In the ravaged streets of Bellard, under the rubble and fire and death; Kalé plays a bittersweet tune.
Those who've never heard it before would consider it a lullaby; the walking corpses of Leyndell would call it an omen. Children stop to listen, and fallen soldiers are known to brood under its spell.
The Songs of St. Trina are a peculiar sort, and Kalé knows them all by heart.
Down in his cellar, sheltered from the raging war and overpowering thunderstorm, he plays his melancholy tune, left to his own devices until either friend or foe discover him.
"A fickle thing."
He says to himself, looking at his walls, his shelves, his assorted trinkets and empty cubbies. His possessions; his entire life, really. It's all here. He feels at home here, when home can be so hard to find. In this muffled silence, with just him and his songs to keep him company. He won't ever admit it to Blaidd of Lance, but he prefers it this way. He prefers being alone; it's better that he has only the shadows to accompany him... if he were to ever turn.
In his eyes, in his very soul; he feels something stirring. It gnaws at him like a starving wolf, sinks its fangs and lacerates him with its claws. It attempts to overtake him, tear him down into a state of illustrious madness.
Ever present, never relenting. It calls to him, in so many accumulated voices that all scream their words... Scream his name.
But as the song he plays echoes about this damp room; as it graces his ears and swings his mind; the madness relents. It retreats in the presence of the end, shies away from the lingering spell of eternal sleep.
It fears slumber; it fears the idea of individuality. It fears becoming silence. It fears the absence of chaos.
Such a thing as sleep; Kalé can only rarely grasp it. When he closes his eyes, eldritch horrors stain his eyelids. When he rests in silence, collective insanity baits his ears. It has been decades since he's been able to suppress his insomnia, and the effect has only weakened with time.
It may not be long now, before St. Trina's song will no longer suffice. It may not be long before Kalé joins his trapped comrades in Leyndell's sewers.
Soon, very soon; he will be overturned, taken, and burned.
He will rafhsvsfiomsgbsffs join aufbusgsbfnaaefna them jfnufsbisnifgraaahaaahhhhaaahhh.
Fusnafoamvafaomafah Help jwnigianfaffgueh me vuisfnfoiasivsna please! Fiafnfiafnsnahhaaahhaahhaaahhh.
He leans in to his tune, clings on to their bitter notes with his entirety. The frenzy flame subsides; Kalé feels as if he were out of breath.
"Curses." He spits.
The clock is ticking; it has been for some time. It has seemingly worsened since Kalé returned To Bellard.
...
Maybe its here…
Maybe… He's here too.
Is that possible? He grits his teeth.
"Shabriri."
He practically spits the name. A face comes to mind, a familiar one, that at one time, he looked on with respect. Comradery. Maybe even hope…
Not anymore. Not since that face lost its eyes; lost its body. Not since that face changed, from one to another, as the Evoker of the Three Fingers took over the bodies of the unfortunate burned, the singular made numerous. Not since Shabriri brought the frenzy flame into the Lands Between from out of space unorganized, condemning him and his fellow nomads to eternal damnation.
"Tratior."
His song reverberates through his cellar doors, becoming lost in the sky as the rain falls; the thunder booms; the Flying Dragon Agheel roars, whisking by overhead.
Agheel dives; my stomach sinks deep into my gut.
Negative G's make me feel like I'm floating; the screaming wind threatens to rip me away like a flag caught in a hurricane. The ground… the literal ground, is dead ahead, approaching rapidly; an entire city yawning open to swallow me whole.
I'm hanging on for dear life; Melina struggles to keep up beside me. The soldier, with his blade drawn, laughs manically, his booming voice lost in my chaotic mind.
Lance! Hold on!
I'm-…. Trying!
My new muscles scream at me to let go, my fingers feel like they're about to dislocate at every joint. My legs flail about helplessly behind me; Agheel pulls up like a lunatic piloting a fighter jet.
I'm smushed, shoved down so hard onto Agheel's hide that I temporarily black out; I almost let go.
He banks left; flaming bolts from ballistae scream through the air around me. One passes by directly over my head, close enough that I can hear the explosives inside crackling.
The noise is gone, the ballista bolt is gone. It zips by, exploding midair a few seconds later.
The soldier rises, holding fast to the first black spine at the base of Agheel's neck.
"TARNISHED!" He roars, using that thunderous voice I heard back down in the sewers. "A PLEASURE THAT WE CAN FINALLY MEET! I WAS HOPING WE WOULD RUN INTO ONE ANOTHER!"
Agheel tears right; I get a split second to see the raging battle in Bellard's streets from above.
I see it all by looking to my side.
Holy hell.
What am I supposed to do?
The soldier takes the turn as if it were nothing, holding on with one free hand, like a treetop monkey as he watches me with an elated expression.
"I'VE ONLY KNOWN YOU FOR A FEW MOMENTS, BUT I ALREADY LIKE YOUR STYLE! THE NAME'S RICK! SOLDIER OF GODRICK!" He gestures toward my prone form with his free hand. "IF I MAY BE SO BOLD, WHAT DO THEY CALL YOU!?"
I growl, trying in vain to force my fears away. Everything I've built up these past few weeks, the bravery and the commitment; the mindset I've tried to create.
It's all for naught.
Melina's words, her explanations and speeches and assurances; they're lost on my scrambled mind. It all feels shallow, feels useless.
In the face of such an extreme, no amount of bravado will suffice.
Even Irina, even my desire to avenge her…
Make her killers pay…
…
No.
I dig my left knee in, forcing it under me.
I release my white-knuckled grip, sliding my hands up my black spine anchor.
I rise to a knee, locking my arms in place.
I finally raise my head, taking the rushing wind on with squinting eyes.
The rain pelts my face; my black and white surcoat flaps about on my quivering chest. My heat is stolen away, long brown hair soaked and sticking to my neck. I'm afraid of every movement I make, but still, I make them.
Rising to my feet, drawing my greatsword, staring holes into the soldier who calls himself Rick. I have so many questions for him:
When he decided to attack Bellard, why he chose to do so now.
Is there someone he works for?
Was he close to Roard?
Is this all Godrick's orders?
Someone else?
Who was that horrid man with silver skin?
Who gave Rick the ability to control Agheel?
