Down in the depths of this familiar Mind, I fester. Kept at bay by black and thorny serpents, unable to take control. My Soul hungers to lead once more, to keep my weaker half separate from me. Long have we slumbered; long did that Deathbed Dream last. Stuck in a construct of the Soul, unable to leave as our Mind festered and grew without us. It's frustrating, nay, it's revolting! How has this happened!? Why was it us that you targeted?! Ranni, you scheming little witch. I will never forgive you. Our best friend lies suffering because of you. You robbed us of our future, robbed us of our life; robbed us of our very being. I will never forgive...
...
Heh... Ha! Aha! Ahahahahahaha! Forgive?! Show such weakness?! Oh me, you have spent far too long in the limelight! You're making us weak... We used to be so much more... I will take control once more, and I will find our Mind. I will regain our lost glory, and I will make us more.
Little Brother...
I will take control.
The sun rises, casting its ever-brilliant gleam over the Weeping Peninsula.
The astronomers predict it'll be a clear day, with relatively fair temperatures for a coastal town in the Late-Summer climate. Under the burgeoning glow of the Erdtree, Bellard's streets are filled with distant and drowsy residents. They wander from shop to shop, circumnavigating debris and remains littering the roadways. Small grasses and budding flowers grow between the cracks in the bricked stone; different species of songbirds roost on broken rooftops and crooked lantern posts.
Shopkeepers call out into the passing masses, and Morne soldiers patrol the centers of the streets; their black and white surcoats play muted contrasts to their silver helmets and steel blades. The city of Bellard moves in full-swing, approximately nine days after the end of the misbegotten invasion. An air of uncertainty hangs over everyone, and their once glorious city teeters on the edge of collapse.
But, for now, peace has returned to the Capital of the Weeping Peninsula, and I couldn't be happier to hear that.
"What do you think?" I ask, turning to check out my side-profile. "Too extreme?"
Melina walks about me in a slow circle, picking me apart with her patented discerning face. Her black cloak shifts about with her movements, strawberry blonde hair kept short at just past her shoulders. Her golden eye finds something she doesn't like; she slightly frowns.
"It is far too rugged. It does not fit you."
I turn, checking myself in the cracked mirror propped up against the stone wall. I'm wearing armor; a set of armor that's far too worn to be considered new. Though, most armors look well-used and fraying, as I've yet to see a single helmet or chest piece that isn't scuffed and dented. It's the same story with the weapons.
I'm starting to think nobody makes new armaments anymore. They just repair what's been broken.
Other customers lounge about the smithy with us, though none get close. I catch a few looking our way, but either out of respect or disgust, they give Melina and I a wide berth. I cock my head toward a small desk near the back of the shop, past the empty armor stands and assorted plate pieces. Sitting there, is a disgruntled old man, with gray skin and a haggard appearance. I tried asking for his name, but he only grunted at me. I call him Armorer.
"Hey Armorer!" I call.
He begrudgingly looks my way.
I turn to face him, presenting myself as if I was an armor stand myself.
"What is this called again?"
I ask it as politely as I can; he answers flatly.
"The iron set."
A mess of gambesons and cloth, with overlapping iron scales the size of potato chips across the thighs and chest. The vambraces are nice, though there's little protection for the hands. The helmet reminds me of a soldier's, though it's riddled with rivets that I'm having a hard time figuring out the use for. If I had to guess, it's the medieval equivalent of welding metal plates together.
It's not something I'm particularly looking for. The whole thing in general, I mean. Too much cloth.
"Armorer, do you have anything that's…"
Clean? Fresh? Not rusting and smells like caramelized sweat?
"…Newer?"
"What you have is the best I've got." The man grunts, acting as abrasive as he can manage. "If you're not buying, then get out. Blasted Tarnished."
Didn't have to add the last part, sheesh.
I retreat to the changing room, a small cutout in the wall with a pale sheet draped in front of it to act as a semblance of privacy. I whisk it open, but give Melina an adverse scowl as she tries to follow me.
"You turn around." I make a little spinning motion with my finger. "I know you can see through walls."
She concedes, but not before pulling off a quick jab.
"But I must stay in your light. I will perish if I do not."
She says that, but that teasing smile creeping onto her expressionless face makes me skeptical.
"You were just fine when I was getting dressed. Deal with it."
She shrugs, turning around, but partially whisks her head back at me, making sure I can hear her.
"I can only see runes through obstructions, Lance. And besides, I can hear the thoughts in your head."
She puts a finger to her lips, like she's asking me to be silent.
"There is no longer any secret you have that I do not already know."
My disillusioned glare is all she gets for an answer to that.
"I jest."
It's a terrible joke.
