowing him to rest for a night or two at most is one thing, maybe going as far as pass him a bowl of gruel. But let him stay more than that? Offer more than that?

No. No, for at least a few more weeks he needs to muster reserves of strength still yet untapped, drag them to the light kicking and screaming, or more likely, force this blasted body to just…keep…walking until he's moved beyond the heart of the Golden Order.

There he'll be able to, if no doubt grudgingly, be allowed to earn his keep and a place to rest and mend by helping the small folk with whatever meager troubles they contend with for a time.

Only…

A laugh does escape his lips after all, something he immediately regrets as it turns into a cough and for a moment he fears that some predator or other might catch wind of it, which thankfully doesn't happen.

Like I have the room to talk…

Once a blessed demigod now little better than a vagabond, scurrying about like a tarnished rat.

No, he'll be thankful for any work that allows him to stave of this deep seated gnawing past his ribs and helps drive the fog clouding his thoughts away.

He keeps walking until the sun edge almost kisses the distant mountains, thankful for the fact his constitution still eclipses that of mortal men. For he would've no doubt been long dead had he been fully mortal as well as tarnished.

But even his considerable endurance has his limits.

Spying through squinting eyes a settlement up ahead, the smattering of small folk going round the wooden wall, coaxing the torches to life, he reaches back and brings his hood forward, hiding his features as best as he can while purposefully letting his shoulders stoop and hang even lower than they are already.

With some luck, the guards will be in a good enough mood, if the sound of distant cheers and merriment near the center of the settlement are any indication, to find it in their heart of hearts to let one measly tarnished to slip through and rest in some barn or other for the night.

He also hopes that they won't bother to look at him too keenly.

For while weeks on the road and the lost grace no doubt have taken their toll, he remains larger than most mortals, let alone some small folk of a settlement near the borders of the capital.

And no doubt news of…the events have reached them in some form or another…

Best not give them too much reason to realize that the abnormally tall tarnished might in fact be the reviled traitor as proclaimed by the Goddess.

The gods will die.

But for that to happen, he needs to live. If he wants to help his brother see the light, he needs to live.

Although he's still not sure whether to laugh or howl in rage at his sibling's not too dissimilar predicament if the rumors be true.

Oh mother, he saved the city, he saved you. And yet Godwyn's reward is also exile?!

The fact its not called that doesn't matter.

But, at the very least, his brother got to keep his Grace and has not been thrown out as of yet if the rumors be true.

Something in part no doubt cause of the woman's favoritism…and the fact that Godwyn might very well die if he is stripped of Grace.

What with his brother resembling more the Golden Order's light garbed in the flesh of a man then a man suffused with said light, something which even if it wasn't true once, is certainly true by this point, of that he's certain.

And so, while he can more than likely can best a few pikemen if it came down to it, and isn't it sad that he's only reasonably certain he'll be able to do so in his present state, the mortals are still his people, and so he'd rather avoid giving them a reason to try.

He keeps his head down, posture weak, and only partly feigned as he shuffles towards the gates only realizing with a startled blink that no, the group of villagers gathered a few dozen outside the gates are not, in fact, making merry like the people inside.

Or at least, their leers, shouts and threatening gestures towards the woman on the ground are not part of any sort of festivity he's heard or at least, not one he likes.

Ignoring the tension that spreads in between his shoulder-blades he grits his teeth as he approaches.

"Huh? What you lookin at?" one of the lot grunts his way, catching him staring and waddles his way, the rough hewn tunic struggling to contain the man's excess. "You a lizard lover of something, stranger?" the oaf asks, daring to go as far as to reach out and grab him by the front of his robe, dragging him and blasting his nose with a wave of sickly sweet breath that stinks of yeast. "I asked you a question, friend!"

Fingers twitching and yearning to backhand the peasant, he nonetheless averts his head and lowers his eyes, but not before catching sight of the tiny blonde woman sprawled on the ground staring fiercely at the group surrounding her.

Worst of all, he can't help but notice the barely veiled terror.

His stomach growls and his body aches.

The gods must die…

And he needs to help his brother and their new, apparently, siblings.

To say nothing of what half his blood calls homeland, that distant land that also yearns for peace and justice…

He should keep walking.