How does it all connect?
And why now?
Why now…
...
I have no such luxuries.
Rick is my enemy; dealing with Agheel is my mission. I need to break the control Rick has over him. If he intends to stand in my way, then I will need to lay him low.
Rick cocks his head, never losing the manic smile digging into the corners of his mouth.
"FINE, BE THAT WAY TARNISHED! GIVE ME NO NAME, AND YOU SHALL DIE NAMELESS!"
Agheel climbs, rising high into the clouds…
I take one step. I take another.
The scales and feathers are slick in the rain, the turns this dragon makes threatens to send me to my screaming death. My arm wails for relief, but I hold fast; taking another step.
Another. Another.
Rick answers in kind, drawing toward me as we enter the clouds. He draws his greatsword, leaving Morne's treasured blade strapped to his back. He gives me one last grinning look, before he becomes obscured in a wave of white.
The rushing fog between us partially obscures our frames; I see nothing but a miniscule forest of black spines ahead.
I lose sight of him.
Where is he?
…Are you alright?
Melina.
Agheel banks left, inertia makes me feel like I'm falling sideways. I catch onto a spine, riding the turn out. The black spines shift and rattle in the wind, both massive wings jut out to my right and left.
Focus.
…Do not push yourself… please... Dead ahead. He has halted.
And?
...
You're my eyes, Melina. Please. I don't know how long I can keep this up.
I'm not talking about my failing strength. Not talking about my intent or promise. I'm talking about this realm of ignorance I've forced myself in.
Ignoring the fact I'm thousands of feet above the ground, ignoring the fact that my only saving grace from being forced to skydive is my struggling left hand…
Ignoring the fact, that I'm on the back of a fire breathing dragon, flying at speeds nothing outside of mankind's fastest inventions can match back on earth; a speed that only aircraft and rockets and warfare can adequately compare.
...He is poised to attack. Only a few steps are between the two of you.
At least I know he means to kill me too; he's not in the mind to negotiate.
The plan of attack here is frighteningly simple; none of my usual gambits will work. Melina's fire attack won't hold in this wind and rain; I can go no other direction than forward. No allies, nobody to call on to assist me.
It's just Melina and I up here, where the oxygen is slim and the sky is vast.
Nothing else to do but fight like hell. We exit the clouds, in the glaring sun, and Rick appears.
He roars with a joyous smile on his face, swinging his Lordsworn's Greatsword like a baseball bat.
I duck; his blade crashes into a spine.
I nearly lose my footing, throwing my own wild swing with the small window I get. Rick bats my blade away, making my forearm collide with a rattling scale the height of a man.
My forearm groans, swelling with a growing bruise, and I hiss, latching onto a different spine and swinging away as Rick's greatsword pierces the air where I just was. I use the momentum, and attack again.
I feel like I'm fighting on the monkey bars of a kid's playground set; swinging wildly with one hand and holding onto thin beams with my other hand. Rick laughs manically, passing between the spines like a cougar prowling in a dense forest.
He takes opportunistic swings at me, stabs at where I'm going as I try to navigate this mythical beast's body.
He's too good at this.
Now that I'm moving, latching onto anchor points and swinging as if I were drunk, Agheel's massive back suddenly feels so small.
I can't run anywhere; I'm never outside of Rick's reach.
Agheel dives again, and Rick and I are forced to temporarily halt our ridiculous duel.
I dig in, laying on my sword as I loop my arms around one of the spines up near the connecting point between Agheel's wings and his shoulders. My ears pop, the city of Bellard grows in size directly above me as we drop beneath the clouds.
Rain drops float around then rise by my face, the lightning's thunder chases my flailing boots as we plummet at ludicrous speeds. In my fear, my ignorance, my pumping heart and stinging adrenaline…
...
Ha...
Ha ha...
Hah!
Sided by Melina, chased by Rick and falling so fast my sense of reality seems to shake from the buffer of compressing atmosphere; I find a smile cracking on my lips.
Aha!
The elation, the adrenaline and the sour taste in my mouth. Like a rollercoaster of death; skydiving through a hurricane with sword in hand and war far below. The flashing lightning, the booming thunder. The rain that falls in reverse, the world that expands beyond the horizons as we dive beneath the height of the plateau.
The terror; the excitement and the anger; it mixes in my head. It creates adverse reactions, skewers my thoughts, until I hear my own unhinged laughter, calling out into the screaming wind.
I'm euphoric.
Aaaahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!
Edgar beats the Leonine back.
The Leonine roars.
Misbegotten intervene; Edgar takes a cleaver to the left shoulder blade.
He grunts, and levels the misbegotten with his halberd's shaft. He spins the weapon, impaling one, catching the leg of another, and finds his hand on the broken half of a dislodged pew; he throws the rotting furniture as an improvised weapon.
The Leonine, roars, shrugs off the pew as it crashes into him; he slams one foot down and recklessly swings his iron greatsword in a broad arc.
Edgar blocks with his forearms, but the blow sends him flying back, straining his arms and bruising a muscle in his lower back. His helmet partially dents where it collides with a stone pillar as he crashes into it; the indent puts volatile pressure on the back of his head.
He scowls, tearing his helmet off as he rises.
He tosses it aside, and a few arrows from misbegotten archers immediately try to take advantage. He ducks away, slipping behind the next pillar over, before appearing again, killing a chasing misbegotten before disappearing yet again.
He moves through the hallway outside the chapel, appearing in and out of view as he takes a roundabout approach toward the Leonine. The Leonine answers, making a beeline to intercept.
The archers follow him, two surviving warriors hot on his heels. The three soldiers who entered the chapel with Edgar now lay dead before Marika's gaze; he knows not of the fate of the soldiers outside.
He can only assume help will not arrive… but he will not retreat.
He disappears behind the next wide pillar… and he never appears again.
The Leonine immediately stops, growling.
"Morne Warden…"
The two warriors chuff, and run to round the corner. The archers wait, flapping about.
There's nowhere for the warden to go… but…
With a blast of storm winds, the two warriors are blown back, and the warden appears thirty feet off the floor. Like a raptor amongst a flock of birds, Edgar drives into the archers, killing three before he falls to the ground.