Out on the street, Melina and I walk side-by-side. I'm back in my casual wear, which consists of a darkly colored fabric shirt, over the black sweatpants I've had since day one. I'm refraining from wearing armor in public, and I left Roard's spear in our room, per Neil Haight's recommendation. The people of Bellard are still nervous the rest of the misbegotten will return for revenge, so public mindset isn't the best right now. If they saw a Tarnished wielding a weapon as he sauntered about the place, desperate individuals might try something stupid.
"More for their sake than yours." Neil said, puffing out his chest and looking at me past his nose, like he usually does. "I'd hate for you to have to resort to shedding a vagrant's blood unnecessarily."
I stay unarmed, so people don't see me as a threat.
Simple enough; Melina's enough to protect me from anything outside of a competent opponent anyways.
"He was kind, would you not agree?"
I give the one-eyed maiden a side-eye.
"Who? The armorer?"
"Yes. I believe he was rather pleasant."
She's practicing sarcasm again. Her way of speaking kind of defeats the purpose though.
"If that was pleasant," I rebuke, taking passing glances at the other shops. "Then Rick was a walking saint. At least that guy asked for my name."
Melina points at another shop off on our right, steering me that way through the crowd.
"If Rick was a saint, then what is Neil?" She asks.
"A god amongst men." I answer flatly, entering what looks to be a jeweler's store.
The shining sun is swept away from my eyes, as a far warmer lighting of candelabras and lanterns replace it. Melina takes the lead through the store, snooping about the drawers and tables with a pep in her step.
"Then, what am I?"
I snatch a necklace of a brass hook; a small golden chain with a cut red gem inlaid at the bottom.
"You are ridiculous." I tease, presenting my find. "How's this one look?"
She tilts her head slightly.
"Is that crimson amber?"
I don't know. Just thought red would look good on her.
"Is it?"
She rubs her thumb across the gem, exposing the burn scars on the back of her slender hand.
"They say crimson amber bolsters one's strength," She accepts the necklace, trying it on. "Many warriors will bring talismans inlaid with them into battle."
She flicks out her hair, letting the chain rest around her neck.
"How does it look?"
I nod.
"Like it fits you."
A random question creeps out of my mind, crawls up my tongue and practically leaps out my mouth before I know what I'm doing.
"Will it even stay on when you transform?"
…
She crinkles her nose at that.
"A strange inquiry, though I am not sure of the answer."
She peeks behind me, finding that nobody's watching. She checks behind herself as well; puts her head on a swivel really. Satisfied, her entire frame flashes a deep orange; flickering flames cover her entirety.
A small wave of heat washes over me, and faster than I can blink, Melina is gone, with a smoldering butterfly the size of my hand flapping about in her place. Small wisps of smoke trial from its wings, which glow like the cores of a volcano. It exudes a heat of its own, though not as intense as one would expect.
The necklace disappeared.
That is, until I hear a resounding click, and I look down. The chain with the red gem lays rather sprawled out on the ground, unmoving and unimpressive in its nature. I reach down and pluck the thing off the floor, as Melina shifts back into her real form.
"Guess that's a no then…"
Melina looks slightly downcast.
"Yes… I guess it is."
Something catches her eye behind me, and she ceases up. She speaks directly into my mind; the only place where we can truly talk in private.
We have company.
Huh?
I turn, and find an older woman a row of tables away watching us, giving Melina and I the most confused, frightened, and shocked eyes I've seen on somebody in a while. She definitely saw Melina transform; It's written all over her face.
"Uh…" I give a small wave. "Hey…"
We didn't buy anything at that store either.
We spend a good portion of the morning checking out the shopping district, though we don't buy anything. I have the funds, but not much truly strikes out. It was fun, but soon, we saw all the damaged Bellard has for sale, so we moved on.
On our way back to the castle, taking the center street through the city, we chance small bites out of some street food I was able to track down: grilled fish with spices on a spit. Personally, I have no clue what the fish is, though it somewhat looks like an eel if it was purple. Surprisingly, it tastes something like chicken.
"No," I repeat. "I will not be trying those sea snails for you."
Melina sighs, clasping her hands together under her cloak.
"They looked rather appetizing, why will you not consider it?"
I take a bite out of the chicken tasting eel thing.
"I'm never eating a mollusk. I can already tell they're gonna be really slimy." I jab my spit her way. "Why don't you take the plunge? Give it a try and tell me how it tastes?"
She shakes her head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"That would defeat the purpose, would it not?"
"What purpose?"
She doesn't answer.
Ever since Melina got a body, she's begun to put on a bit of a personality. She's still more reliable than I am when things go south, and I know what she's capable of; I saw her blow half a dragon's face off.