The bored looking guards are starting to look the group's way, more importantly his way. And given that they've yet to intervene, more than likely this little hamlet's people are somewhat…prejudged against the Order's new allies.

Yes, just walk past, a few more steps and I'll be able to rest for the night…

And it's been many a day since he's had an uninterrupted night's sleep has it not?

The distant scent of meat and broth wafting through the open gates makes his stomach gurgle.

A bowl of stew wouldn't go amiss…

Which he more than likely might be able to score if he plays his cards right, in the excitement and the cheer the villagers will more than likely wish and be glad to lord their superiority over someone lower than they, and what better than a tarnished to fawn over them and be gracious for some meager scraps.

And besides, what business is it of his what happens to a dragon of all things.

The provocatively dressed woman is one, of that he has little doubt, the tiny horns between her blonde locks make that clear as well as the air of…something filling their surroundings.

He knows it in his bones.

His aching, aching bones.

"Heh, that's what I thought, best not poke your nose in what doesn't concern you, stranger," the oaf says, once more filling the air with his rotten breath but he doesn't react, merely moving to take another step and for less than a heartbeat the image of another overimposes that of the dragon woman's.

The locks akin to spun gold morphing into pure white for but an instant but the yellow eyes remain the same.

And he made a promise, did he not?

"Nago…"

"Huh? What did you—"

She refuses to believe it, refuses to acknowledge the possibility that this might very well be her end.

No! I refuse! Not after the disgrace I suffered!

And disgrace it was…is.

To be reduced to…this?!

Little better than a frail mortal, with the vast bulk of her strength now lost to her, the fact she even yet draws breath only thanks to a spark of memory, of her traitor once mate, the visage of Florisax in the guise of a human somehow stirring something long forgotten and, with the strength and insight born of desperation she managed to focus her essence into her heart even as she transmuted it.

…and yet, she's still not certain, even after all those days whether it would have been better to die at her son's hand and the efforts of that, she can at least grudgingly admit, mighty warrior.

For Florissax, the traitor, had the last laugh it would seem, managing to weaken Placidusax's strongest child further still.

Not only is she forced to walk in the guise of a mortal, her strength not even enough to summon even the tiniest of wings let alone transmute her flesh and assume what had been her true shape but she can't even alter her shape to something not meant for simple child bearing!

Knocked down and with her body bruised she can't but snarl at the mortals surrounding and jeerign at her, promising to burn them down once she escapes and recovers her strength.

…as well as punish Florissax for this ignonimity, for the spark of…whatever that emotion was alongside the memory that lead to this desperate gamble is what has also trapped her into this.

"Not so tough now, are you you scaled freak?" one of the mortals says and she merely glowers his way, while she prepares to conjure what little flame she can around her fist and fight for it.

The scream that splits the night makes her blink and startle, the same as the gathered fools around her…those not barreled over by one of their own, a particularly plump one sent flying and smashing a few of them into the dirt with pained groans while the new mortal garbed in rags she'd all but dismissed stands tall and flexes his twitching fist.

"How dare you!"
"What's the big idea!"
"You're a lizard lover!"
"Worse than that, he's a tarnished!"

The sheer disgust makes her blink even as with a shout of 'get him' the gathered fools turn their attention away from her and swarm the tall mortal.

Which proves to be a bad idea as with fist, foot, and sheathed blade used as a club, he makes them pay dearly for it.

But, in the end, he's but a mortal.

And what can a mortal do against a crowd of other weaklings?

In the scant few seconds it takes her to jump to her feet the frail looking mortal has acquired his new shares of lumps and bruises and fury ignites in Gransax's breast.

For she refuses to be saved of all things.

Nor can she bear the thought of owing another and so, with something between a cry and a roar, or at least what these frail little lungs can muster, she charges into the fray and pretty soon, she's back to back with the langy man, breathing heavily as they're surrounded by the forms of the groaning mortals.

A smile on her lips for some reason.

"Tsk."

A smile which quickly fades once she realizes all of their assailants still draw breath. The stranger it would seem is a weakling by choosing not to utilize his blade.

…not that she has any room to talk, with how weak this tingling fingers are.