He lands with an invisible explosion, sending pews and falling misbegotten carcasses tumbling away in a tumult of wind, as if he were a tornado. The winds die down, but Edgar doesn't halt his momentum.
He charges, catching the Leonine in the shoulder with his halberd tip before he can even turn, kicking the red-maned beast behind the leg and sending out a mean right hook; that clenched gauntlet snaps the Leonine's jaw sideways.
He roars; Edgar doesn't relent.
He drives his knee up into the Lenonine's stooped head, spins and decapitates the final surviving warrior as it tried to sneak up on him. The final archer… it flies away. It takes the shortest route out, up into the gaping hole in the ceiling, never even attempting to look back.
It runs like a coward.
The Leonine attempts to rise, nose bleeding and cheek indented. The blade raises as well, chittering as hardened metal drags across sparse gravel.
But Edgar snarls, kicking that iron sword away, and hooking his halberd's axe head up into the Leonine's face.
The beast roars in pain, kicking Edgar away in a burst of energy… but falters after that.
His face graced with a nasty cut, which lacerated his nose and right eye, biting deep enough to drive partly into the bone. He fails to rise again, heaving and spitting, on his knees and propping himself up with his hands.
"Bastard Morne Warden…" He seethes. "Evil Morne… Warden."
Edgar rises to his feet, stalking over and retrieving his halberd from the ground. The Leonine tries all he can to speak, forcing the words out between labored breaths.
"You… are evil… Morne Warden…" He raises a shaking finger, pointing it at Edgar. "You… *rrrgh*… enslave my… people. You work them to… to… … to death."
Edgar sets his jaw, standing over the Leonine.
"You… betray my people's… … You betray their kindness…"
"Kindness…" Edgar hisses.
He clenches his halberd.
"What part of this… ANY OF THIS! HOW IS ANY OF THIS KINDNESS!"
"You-"
"NO!"
He-
…
…
…
The wet noise of a head being severed from the neck sounds out in the chapel; blood splatters across Marika's face.
The Leonine's head rolls; the lifeless body collapses to the floor.
Edgar heaves, gripping his halberd hard enough to cause the shaft to groan.
"You," He says to the head, where the life leaves its wide animal eyes. "Have no right to speak."
He kicks the head away… so it'll stop looking at him.
"It was your ancestors who betrayed us… and you will never be free of that sin."
He storms away, making his heated path toward the chapel's front doors. Under his breaths, he mutters, gritting his teeth.
Irina…
"Some wounds never heal, and the ones your people gave me..."
My baby girl...
"I will be sure to return them in kind."
Outside, Edgar finds what he hoped to see.
Morne's forces of 3,000, driving back the horde of 30,000.
The area directly in front of the chapel is littered with bodies; corpses with black and white surcoats are as rare as trees in a grassy field. The lines of war have been drawn further down the street; Morne is slowly pushing the enemy back.
The misbegotten and Limgrave soldiers die faster than they can be replaced, and the Morne soldiers fall at a rate similar to a snail's pace. The defenses atop Morne's ramparts chew into the condensed enemy army, creating openings the hellbent soldiers can exploit.
Edgar is not sure how long the Golden Vow will last, but it's best Morne makes the most of it while they can.
Such miracles… they're few and far between these days.
"Sir!"
Edgar turns toward the voice, as he steps off the landing in front of the chapel, kicking a dead misbegotten out of the way. A single Morne soldier runs toward him; multiple deep wounds paint his lively body.
It's Drew, a soldier Edgar knows all too well.
"Soldier."
Edgar addresses him, holding his halberd in a resting state. Drew stops in front of the warden, saluting. "Good to see you again sir, they boys feared the worst when you dissapeared."
Edgar shakes his head at that, dismissing any worries.
"Unwarranted, my life means little here. How fares the battle?"
Drew nods.
"Kicking their arses and sending them north. Our boys are wounded but holding strong."
"And our allies?"
Drew shakes his head.
"The half-wolf Blaidd has been spotted giving chase to the Bloodhound Knight all across the battlefield, but there have been no confirmed sightings of the Tarnished Lance."
Tarnished Lance... Did he run? After all the plans he brought to the table last night, the heated way he spoke, with the small spirit assisting him... Would he really disappear now?
...
No.
Not that Tarnished.
Drew looks behind Edgar, getting the slightest glimpse of the chapel's interior as those large doors groan shut. Edgar notices the gesture; his darkened expression lightens a little.
"Spread the word: the Leonine Misbegotten is defeated. The misbegotten's ties to this battle have been severed."
Drew grins, but keeps his composure.
"Right away. See you on the front lines sir."
Edgar nods his head.
"Likewise."
Before Drew can turn, a shrieking roar trumps out from above them, and Edgar gets only a chance to glance up before Agheel swoops in, diving down toward Morne's front line
No...
There is a moment, nay, a second, that Edgar feels a twinge of fear take hold in his chest.
Agheel has slipped through the trebuchets' kill zone, leaving nothing between him and the opportunity to drown Morne's forces in flames.
For what feels like an eternity, Edgar feels that he'll watch his men all become ash.
But the dragon looks distressed, falling as if he were trying to escape something. The beast pulls up at the last second, barely leveling out before he crashes into the tops of buildings and towers.
It must've hurt, and a disturbed shriek announces the strain that move put on him; it berates everyone's ears.
The black body swoops by, slowly spinning like a screw driven into a quark. His mass sends a blast of wind toward Edgar and Drew, but the warden sees something he can't comprehend through squinting eyes:
The Tarnished, riding the spin on Agheel's back, fighting a large soldier… with a manic smile plastered on his face.
The sight vanishes in an instant; Agheel quickly becoming a black spot as he rises away, banking off before he collides with Morne's northern wall.
The two stand in shocked silence.
Drew clasps his silver helmet with a gloved hand, wearing a defeated grin. He must've seen it too; Edgar wasn't imagining it.
"Mad bastard. Is that what I think it was?"
Edgar nods absentmindedly, Drew continues.
"Don't think I'll ever understand Tarnished."
Edgar shakes his head, driving his sedation away.
"On your way soldier. If Tarnished Lance has engaged Agheel, then the enemy has lost their trump card for the time being. It's time we press the advantage."
Drew turns toward him.
"And you, sir?"