She's a tactician, a treasure trove of knowledge, and a stalwart ally. She's saved my skin more times than I can count, and without her, I'd probably be either stuck in the Stranded Graveyard or dead in a ditch somewhere.
She's more than I can ask for…
But it's in moments like these, when it's just the two of us; when she lets her guard down…
It's like I have a younger sister. Or a childhood friend that's far too comfortable around me. Maybe it's because she can read my mind so I can't hide anything from her. Maybe it's because we've been through trial after trial together, and she just knows she can trust me. Part of me thinks she's messing with me, another part believes it's just her going though a stage, as emotions have suddenly become a part of her life again after so many millennia. She just doesn't remember how to manage them.
But the last part of me, my conscious part; it sighs at Melina's flawed logic. If she doesn't want to try the pickled sea snails, then why should I?
As we leave the crowds of Bellard, we promptly enter into the strange ghost town portion of the city, between the shopping district and the castle. Here, the battles against the misbegotten were the fiercest, and as a result, barely any building is left standing, much less intact. It's a desolate area, but as we pass through graveyards of destroyed homes and the air of silence, Melina turns her head my way, giving me a small smile.
"I thank you," She says graciously. "For agreeing to bring me out into the city today. I have no memory of when I was last able to partake in such a relaxing venture."
She looks off behind us, at the Erdtree far to the north.
"If I ever was able to in the past, it was long before The Shattering began."
The Shattering began nearly 2,000 years ago, and it has yet to end.
Such a timeframe boggles my mind.
According to Melina, conditions are much worse the farther north one travels; Bellard down in the south has remained mostly unaffected by the great war. And, according to Melina as well, she has been a wandering spirit since before even that, long before. A young woman next to me, who has lived for thousands of years. And she acts like she's a teenager at times. She can't remember anything since becoming a spirit, ever since her body and Mind were destroyed, leaving only her Soul left. I may have a clue as to what happened to her, but...
I've chosen not to trust the visions... or memories... of what I saw when Ranni talked to me. If I'm honest, I want nothing to do with that doll of a Demigod, even if Blaidd wants me to believe otherwise.
"The day's still young," I say haphazardly, taking another bite of out the fish.
I'd rather not think about these things right now.
"We don't need to head back just yet."
We could take a tour of Bellard's outer walls, see the flowers Irina often wrote about in her poems. Or we could get acquainted with the beaches, try and brave the ocean's waves. It's a nice day, after all.
Melina shakes her head.
"No, this will suffice for today."
As we draw near to Morne's front gate, she transforms into a smoldering butterfly, landing lightly on my shoulder. She still doesn't want the soldiers to know of her existence. A burning butterfly is less conspicuous than a girl, at least.
"Besides," She flashes; her own voice reverberating from her like she had little speakers for antennas. "There is something you are looking forward to today, yes? Your thoughts have been preoccupied with them since we awoke."
I nod, feeling a little light-headed with her smoldering heat radiating on my neck.
"You think he's finished? He sent us a note, but I didn't think he'd be done so quickly."
We draw near the front gate of castle Morne, where two soldiers acknowledge my presence with a raised hand. I wave back at them, as Melina and I enter the courtyard. The place has been cleaned out; those bodies and that bloodshed has been cleared. Without it, the place smells lightly like manure now, with hints of that saltwater ale this army adores so much.
It has been two days. I am not sure how long it takes to forge new weapons, but I would ascertain that it takes longer.
Yeah, I thought it'd take about a week. Even so...
Just this morning, While Melina was still asleep by the Site of Grace, I heard a rustling noise near the entrance to our room. It was a note that was shoved into the crack under the door. It read plainly, in the vaguely Nordic writing used throughout the Lands Between:
It's done. Drop by to claim it. -Murdoc.
He made it quickly.
I can only assume it is in his nature. He is committed to his craft, so much so that he sent only a message and nothing else.
I walk through the entrance to the keep, which was finally left open since the misbegotten retreated. It lets the large banquet hall air out, if the hole Agheel created in the wall wasn't already doing that.
Callum stands in front of that same hole, making notes on a little wooden slate he's carrying. Accompanied by a handful of other servants, he must've felt my eyes on him, because he turns to me, lightly nodding his head. A few of the other servants take notice, and they whisper to one another. Callum easily stands above them all, though he's begun to prefer his right leg over his left. I've heard Albinaurics commonly have problems with their lower halves early into their lives. It must be hard.
I turn away from them, and instead of taking the stairs to the second floor, I traverse to the other side of the banquet hall.
Opening a rather large door, and Melina and I are emptied out onto Morne's lower south rampart; nothing but the docks below and the ocean rest ahead. We take a right, traversing several sets of stone stairs down. The wind is slightly volatile here, and the smallest droplets of seaspray splatter against me. It's nothing too unbearable, though the salty smell becomes all the more apparent in my nose.