If only I still had my claws…

The sound of steel leaving its scabbard makes her tense and tear her gaze away from her bloodied bruised fingers and the missing nails.

"That's close enough, I should think," the stranger says and Gransax…is not relieved, merely content that she won't have to tear the man's guts out, what with him aiming his blade towards the approaching mortals with the pointy sticks reeking with nervousness.

"T-tarnished! You…you've committed crimes against the Golden Order and the village of—"

"We're leaving," the stranger says in a clipped tone and even if Gransax is filled with a brief feeling of indignation at his presuming to speak for them both she allows it. "And if you know what's good for you, we won't be followed," he says and stands straight, blade gleaming and an aura of bloodlust that makes Gransax smile and lick her lips without noticing fills the air.

Watching the trembling morsels remain frozen with indecision, she snorts and turns and follows after the stranger as he starts following the path away from the village.

A few minutes of silence prove a few minutes too much.

"Mortal," she growls and is rewarded by a startled blink from the man, her voice seeming to breathe new life and awareness into him, the man seeming to grow feebler and feebler the further they moved from the village.

"Yes?"

"I presume even a monkey like thee has a name, no?"

Not so that she could do anything as banal as to thank him of course, but…Gransax's magnanimity knows no bounds and thus, she will eat him last once she recovers her strength…and after he dies of natural causes.

The tired snort leaving the man's lips and the murmured. "Figures." Makes her bristle and seriously consider planting her elbow in the annoyingly taller mortal's stomach, but, magnanimous. And thus she does not.

But it tempting.

Oh so tempting.

"Yes, my Lady," the man says at last. "And pray forgive my lack of manners but these past few days have found me in a…bit of trouble." She blinks at his smile, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, all but commanding him to 'go on', and drawing another sigh past his lips even as they step of the beaten path and start heading towards a nearby patch of forest, the glittering stars above providing sufficient illumination even for the lesser eyes of this form.

She remains a dragon after all.

"But to answer your question, fair Lady."

Of course she's fair. She's the fairest!

"I'm Ilirei a d…tarnished," he says and gives her a brief bow, failing to hide his wince and staring at her as if expecting something.

She blinks, uncertain whether he seems more relieved or consternated that she doesn't fail to react to his name.

As if she cares about mortals, they are all the same to her.

Still, Ilirei..she'll keep it in mind.

"…and you, my lady?" the man asks at last as they stop under a tree, not to close to the forest's entrance but not too deep either.

Opening her mouth with a smirk she freezes.

She can't very well grace him with the truth now can she?

For unlike his own unimportant one, the name of Gransax has no doubt spread far and wide by now, and even a witless mortal like this Ilirei is quite likely to come to the right conclusion and as is she is now, much as it galls to admit it, his blade…could prove troublesome.

"Titania," she says at last.

Florissax must never hear of this. Or Father forbid, Father. But at least, this is close enough to her status and should do the—

"What?" she growls, eyes narrowing as Ilirei blinks and…gazes at her from head to toe.

"Nothing, my lady, nothing. I'm not privy to the customs of dragons after all."

"Are you implying something, mortal?"

"Perish the thought."

She growls and fights the urge to kick the fool's shin.

"But, my lady?"

"What?"

"I urge you to rest, I'll keep watch, nothing shall harm you, I swear upon my honor as a de…tarnished. And on the morrow I shall lead you towards a hamlet which I know is not as…small minded towards the Order's allies."

She cares little for his 'honor' but he does seem like the sort of mortal to put stock into such trivialities. Still, she doesn't miss the scowl at the naming of the Order.

It would seem whatever the 'tarnished' are, they're no friends to the alliance her traitorous children formed with the mortals.

Something to keep in mind and investigate she supposes while she goes about recovering her strength. If the fool in front of her is any example, they might prove useful…

Before she knows it, her rear and her back kiss the dirt and the bark of a nearby tree and, for some reason, the bark feels so…comfortable while her eyes grow heavy all the while Ilirei stands tall, his back facing her as he keeps watch, and, it might be a trick of the light but far into the distance, near the path she swears she glimpses a few mortals carrying torches, their faces somewhat familiar, thankfully they don't venture closer and in between blinks her eyes drift shut.