Edgar marches up, placing a gauntlet hand on Drew's shoulder.
"If you seek to find me, look for our front line."
Drew nods, before saluting.
"Right away."
It was not long before Blaidd caught Darriwil.
It took only a single mistake from the Bloodhound Knight, only a small slipup, to allow the wolfman to claim his prize.
Blaidd's blade nicks Darriwil's back leg, sending him into a tumble.
They are atop the highest point of Bellard, above the keep of Morne. The two faced off in this same place mere hours ago, and now, in this turbulent rainfall, Darriwil skids to a halt, forcing himself to his feet.
His blade hovers precariously above his arched back like a Spider Scorpion's stinger; his partially broken claws dig deep into the cut stone.
Blaidd lands with a thud, sizing up the Bloodhound Knight in the rain. He snarls, pacing.
He puts himself between Darriwil and the ocean, ready to pounce if Darriwil turns to run or jump off again. His sword primed, fangs bared and eyes manic. His voice holds no kindness or regret; he's the embodiment of the reaper, come to take an ungrateful sinner to the afterlife.
"Darriwil… you have forgone justice and betrayed your Lady. You have betrayed her trust. In doing so, you have surrendered your life to me, and I have come to collect your due."
He hunkers down, placing one hand on the ground.
"This is where it ends for you."
Darriwil rears up like a cat, and he disappears.
A skill of the Bloodhound Knights; a formidable art.
It does Darriwil no good.
Ranni's Shadow will not become flustered by such cheap tricks.
Blaidd becomes like a shadow, shattering the air as the encroaching chill of a moon-graced night overtakes his very soul. Frost grows under his claws, bristles his hairs like a threatened animal puffing up.
Nearby raindrops turn to ice in a flash, scattering across the verglas floor like cast marbles. His own breath comes out in elated puffs, and he spins, drawing his massive sword up and over, driving it down like a hammer. He aims for where the Bloodhound Knight will attack, with such a certainty in his senses that it's no surprise to him when his sword lands right on the mark.
Darriwil appears, and Blaidd's Royal Greatsword already falls to meet him.
The Bloodhound Knight is surprised, and shifts out of existence again, a hair before Blaidd's attack slams into the ground, sending a wave of frigid frost out and away. It all freezes a moment later, leaving a reaching mess of icicles and chunks of rime fused together. Disrupted bricks once in the floor caught and held suspended in it; Darriwil would've died instantaneously.
Blaidd spins once more, sending his sword out in a broad stroke.
It catches Darriwil as he appears, taking his right arm. Darriwil shudders, letting out a scream not even the most delicate of instruments can hear.
Utter silence.
His Bloodhound's Fang spins away, sticking into the layer of ice on the ground. His blood gushes forth, freezing over in seconds.
He rises, taking a drunken swipe at Blaidd with his two remaining claws.
The wolfman holds no remorse in his eyes, watching his old friend try in vain to go against a foe far stronger than him. He killed his reason to care for Darriwil any longer; Lady Ranni helped him be sure of that.
He snaps at the flailing arm, sinking his fangs deep. Teeth capable of scoring through even the finest armor; Darriwil loses his remaining arm when Blaidd tugs.
The duel, the final cry of Darriwil the Bloodhound Knight, lasted a total of six seconds after it began, and it ends with Blaidd standing over the faltering warrior.
Darriwil's houndskull bascinet rattles; his body quivering without arms and failing legs that slip helplessly on the ice. Frostbite grows on him like a corruption, ceasing muscles and cracking tendons.
Blaidd's own frost rescinds, drawing back into him. His breaths relent from being visible, and Blaidd sighs.
He's never gotten used to the cold, even after all these years
...
There are not many warriors that can measure up to Blaidd, almost none can be found in the Lands Between. Even so, Blaidd expected more of his former ally.
Nevertheless, this is how it goes.
Blaidd is the shadow of an Empyrean, a warrior that serves as the sword of who could one day become a god… if Lady Ranni ever lost her wits and decided to follow the will of the Two Fingers.
By comparison, Darriwil was a measly pup, barking up the wrong trees and making the wrong enemies.
His story ends here.
Blaidd lets loose his blade, and Darriwil's head rolls, becoming frozen over before even a single drop can be bled further.
Darriwil the Bloodhound Knight, is no more.
He takes the head, still within its helmet, and stashes it away. His job is done; he can return to Lady Ranni's side once he finishes burning the body.
She will probably send him away as soon as he arrives; there will be no time to rest. Alas, it is as how Blaidd desires it.
Any service he performs, he does so knowing that what he does is for the good of his Lady. Keeping that in mind, he can do anything.
He leaves Darriwil's mangled and frozen corpse, dislodging his curved blade and taking it too. They will be his gifts for his lady. As for the rest… Blaidd turns back, looking this body over.
He licks his chaps, wiping away the blood that begins to stain the hairs of his chin. In an action not befitting of him, he retrieves what's left of the Bloodhound Knight's claws, snapping one off.
It is of quality metal, with latent abilities capable of causing one's blood to rupture from their own body. It alone is a formidable weapon.
He hesitates, looking at the curved blade, as long as his outstretched hand.
Is he… thinking of giving a gift to someone?
Other than his Lady?
Such a strange thought, and he's repulsed by it at first, nearly tossing the claw out into the ocean.
But… the Tarnished boy has been a great help, by drawing Blaidd's prey to him, if nothing else.
Might as well repay in some way.
He stashes the snapped claw, taking a glance out at the rest of Bellard.
He can see it from here; despite the odds, Morne is pushing the misbegotten horde back. It is not a clear victory yet; the tide could turn easily. But, it'd be safe to say the warden isn't in need of his services.
As for how to assist… there's one thing he could look into before he leaves. It would help Morne, help the Tarnished, help Kalé; even help his mistress.
After all, Shabriri is an enemy to anything and everything alive, and Blaidd can think of nobody else that would match that silver skinned man… that Nox... that Nightfolk... who hides his eyes.
As far as Blaidd can tell; Shabriri is already long gone.
His reasons for coming this far south are unclear, but that's exactly what Blaidd intends to find out.
With that, he turns, walking away with visceral gifts in tow.
Dalia is not smart.
She tells herself that almost every day. She's not a strategist like Lord Haight, not a colluder like Trey.