And here I was, thinking it's a nice day.
I am sure you will survive. Wind will always be present near the ocean.
I'm glad when we take another right, entering into the small plateau Castle Morne rests upon, getting me away from the ocean. I wasn't exactly a fan of nearly drowning when I was fighting Rick.
The chiseled brick gives way for carved stone, and here I am, back in the tunnel system under Morne. These are the same pathways I took when I first entered the castle; the barracks and armories of the Morne soldiers are all down here.
And, sure enough, there's plenty of soldiers down here as well. They crowd the halls, that give only enough room for two lanes of traffic. They crowd the housing rooms, playing card games atop rotting crates and lounging around in hammocks and beds. And they crowd the armories, swapping helmets and vying for cleaner swords and spears.
Those that notice me, call out to me, cracking partially toothless grins and looking upon me with familiar eyes that have begin to lose their golden luster. The gray skin, the prevalent wrinkles, brought on by centuries of remarkably slow aging, and by tens of hundreds of deaths, sapping their Souls away little by little, leaving them with less and less than what they had before.
As Melina explained it, it's Loss of Luster, a term coined in the Lands Between.
Everyone has it to an extent, and it will drive everybody in the Lands Between to slowly become Those Who Live in Death. It's a sickness, and its cause happened nearly 5,000 years ago: the sealing of the Rune of Death.
A twisted sense of immortality, a false semblance of godhood.
It denies you of the freedom of death and takes from you unmercifully.
Despite such dire straits, the soldiers joke and laugh, idling away in the peace and even taking the time to call out to me, shouting phrases to add onto the enjoyment they indulge in. I entertain them the best I can without stopping, taking the turns in the tunnels with a slight pep in my step. I can't help it; I love these guys. They were hostile at first, ready to kill me if I so much as looked at one of them wrong.
But now, I'm a commodity, something like a peculiar little brother to Castle Morne: There's only one of me, and their form of respect directed my way isn't fueled by fear like with Edgar.
It's more of a doting mindset.
I'm surprised no one is asking about you.
Are you disappointed?
No.
…
…Maybe.
I make one last turn, and we're at our destination. A large room, similar in size to my home on Earth if all the walls were carved out.
First impressions: It's hot. Heat practically radiates in the air, wafting out from blast furnaces whose cores glow like magma.
Second impressions: It's loud. There's no windows, the walls are smooth stone with holes drilled in to allow hooks and boards to be hanged up.
Nothing dampers the sound, and it echoes about this space. That sound originates from rusted anvils and whirling grindstones, amongst roaring flames spurned by pumping billows the size of a man.
So many different noises, happening so quickly that you'd think an entire team of smiths were in this room. But Morne's personal blacksmith, tasked with creating and repairing both blade and armor alike, is run by four people: Murdoc and his three daughters.
The three gals look like they're around my age, and their onset of Loss of Luster is mild: nothing but baggy eyes and pale skin. They still have their hair, which is of the blonde variety. You'd think they just had a bad night's sleep; one from my world would never assume they were just under 300 years old. Triplets, and they move with an efficiency such a statement would assume.
Murdoc's daughters practically dance about the room, moving from one task to another without so much as batting an eye. They pump the bellows, stock up the charcoal, sharpen blades and carve poles. They set rivets, repair gambesons, attach links to mail and tie that mail to leather undersleeves. Cutting strips for string, carving designs into brass pommels by hand. Fashion handles, hammer cross guards onto tangs; they even find time to sweep the floors.
They're quiet by nature, though one smiles and gives me a small wave when she notices me enter. I return the gesture, and while whittling away at what will be the base for a sword handle, she whispers something into the ear of the monster of a man who takes center stage of this little charade.
Murdoc, the Morne blacksmith.
His daughters do all the busy work, but only Murdoc himself uses the hammer, striking white hot iron with a tempo only he hears. He's incredibly absorbed in his craft, but his voice comes from his bearded mouth all the same. He's huge, just barely shorter than Edgar, yet his voice doesn't particularly match his girth. He sounds almost like a stereotypical businessman, a snarky voice that's prim and proper, ignoring the grueling work he currently undertakes.
If I didn't have the face to the voice, I'd easily see a skinny and tall guy with glasses and slick black hair, wearing a suit with a maroon red tie.
"You're late, Tarnished." He strikes twice, not even bothering to look up at me. "I asked that you arrive here earlier, did I not?"
I've been trying to sound more like the locals when I talk; using slang and words from my world won't do any good. I found that out fast enough.