…only for Gransax, or 'Titania' to gasp awake amidst the chirping of birds feeling as if something is stabbing her…which reveals merely to be a flickering ray of light flittering through swaying leaves, courtesy of the morning sun above.

And Ilirei, still standing, twitches before turning and smiling.

He looks even worse under the light of day.

Indeed, the man looks half, or more than half dead.

Still what does she care, and as he doesn't bring it up, neither does she.

"Ah, good to see you awake, my lady," the man says before giving her an apologetic smile. "Sadly, I've little in the way of supplies or…necessities, so I leave that up to you, but the sooner we can get moving the better I should think."

At that she can't help but grimace. Yet more shame foistered upon her by her former mate.

Jumping to her feet she merely sniffs as she scuttles a bit deeper and out of sight. This is nothing Father's strongest child can't endure after all.

Soon enough, that bit of shame dealt with, they're on their way, and while doubts start to form in her mind, by the time the sun has reached its midpoint, a village does indeed come into view and 'Titania' can't help but scoff at her own self.

Of course she needn't have worried that Ilirei might've been lying.

Last night's ingrates aside, the superiority of dragons is well known thus no one would dare cheat or try and trick her.

Still, she can't help but smile and her estimation of the mortal rise some, she'll definitely eat him last! Maybe even offer him up a few trinkets before the time comes, mortals like that sort of thing do they not?

The smile swiftly turns into a frown as they stop a few minutes of walking from the walls.

"Ilirei?"

"Forgive me, my lady," the man says with a pale-faced smile, swaying slightly on his feet as he does. "But I think it would be best if you went on without me from this point on."

"What?"

"My…my kind are not welcome and being seen with me would only bring you trouble so…I wish you the best, but I fear this is where we must part ways."

Growling, frowning she can't help but glare and snap her gaze towards the village.

"Fine!"

And here she was hoping—thinking, thinking! That maybe, just maybe she might make him her servant!

Scarcely a few steps towards the gate, the sound of steel once again leaving its scabbard makes her tense…only for no blow to come towards her again.

And yet, glancing behind her she can't help but blink in confusion, for half-turned away, Ilirei is balancing the flat of his blade on a finger…and failing to do so, for the blade wobbles dangerously as he slowly turns left and right.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice seems to startle him and the blade slips at last, its tip digging into the soil and for a moment, Ilirei doesn't answer, seeming to follow where the edge of the blade points as he rubs his chin.

"Liurnia…and further south still, Limgrave…that could work."

"Mortal…"

"Forgive me my lady," he says at last, sending a tired smile her way. "For I was merely pondering my next step, for unlike you I have no place here, but you need'st worry about that. Pray forget about me and—"

"Why did you save me?"

The words slip out before she can stop them and she curses for that's not what she meant to ask at all!

She had it all under control after all!

"The easy answer would be the simple fact that your kind are the Order's allies."

And there's little reason to disabuse him of his mistaken beliefs.

"But the Golden Order is not yo…your kind's allies."

"No."

The sharp grin and that cold gaze, oh, she likes it!

"The true reason…" pity that it vanishes all too quickly as the man sighs and runs a hand through his crusty black hair. "I made a promise, lady Titania and that is all I'm willing to say on the matter. With that said," the tired smile returns, let me keep you from the comforts of a warm bed and a bath no longer. Good luck in your endeavors."

"And you with yours," she says, the words flowing unbidden once again as the man nods and turns, sheathing his blade and shuffling away.

Making the way into the village proper she is gratified to see that the mortals do indeed venerate her as they should and see to her needs but even as they do so, in her mind plans swirl.

Plans to recover her strength.

To exact righteous vengeance.

And yet, all the while, names that are meaningless to her, continue to swirl in her head.

"Liurnia…Limgrave…"

"What was that, my lady? Did you need anything else?"

Waving away the smiling old woman, 'Titania' picks up a mutton and stares.

She won't forget them, and maybe, just maybe, she'll pay those places a visit.

She sinks her teeth into the meat.

'Titania'/Gransax's humanoid form looks like Fgo's Mordred.