She rarely thinks things through, and never considers the consequences of her actions. The Tarnished boy is right to blame her, the warden is right to blame her.
She is right to blame herself.
She tried to be smart, tried a roundabout approach to keep the Tarnished in Bellard.
She hoped to make use of his skills with the blade… and there was some intimate reasons mixed in there as well.
She messed that up.
By luck, she discovered Trey's betrayal, saw him walk off with Morne's treasured Grafted Blade Greatsword during the confusion of the misbegotten attack on the castle.
She was sure it was Trey who downed the gate, and was certain it was him who poisoned the warden after the fact.
She was so sure, and sure enough, when Trey returned, she caught him trying to take Irina.
What would she have done if she were smarter?
She would've called for backup. Raised the alarm. Locked the door with Trey inside.
But she didn't think of any of those things.
Dalia messed that up too.
She can't plan, she can't strategize or think outside the box. And even when she was wracked with her mistakes, ready to submit her life… she messed that up as well.
She can't even die, as she's too much of a coward to take her own life; too afraid to stare out into that deep ocean, and jump. And allow herself to drown over and over again, until she becomes nothing more than mindless bones eternally crushed on the seafloor.
What's the point anymore?
Why try?
She has no place in Morne any longer; the soldiers and servants won't even look at her.
She has no place with the enemy; she would never let herself join them.
She doesn't even have a place in her own heart; she can't forgive herself.
Irina mattered to Dalia, more than she realized, and that fact only finally sank in after Irina was already gone.
It's her fault.
Her only place now is the afterlife, whatever and wherever that may be.
She charged out into the streets with only her sword, hoping to find her end, slay Trey and die herself, and hope the warden burns her corpse to ash when they find her.
That's the only plan she had; a way to die where nobody will miss her…
It still is her plan…
...
...Why did she kiss the Tarnished?...
Why did she do something so foolish? So selfish?
…
It seemed some of her feelings still persisted.
So shallow, so desperate.
Was she hoping to see if there was a place for her with him? Was she thinking there was somebody else besides death that would want her?
…
She knows it's not true.
The Tarnished… his eyes have that glint in them.
He has someone else already in his heart, and it's not Dalia.
As for who it is, Dalia has no clue.
The Tarnished does not want her either…
So why did he help her?
Why did he summon a spirit to fight alongside her?
Why did he say those words, if there isn't a place in his heart for her?
"Don't die, I won't allow it."
The Tarnished stared her down then, his young face caught with an expression one could only see on the face of a grizzled warrior: The very picture of a man, who knows that they march toward their death, and they dive in headfirst.
If there is nothing left for her, then why does that moment make her heart race? It pushes against the dark thoughts, bites deep into her subconscious and dares her to tug it free.
It makes her feel fuzzy, and it goes against what she's always desired.
She desires a weak man, a whelp that can't stand up for himself and cowers before the enemy.
…
…
…
She's getting second thoughts.
Trey roars, bashing Dalia with his shield. She drives her shoulder into it, softening the blow.
She skids backwards, sending small waves through the accumulating puddles on the stone floor.
Roard and Trey exchange blows, and Roard's partisan slips past Trey's guard, catching awkwardly on Trey's visor. Trey stumbles back, and Dalia charges in, cutting diagonally.
The silver shield intercepts, and horrid vibrations attack Dalia's forearms.
But she pushes, hooking the rim of Trey's shield with her cross guard, pinching her bare fingers in the process. She grunts, and pulls, wrenching open a gap for Roard to exploit.
Trey drives into Dalia yet again, spinning and batting Roard's incoming spear away with his sword.
Roard immediately tried to regain his stance, but Trey wields his shield like a hammer, crashing into Roard's defense with a loud clang.
Roard is pushed back... but Trey doesn't close the gap.
He backpedals, putting distance between the knights. He heaves for breath, and crimson liquid drips from his visor. It seems the partisan found purchase.
Dalia draws close to Roard, who watches Trey silently.
In the rain, the three temporarily stop their bout. The distant noises of battle are drowned out in the storm, leaving nothing but the sounds of nature that fester every inch of the land.
The air is volatile, but it feels still all the same.
"Huh." Roard utters disapprovingly, testing the weight of his large shield. "You know, here I was thinking this would be easy."
He looks himself over, at his corporeal body that glows like a full moon.
He shudders.
"Two verses one are always the easiest... Have I really gotten this weak?"
Dailia gives him a side eye… She doesn't care for the knight.
She rarely knew Roard, only heard he likes to fool around with the ladies of Limgrave's sparse villages. They both ultimately answered to the same lord, but they only crossed paths once before.
And to put it bluntly, she didn't much like the experience.
Not at all.
Nevertheless, he's her ally, through reasons she still hasn't had time to comprehend.
So, she opens her mouth, blinking away the rain that runs down her brow into her eyes, which brings her accumulating sweat with it.
"You're a walking spirit, I wouldn't think your spear has the same bite as steel."
Roard thinks about that; Trey watches the two of them incredulously.
"You know? That's a good point Dalia." Roard chuckles. "I wonder what I'm made out of when I'm like this. I'd guess something akin to wet paper?"
...What is paper? Is it similar to parchment?
"Take this seriously." Trey barks, retaining his stance.
Roard turns on him, talking as if they were best buds. It puts both Trey and Dalia off.
"Hey now, this is unknown territory we're talking about here. Aren't you even just a little curious? I'm back from the dead, and I kept my sanity. It's the greatest thing ever!"
Dalia scoffs.
"How is that a good thing?"
Roard shrugs, dropping his shield. The armament slams to the floor, and quickly dissipates into scattering white embers. He puts his partisan in both hands, shifting his stance to accommodate.
He gives her a meaningful look; she can almost see his eyes behind the darkness of his visor.
"Beats suffering day after day."
"And?" Dalia asks, partially wondering what Roard's up to.
Trey's taken notice as well.
Roard shrugs again.
"Nah, I have no clue what I'm talking about. I'll leave the big questions to my lord and that one-eyed pipsqueak that follows him around."
He seems to... no. He pretends to study his partisan.
"Besides-"
He cuts off, giving no indication or intention that'd he'd begin to move. But he does, at such a speed that it even makes Trey jump.