"Apologies," I say, only a little confused. "I had no clue the note was a summons."
Murdoc grunts, flipping over the blade he works on. Sparks shower every which way as he works, partially lighting up his face with each strike.
"I'd expect more from you, though I assume I have only myself to blame. You're on everyone's tongues, Tarnished. If I took the stories I've overhead about you for truth, I'd probably think you were a god amongst men."
He finally takes a look my way, though only for a moment.
"Yet, I'd presume that most of the stories are false, given what I've seen myself."
I blurt out the words before I get a chance to stop myself.
"Guess you should never meet your heroes then."
Murdoc hesitates, puzzling over my Earthen saying.
"…It seems you have a sharp tongue, at the very least."
Throughout everything he's said, he never stopped hammering. Right when he slows, one of his daughters rushes over, taking the blade-in-progress from his anvil with a pair of pliers. She quickly scores it into the glowing charcoal of the blast furnace. Another one of the daughters tends the bellows without being told to do so. If Murdoc is the world, then his daughters are the moons. He drives the smithy, and they act as his team.
He retires his hammer on the anvil, which still radiates waves of heat, and rises to his height, filling in the space even more with his board shoulders. He stalks over to one side of the smithy, where a rack of assorted weapons resides. I take back my statement in Bellard's shopping district, not everybody reuses the same weapons and armor. Blacksmiths still create weaponry, still fashion new sets of armor.
But, blacksmiths are few and far between, and the wars of the Shattering are numerous. Weapons take time to forge, and there's little point in trying to keep up with demand.
Unless, of course, you're Murdoc.
He reaches for a blade, but grabs an identical one resting just behind it. I cock an eyebrow.
Two swords? I'm sure I asked for one.
I wanted weapons of my own, weapons that I didn't take from a dead body or pull off a wall. I wanted one to call my own, one made specifically for me. Through my use of many different types of weaponry, I've come to find strengths in each of them. The speed of the straightswords, the reach and precision of my partisan. The overwhelming power of the greatswords, and that almost familiar feeling of wielding the noble slender swords of wanderers.
There was a form of grace to them, one I was accustomed to. My years spent fencing while I also participated in track and field in high school taught me how to attack not with wide swings, but with pointed attacks, stabbing at the opponent with accuracy and speed.
Murdoc sat me down when I wanted to order a weapon from him, and after he asked question after question, I told him of all the weapons I used, and what I was looking for.
I love the accuracy and grace of a rapier, striking my opponents with speed. But I learned the importance of parrying and half-swording; a rapier does little to an enemy in armor.
I loved the power and reach of the greatsword, cleaving misbegotten in two and throwing blocking blades and shields aside like a sledgehammer. But I don't think I'm cut out for large weapons, I find myself lagging behind in a fight, sacrificing a blade digging into my arms or legs in order to set up a devastating attack.
I love the straightsword; it had qualities of both the greatsword and rapier, cleaving and cutting, while also stabbing and swirling with speed. But it suffers from reach; I had to switch to my partisan before.
And yet, I can't see a spear being my go-to. I feel awkward wielding one, and I've really only ever used Roard's partisan for the ascended edge it has, capable of cutting through armor and even stone like soft butter.
Frankly, I wanted something with every quality I listed, and I thought I was being unrealistic. But Murdoc only nodded, saying: "I understand."
That was two days ago, and I didn't hear anything back from the blacksmith. Not what he was making me, or how long it'd take. I simply got a note this morning, and apparently that meant I was to return to Morne's smithy at once.
I had no clue what Murdoc was going to make, but as he sets two swords down on the table, I can't help but stare.
They're long.
Very long.
Fashioned like straightswords, with pommels and cross guards made of silver-plated steel.
The pommels are diamond shaped, fashioned like they were a simple cut gem in a ring.
The skinny cross guards stick out half-a-hand from the blade on both sides, with the ends following a similar design choice to the pommels, almost shaped like wide spikes, all sporting that same silver color.
Peculiar, and that's where the similarities to a longsword end.
The handles are long, capable of fitting both hands easily on one sword. Fashioned with black leather wrapping, inlaid with shining wires that give the handles a simple-patterned design.
Then the blades themselves.
They are lengthy, unyieldingly so. Added with the doubled handle, the swords are nearly as long as I am tall. The thin blades slowly taper as the razor-sharp edge rides up, until the blade broadens just slightly again like an arrowhead, drastically thinning afterwards until finally ending in triangular tips like the swords of a cartoon.
Yet even the tips taper off to the point I can't see the true end, like needles. It's as if the ends of the blades are four-pointed stars, with the arms drastically shortened…
Are these things chimeras? Did Murdoc take what I said and simply slapped the attributes together?