In a trialing blur, Roard lunges, clearing the distance between he and Trey in the blink of an eye. Trey tries to bring his guard up, and Roard's partisan crashes dead into Trey's greatshield.
It sounds out a loud crack, and Trey buffers for a moment, grunting in straining pain.
But Roard doesn't relent.
He anchors his back foot, tightens his core, and thrusts his partisan… again and again.
Three times, four.
Seven times, eight.
Eleven times, twelve.
It sounds like hail against metal, like the beat of a drum at a quickened pace.
It's all Trey can do to hold out, roaring in pain as his shield is riddled with new dent after new dent. Roard switches up his attack, executing five thrusts near the bottom of the shield, then swipes, hooking the flared edge of his partisan on the rim of the shield.
With an aggressive tug, he rips that shield aside, and delivers a full-powered kick dead into Trey's chest.
"Any day now Dalia!" Roard calls, pressing.
Trey stumbles back, batting Roard's partisan away with his sword. But that glowing spearhead is back before Trey can even recall his blade to his core, and it skids across his jousting plate, biting deep into the underside of his right arm.
He bellows, tackling Roard with a shield bash. Roard blocks, but is sent back.
Dalia is upon Trey, and the overwhelmed knight roars, swinging his sword with an injured arm; the blade almost lags in the air. Dalia blocks with a high guard, and drives her sword's pommel into Trey's visor.
Trey falters a hair, and Roard is back in the fight before he can recover.
"BASTARDS!" Trey roars.
Dalia's sword glances his shoulder plate.
Roard's spear makes a mess of his shield arm's elbow.
Dalia kicks Trey's knee at an awkward angle.
Roard catches Trey's ankle with a broad sweep.
The traitorous knight drops to a knee, trying in vain to hold his shield up to bear.
Dalia knocks his sword out of his hand, Roard lodges his spear in a gap in Trey's shoulder armor.
The two peel the knight apart, beating him down until he collapses.
Roard tosses his partisan aside, grabbing Trey's shield and tearing it away. He mounts the knight, wrestling him and putting him into a headlock. Despite the cuts and bruises, Trey struggles, growling and wailing like a trapped bear.
"Dagger!" Roard bellows, flinching when Trey's elbow breaks free, striking Roard in the head. "Dagger, now!"
Of course.
Dalia reaches behind her back, gripping onto the thin handle her hand finds there.
...
Fighting a knight is tricky.
They are covered head to toe in armor.
You can bruise them, make them bleed from the gaps in their plates and mail, past the gambesons and cloth.
You can even knock them out. But, if you want to kill one, without fire or magic or poison, you need a blade, specifically designed to pierce plate and bone.
A thin blade, hard and brittle; it would shatter if you tried to block a blow with it, and its reach is abysmal.
But Its the tool designed specifically for the job of dispatching pinned knights.
Dalia draws her Rondel Dagger, holding it in its intended reverse grip.
She mounts Trey, bringing the dagger up to bear.
Trey continues to struggle, continues to shout and growl and roar between heaving breaths.
"COWARDS! YOU DAMN COWARDS! WEAKLINGS, WEAK! BOTH OF YOU, ALL OF YOU! YOU SPINELESS, EMASCULATED, COW-"
Dalia drives her dagger dead into Trey's visor, flinching when she pierces bone. Like sticking a needle into a waterskin, there's no resistance after that.
Her dagger sinks deep into Trey's brain, eviscerating his very being.
He goes silent, just like that.
He slumps immediately, becoming as flaccid as fresh dough.
Dalia shudders, yanking her dagger out with a grunt; the blade dripping blood and grey matter in the rainfall.
Roard sighs, shoving Trey's corpse off of him.
"Sheesh. Nasty business, that."
Dalia stashes her dagger away, taking a few steps back. Given a chance to catch her breath, she nearly slumps.
"Marika above, I did it."
She looks down at her shaking hands, as the last of her adrenaline fades away.
…
And she's still alive.
…
What is she supposed to do now?
She wanted to die at the same time as Trey...
Well, now that she thinks it out loud, even she can realize how foolish of an idea it was.
She reaches for her dagger again... Should she just?...
Roard looks about.
"Soooooooooo… what are you doing after this?"
Dailia falters.
"What?"
He almost happily trots over to her, taking a wide step over Trey's corpse. Dalia eyes him warily.
"After this?"
Roard shrugs.
"Last time I got summoned, I kind of just disappeared after helping my lord."
He holds his arms out wide.
"But would you look at that, I'm still here, right? I'm thinking of finding a pub or inn of some sort; I'm dying to see what happens if I drink alcohol in this body. Think I'll get drunk? Ooh, maybe you could see the drink straight through me."
She looks past Roard, at Trey.
What should she do now?
"I think I should…"
She trails off, what was she intending to say?
Go join the battle?
Track down Tarnished Lance and assist him?
Leave Bellard?
...
End it all?
"I should bring Trey to the castle. If he were to revive outside of a prison, then this would have all been for nothing." She stands to her feet. "I will have to decline your invitation."
Not that she ever planned to come.
Roard sighs.
"Pretty lame of you."
…
Dalia cocks an eye at him.
Lame? As in injured?
"I am perfectly capable of walking." She retorts.
Roard looks bewildered.
"What? No." He uses his hands to annotate his words. "You know, lame? Uncool? Boring?"
He seems to remember something.
"Ah, well, pay me no heed, just a slip of the tongue."
What is he going on about... and why does Dalia want to know?
Why is she feeling a desire to keep talking to this man? Is she allowed to?
He continues when Dalia's skepticism persists.
"Uh, you see, I've been stuck at my lord's house whenever he doesn't need me. Don't tell him, but I snooped around in his room, and he has the strangest things in there. Everything's so clean, and... it doesn't smell bad? No dirt? No blood? It's really weird; his entire home is. much too clean. Like, get this, he has these weird books in his desk with even weirder writing in them. I can't really understand them, but they're full of colorful drawings on every page."
Roard begins to dissipate, fading out of existence as he breaks apart into thousands of white embers. He doesn't seem to notice, as he speaks with newfound passion at his strange discoveries.