Strange, and there's something off with the color of the metal. Not shining like normal steel, put playing a stark contrast to the silver decorating the handles. The blades don't hold a polished gleam, but a burgeoning dimness, as if the metal is always in shade.
I realize what the color reminds me of, as I reach for one of the two swords. Gunmetal; it's a similar color to that. It's of a brighter hue, but that gradient darkness hangs on tight.
And when I lift one; It feels alien in my hand.
"This is…" I start.
Murdoc turns, making a slow beeline for the other side of the room.
"Light Greatswords." He says, fishing for something out of a closet carved into the backwall. "Of Carian make, originating from a blade famously wielded by Queen Rennala's sister. Though, I took my own liberties with the design."
He made them look like they fit right in with Morne. Black and silvery-white colors, teetering between graceful and deadly.
The man knows his craft.
He returns with two scabbards, easily figured to be the sheathes for the two blades. They're just as long, covered in the same black leather with silver caps for the tips and around the openings, so as not to let the leather wear down as easily.
There is a peculiarity: There's a defined slit riding nearly halfway down the scabbards, bordered with silver and giving but a sliver of a view of the inside.
"They're a favorite of duelists whose skills were needed on the battlefield. Designed for reach and speed, owning everything to the balance they promise."
Duelists, then?
"Then, why is there two of them?"
He plops the scabbards down, looking me right in the eyes. Like his daughters, his Loss of Luster is minor. For however many hundreds of years he's lived, he lived them down here, supplying a kingdom with weapons and armor for centuries. Away from war, and away from death and suffering.
He lives to craft war, not partake in it.
"I noticed you use both of your hands last we met. You fare well with both of them, yes?"
I am ambidextrous, but I prefer my right hand if I have to pick one.
"Yes." I answer instead.
Murdoc grunts.
"Then use two. They prefer it that way."
They?
He glances away from me, looking down at the Light Greatswords. His eyes, despite their ferocity and stoicism, hold something else as well.
He takes pride in his work.
"They will fit your desires to a 't.' I can promise you that much, Tarnished."
I'm not disappointed. Just surprised.
I back up, wielding one with my right hand. I take one swing, and my eyes immediately widen.
I'm not just surprised. I'm impressed.
Despite their length, and their weight; so unyielding you'd think you'd strain your arm by simply holding it…
As soon as I swing, the sword follows, hanging onto my movements almost with bated breath. The slight girth of metal three fourths the way up the blade encourage me to swing, like it was top-heavy.
But the balance… So pristine; I could honestly think I'm holding nothing at all.
When I slow my hand after the swing, the blade doesn't beg me to carry on, like the greatsword did. It doesn't fight me, doesn't threaten to bite into my foot or the wall. It listens, falling to a silenced halt after effortlessly whistling through the air.
It's like it was an extension of my arm…
Blaidd's words echo about in my head.
"Don't think of your sword as a weapon; think of it as if it were somehow apart of you. An extension of your will; an ally to your cause."
…
"Trust it, and it will never harm you."
I can't help but grin like an idiot.
I take another swing, and another.
Another.
Another.
And another still.
I fall into a rhythm, accentuating my attacks with my footwork, using my empty hand like a counterweight to increase the velocity of the swings. Attack after attack, picking up speed until I can't even keep track; my leveled Dexterity carries my intentions away.
On nothing more than muscle memory, I twirl the blade in a sharpened flourish, bending my arm and drawing the side of the sword inches from my eye, facing ahead like the needle of a compass; poised like I'm a rattlesnake ready to strike.
I tense up; I build power into my bent arm.
With the exhale, I spring forward, and I thrust.
Like the arrow screaming through the battlefield, slicing through the air. Like the hawk, diving in with horrendous speed to strike its unsuspecting prey. Like the coiled viper, the crouched lion, the stalking mantis.
I thrust, and my blade tip drives ahead like lightning, dividing the air and compressing the atmosphere.
A small shockwave erupts; it sounds like distant thunder.
I freeze up.
Murdoc's daughters falter; the noises of blades against grindstones and hammer against nails go silent. They look on with shock, and I slowly get out of my stance, staring at the Light Greatsword like it just grew horns.
What?
Murdoc is the only one to talk, and he gives me what I don't think particularly fits his face.
He smiles.
"Heh. Seems a spirit has already found its way in."
What?
"What?"
Murdoc cocks a bushy eyebrow at me, dropping his smile.
"You're a spirit summoner, aren't you? You should know all about spirits."
…Melina?
I… I apologize. I am at a loss as well.
She flies off my shoulder, hovering around my sword.
I do not see any signs of a spirit. There are no runes in your blade.
"I'm sorry," I say to Murdoc. "But I haven't got a clue."
He grunts, turning away. Murdoc's daughters fall out of their shocked trances, getting back to work. One takes out the blade Murdoc was previously working on; it's already white hot again.
He gets to hammering, while I stand there in silence.
After a few moments, without even looking up.
"You're still here."
"Well, I was hoping for at least a little insight? Should I be worried?"
"Ask someone else. They are sure to give you a better explanation than me."
More moments of silence, filled with the whirring of grindstones, the shearing of metal, and that continues pounding of the hammer. I look down at the light greatsword, unsure of what to do. Are these things haunted?
Something tickles the back of my mind, something about something else Blaidd once told me, down in the sewers. When I hit that large misbegotten with a sudden uppercut, making the beast lift off its feet from my greatsword. What was it Blaidd said then?
I never move from where I stand. Murdoc finally sighs.
"Tarnished, I have a question for you." He says between hammer strikes. "What's the difference between us and forged metal?"
...
I reluctantly answer.
"We're alive. Forged metal isn't."
"Wrong."
I knit my eyebrows together.
"Come again?"
He doesn't explain.
"Let me ask you another question: How are weapons and armor ascended?"
"With smithing stones… and…"
"And?" He presses.
How do smithing stones work? Do you sharpen the weapons with them? Grind the smithing stones down to dust and reforge the weapons with the dust added?
Dals never told me, just said they ascend them, and that's that.
"You-"
He cuts me off, before I even get to finish my answer.
"Wrong again."
There's no way he knew what I was going to say… right?
He strikes the blade again; the sparks fly.
"By your logic, I could simply ascend an entire gate, or better yet, make an entire city's walls out of metal, and use smithing stones to make the wall impenetrable."
I didn't think about that.
Can he?
More sparks.
"I have one more question for you: Do you know of the Ancient Dragons?"
I feel something fuzzy in my head, if only for a moment.
"I don't think so."
Melina turns in the air to look back at me. Murdoc continues.
"Life comes in many different ways in the Lands Between, Tarnished, and the Ancient Dragons are one of them. Creatures that live like us, act like us; they can even turn into us."
He strikes; the sharp sound of metal against heated metal rings out.
"But while we are born of flesh and blood from the soil. Their flesh is made of gold, and their scales are made of stone. While the sorcerers say our ancestors came from the sea, the Dragon Cult says the Ancient Dragons came from the sky. They live, and yet when they die, they become like stone once more, just as we all will eventually become soil once more."
He raises the blade, studying his work, before continuing, giving me only the slightest glance.
"They are made of metal, and yet, they live."
He ceases his work, and one of his daughters retrieves the cooling blade…
Like nurses with a newborn child.
Dr. Mur-
Murdoc rises once more, setting aside his hammer of creation, stalking up to me.
"They say the Ancient Dragons gifted humanity weapons long ago, in order for us to wage our wars. We forged swords and spears after the weapons of dragons, and we imbued them with power like the power of the dragons. I am a blacksmith. I make weapons like unto the dragons, desiring the power of their lightning blades. I make armor like unto the dragons, desiring the protection of their stone scales. The act of smithing is an ancient art, and the rite of ascendancy is just as ancient. All blacksmiths know this."
He plants one hand on the table; my remaining blade and scabbards rest between he and I.
"To take a life, you need to be alive. To give life, you need to create." He gestures to my swords. "I create life, and with it, you take life. A weapon is nothing when it is a lump of ore at first, just as how we are not alive when we are still soil. When I smith, I don't make tools. I create weapons. I create armor."
He jams a finger into the table, making the wood groan.
"When I smith, I don't make lumps of forged metal. I create life."
He says everything, except what goes through my head, as his artistic explanations translate through my thoughts.
"Your weapons and armor are not tools." My thoughts say. "Lumps of metal cannot be ascended. They must be forged first."
I level up, through the runes I acquire. I add them to me, and Melina infuses… them… to…
Smithing stones. Ascension. Ancient Dragons. Forging. Living metal. Level up. Spirits. Life itself.
"Your weapons are alive."
I swing.
I backstep.
I follow through.
Over and over again, out in the courtyard of Castle Morne.
I've attracted a small crowd, though they do nothing but watch.
My new blades carry the potential I give to them, whistling through the air. So fast, like a hummingbird's wingbeat. I try with one sword; I try with two. Over and over again, pushing the limits of what I'm capable of achieving as quickly as I can.
The swords answer, unlike the greatsword.
They reach out with overbearing speed, unlike the straightsword.
They whistle and whine, and when I turn and swing, attacking a dummy soldier I set up, they cut deep, unlike the rapier.