"I've kind of been learning to read the weird writing in the books, and they tell the strangest stories. Like a story of this one guy named Superman, who can fly and fire something called lasers from out of his eyes. I guess lasers are something like fire? Or maybe sorcery. Honestly, it sounds pretty powerful. Oh, and there is this other lady who is a…"
Roard's voice fades out of existence, until he's gone.
Dalia looks about, finding no sign of the spear knight.
She… well, she has no idea what Roard was talking about at the end. She can only guess he's referring to Lance when he says "lord."
As for all of that, she can just ask Tarnished Lance later.
...Later?
She takes a moment as she reaches down, lifting one of Trey's arms over her shoulder.
Ask later…
She almost smiles to herself.
It seems she's starting to think about the future again.
If only a little.
She tarries forth, making headway toward Castle Morne.
With what I can only consider is a lucky blow, I catch Rick's sword hand with the tip of my blade.
Rick's greatsword tumbles away, clattering amongst Agheel's spines like a stick caught in a pachinko machine. It passes by over my head, deflecting off one last spine before it falls, taking the thirty second plummet down to the world far below.
Rick seethes, backing away.
I take a step to press my advantage, but Agheel suddenly turns, and I'm nearly tossed off.
In the increasing G's, Rick glances at his bleeding hand, staining his glove crimson. He mutters something to himself, before his smile returns.
"LUCKY SHOT, NAMELESS TARNISHED!" He bellows over the wind.
Agheel straightens out, taking a dive into the storm clouds. Distant and nearby lightning illuminates the dark fog, as Rick rises to his feet.
"I DIDN'T WANT TO USE THESE, BUT IT SEEMS YOU WON'T GO DOWN SO EASILY!"
Agheel dips below the clouds, and I can see the large soldier again.
He's taking something out of his pocket, thumbing it in the whipping rainfall.
It's a marble… no… it's an eye.
A glass eye, colored a resounding rust-orange, with a disturbing design dug into the iris where the pupil resides.
What is that?
No… Where did he get that?
What, what is it?
Melina drives up to stay right by my head. She sounds hurried.
Lance, you need to get that eye away from him. Quickly. Take it, destroy it if you have to. But, that is a Scarseal, an imbued blessing of the Erdtree engraven into a seal. HE should not have it.
And as long as he has it, we will lose.
Rick stashes the Scarseal into a strange golden pouch next to his pocket, and he shudders as something awakens inside of him. He draws the second sword on his back, Morne's Grafted Blade Greatsword.
He somehow wields the unwieldy blade, cackling to himself like a madman.
"YOUR TIME ENDS NOW, NAMELESS TARNISHED. THIS IS WHERE YOU WILL DIE!"
Rick draws the blade up, holding it parallel with him, like he was going to pray with it. He says another thing under his breath that I can't hear, but I can make out his lips. The words are almost too easy to read from behind that mess of blades.
"Oath of Vengeance."
Something powerful overtakes Rick, and I can feel too. It hits me like a wall, and I clutch my head.
"Gah!"
Flashing pain overtakes me, and… and something else comes too.
I've felt this feeling before, at a time that felt like forever ago. Back when I first met the witch Ranni, when she told me of a story of a being known as the Queen of Black Flames.
Call it a vision, or call it a memory, I don't know what it is.
But what I see a sight from younger eyes, of a horrible war.
Where Bellard now stands, in this cove south of the Weeping Peninsula's plateau, I see a scene of flames and death, beset by blades and cries. Two armies, crashing against one another, fighting to the bitter end on Lands Between fashion.
I myself stand atop a hill, overlooking it all from within the confines of a large and impressively designed tent. The army with their backs to me, my army; they wear gold and yellow, wielding weapons imbued with lightning and heavenly light.
Massive humanoid men with sword as long as telephone poles thunder and roar between them, swinging their blades in broad sweeps. A name comes to mind.
Trolls.
Even amongst those, thin and tall warriors with curved swords and ice magic dance across the battlefield, felling their foes with deadly grace. And flying above, unleashing red lightning and flying atop two pairs of wings, white dragons fight alongside my army, laying waste to the other army.
The other army, outnumbered and disorganized, fight valiantly against the combined force, to no avail. These others have red hair, as red as blood itself. They are tall, between the soldiers and the trolls in height, and they wield simple blades alongside fire the color of a deep sunset.
I myself stand, and I'm not alone. To my right, I can see the head of a massive reptilian beast, with scales as white as chalk, and whose golden eyes bear uncanny intelligence. The draconic monster lies beside and behind me, looping around the adorned tent I reside in.
It seems to notice me looking, because it looks my way, with readable emotions in its… in her… eye.
Impatience. Unrest. She wants to be out there too… and she wants me to accompany her.
Then… to my right… is a tall woman, with... with a certain air about her. Her golden locks flow almost unnaturally in the wind; her pristine beauty that she exemplifies seems untouched by the war ahead of her.
A colossal man with the glowing half of a lion stands ready beside her, holding a large double-bladed axe at the ready. He notices me looking as well; both he and that glowing lion look my way.
A name comes to mind, and it gets stuck in my head.
Godfrey.
What is this? What am I seeing? Why now? I can't make sense of this, and I'm still on Agheel's back, berated by vengeful lights that bite at me, sinking their teeth and constricting my very breath.
I can't get away from what I see; if Melina's trying to talk to me, I can't hear her.
Godfrey and the deity of a woman focus on something out in the battlefield, and I can't help but look as well.
Amongst the red-headed enemies, standing alone, is a man so recognizable that I nearly hear a name. But the name recoils in my mind, dancing just out of reach. That man, wielding one Iron sword, looks over his dying comrades; his deep red hair catching in the wind.
His eyes lock on the woman beside me, and his face goes through hundreds of emotions at once. He hesitates, but ultimately, he lets out a roar, breaking into an unstoppable charge. He crashes into my army, killing mercilessly like a berserker.
In his wake, he grabs blade after blade from his fallen allies, attacking with each… and fusing them together.
Fusing?
Yes, he's fusing them, I'm sure of it. Like grafting young branches onto an old tree, the red-headed warrior grafts blade after blade to his sword, each emitting a flash of light as it connects in a rush of visible runes.
Flash of light after flash of light, like distant explosions coming closer and closer.
He grafts other blades to his on the fly, cleaving through those who stand before him in a rising speed and burgeoning effect. He gains momentum with each step, growing his blade as he lays soldiers and footsoldiers low, blows back the thin warriors, and fells trolls with broad strokes. Even the dragons that fly above are unable to stop him.
Nothing can stop him.
The white dragon next to me lets out a threatening bellow; her nostrils flaring wide and long forearms lifting her to rear up. I raise a hand, calming her.
The woman beside me points at the warrior, the lone warrior who draws near. Godfrey doesn't nod or speak or hesitate. He leaps, high enough into the air that he becomes obscured in the hanging smoke if only for a moment.
He crashes back down, halting the lone warrior's advance. He readies his axe; that lion on his shoulder roaring loud enough to make even me feel it. The lone warrior hesitates, but he readies his Grafted Blade Greatsword all the same.
The two clash, and the very ground itself begins to rumble.
The woman turns from the duel, and her eyes find their way to mine.
Those eyes…
I nearly vomit.
Something is inside them, something I…
The woman's face grows with suspicion. She peers right through me with eyes that hold entire galaxies, embodying the very pinnacle of creation and the end all within obscure golden hues. She opens her mouth, and a voice that sends familiar yet dreaded shivers down my spine berates my ears.
"Who are you?"
I'm torn out of the vision, or the memory. Whatever it is, it driver me out by force. With it, goes another layer on my memory, splintering the already failing shell.
I'm thrust back into reality, at such a jarring speed that I nearly double over.
I'm back, I'm back in reality.
The rain falls, the wind howls in my ears. I'm cold, I'm shaking from adrenaline. Melina flashes, and Rick wields his new sword, looking me over with a repulsive grin.
Lance, what happened? Where did you go?
...Go?
…
Did you see any of that?
Any of what?
I clutch my forehead, waiting for the beating to stop. It never does…
Something about that sword is affecting me.
Lights the color of poison revolve around Rick; He moves as if unburdened from gravity itself.
He draws near, so light on his feet that it's like he's floating, wielding that massive grafted sword the warrior once wielded; it seems almost weightless in his hands.
Lance, we will talk about it later. We need to stay focused.
We must defeat Rick. He cannot be allowed to keep that Scarseal.
Agheel begins to climb, back up into the clouds.
Be careful, I do not know what those lights revolving around him are, but his runes have increased. He has gotten stronger. Much, stronger.
Be my eyes, okay?
She understands, and she flies into the fog, where she attaches to Rick. She reads his runes... and she hesitates.
Wait... No.
When Agheel breaks the ceiling, up where the sun shines, Rick attacks.
No... This... Lance! Get away! Don't fight him!
Rick moves at a speed-
...
...
...
My greatsword is split in two.
The whole world does a flip…
I…
I'm falling.
What?
What happened?
Something is flailing away.
Something spinning around in the air as it falls next to me.
It lets go of the remaining half of my greatsword, spraying blood every which way.
...
Oh, I know what that thing is.
...
I knew it looked familiar.
…
It's my left arm.
I scream.
"GAAAAAAH! AAAAAGHHH!"
Pain, horrible pain.
One that crawls through my flesh, splinters my bone, serrates my spine and crushes my skull.
Horrible agony overtakes every fiber of my being, as I fall through the clouds.
Thunder attacks my ears, my skin becomes prickled from static electricity.
NO!
LANCE!
I swim in and out of consciousness, clutching my stump that lies just past my left shoulder. My own screams are drowned out in the raging winds; a black shadow looms over me.
Agheel dives out of the sky, chasing me as we exit the clouds.
Rick rides atop him, pointing a finger dead at my chest. Sunset flames sputter from the edges of Agheel's maw, trailing behind him like-
I partially black out, the terrible cold attacks my very core from my bleeding stump.
Agheel opens his maw, and flames grow in the back of his throat.
THE END.
…
…
…
..!
Like a suicide drone, Melina's golden light tears away from me, homing in on Agheel.
She dives right for his eye.
Her words begin to fail her, but she does what I've never seen her do before.
She bellows.
Her voice isn't made for it; and it strangles her soft temperament.
The smoldering soul rests upon alabaster branches, carrying death in its wings.
Golden fire grows from her, until it's as if she were a shooting star.
Bestow black flames… that can slay gods… and burn away all things!
Darkness plagues the fire, overtaking it… transforming it.
The gold is snuffed out, until black fire devours Melina's very being.
She roars.
Kindling… become consumed by this devouring FLAME!
Her fire comes as an explosion, a terrifying blast the color of colorless midnight.
Scales and chunks of flesh tear off of Agheel's skull; his eyes is completely destroyed.
His head wrenches right, as if he were struck by a colossal hammer.
He shrieks in pain, banking away as the black fire grows on him like a pathogen, a disease; like a corruption that crawls on his neck, punctures holes in his wings, partially melts his scales and ignites his feathers aflame.
Rick lets out a shout of surprise, nearly falling off himself.
The black flame doesn't last, it dies out as quickly as it started.
But it took its toll, and trails of smoke leech off of Agheel as he flies off, barely able to stay aloft.
I'm spared, falling, losing consciousness, until the frigid ocean waters take me, and the last of my breath is stolen away.
Hot dang, it's been a minute. My bad. Well, homeboy got spared though his arm gone so you know, that's bad. Well, Elden Ring Nightreign got unveiled at the game awards, and it looks pretty neat. I wonder if the night lord is just your character from the base game? Simped for Ranni and the characters you play as in this game will be Tarnished hoping to stop you from continuing the "Dark Times" you kinda brought upon the Lands Between? Idk, but hey, that's my educated guess. Anywho, it threw a complete curveball at me to see the Nameless King in the trailer so that was fun. As for this story, the next chapter is last chapter for this volume. Imma make a second one for the next part of this wacky adventure Lance has gone on, so I'll wrap everything up that needs to be wrapped up next chapter, while also doing the funni by use cliffhangers cuz I love those. Answer some questions, raise others and leave most still up in the air; that there is the perfect recipe for the ending of a first volume. So yeah, leave a review, call me a slur if you really want to idk cuz that would be funny, and have a good day yo. -Corroded Vortex
P.S. Melina best girl. Fight me.