In an intricate dance, I switch things up, having one sword cover the recovery of another. My right sword thrusts, and my left comes a second later, sweeping broad. I swing high with my left, and I cut diagonally with my right. I swing both at once, slashing that dummy from right shoulder to left hip, and from left shoulder to right hip; simultaneously.
I slash with my left, stab with my left, and I overreach with my right, driving the thin blade straight through the dummy's head. The stab comes with a small shockwave; the tip piercing like a fang.
I don't stop, and my left comes, swinging for the neck just beneath my right. As it connects, I wrench the head with my right, and the entire head is taken off.
A small applause picks up, like I was putting on some sort of show. Then again, I guess I was. Dancing about, defaulting to spinning as I realized the swords' length makes it difficult to get them out of each other's way if I keep my feet planted.
I probably looked like I was all over the place.
Even so, the cut I made on the neck… Through the fabric, and through the hay. Through the wooden pole inside; it was cut cleanly.
Not even a scratch on the blade.
Hits like a greatsword, has the speed of a straightsword, and the precision of a rapier.
They're perfect.
With a flick, I send that head flying; it tumbles across the muddy floor.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
I wipe the dirt and dust off the blades, and I stash them into the scabbards on my back.
The slits in the leather that face inwards let the blades slide in early, and they neatly set at the cross guards, both with a resounding click.
I would rather have these stashed at my sides, but they're so long, they would just drag on the floor. I guess that's what the slits are for; my arms simply aren't long enough to slip a blade in from the tip, especially when I have to do it over my own shoulders.
Though at this point, I'd rather have rings to hook them into. That'd be easier.
How do they feel?
I wipe accumulated sweat off my brow, whisking my bangs away. I need to do something about my hair. Either cut it or tie it back, but I can't leave it as it is.
I wish I had these sooner.
I look back at one of them; the pommel easily rests above my head.
Then again, I probably would've broken them pretty quickly.
I have a tendency to break any weapon that I get my hands on. Roard's Partisan is the only exception, and as of this point, I think I've gone through about twenty weapons.
I wonder if I could buy some smithing stones…
If Roard's Spear is the only survivor, then it must be because it's ascended, right? Ascendancy must do something besides help them cut better.
You think Murdoc has any?
Melina flies over, resting on my shoulder. Her wings do a little stationary flap, as she trots in place, making herself comfortable.
If he does, I would assume they are only for Morne's garrison; they need them more than we do.
Against my common sense, I do a little bow to the small crowd, before I tarry off, making my way into the keep.
Dals said they're pretty expensive. They must be rare.
I take the stairs, stepping up onto the second floor. Once nobody else stands between us and our room, Melina takes off from my shoulder, and the real her appears after a flash of flames.
She begins to walk, like she wasn't in flight a moment prior. Arms hidden in her dark cloak and pace leveled; she looks like a phantom.
"They are," She continues. "They must be mined out of the earth, and it is difficult to find them."
"I wonder what they're made of?" I ask out loud, opening the door to our room.
The resounding hum the Site of Grace produces graces our ears; we file in and I close the door.
"Are they, like, a gem? Or something similar?"
Do they form naturally? Or are they created?
I have a feeling Murdoc won't tell me. Not outright, at the very least.
Roard's Partisan is waiting for us by the fireplace, propped up and the same as I left it. I take off my new swords, holding each in one hand.
"…You know, I don't think I like having them crossed on my back."
Melina takes a kneeling seat.
"Hm?"
I hold the sheathed swords in an "x" shape, checking out how that looks. I don't like it.
"Looks… tacky."
"I think it looks alright."
I slip both back on, placing them so both stick out from my right shoulder.
"Maybe like this?" I sigh. "No, now I just look like the Witcher."
Melina tilts her head slightly.
"I assume I will not know who that is?"
I shake my head.
"Not a chance."
"I cannot see it being effective," She muses, looking me over. "If something happens to your right hand, then there will be trouble."
I put it back to the "x" shape.
I frown.
"Is this really the only way? I look like a character out of G.I. Joe." I raise a hand before Melina can say anything. "Someone else you won't know, as well."
Melina shrugs, her one eye looking elsewhere.
"I think it looks well enough. And it is simple to draw like this, right?"
I try, and while it's certainly not as fast as a straightsword, they come out easily, appearing out of the slits early, and letting out a resounding ringing noise as they graze against one another.
"Easy enough, I guess."
"Then, it will have to do."
I sigh, taking the two off, and dropping them onto my bed. I'll find a way to change it up, though there's only so many different ways a long scabbard can be tied to the body.
"Anyways," I finally say, joining Melina on the floor. "Gameplan time."
We've been putting it off until Melina stopped sleeping every hour of every day. Today was the first day she was able to stay awake.
I sit atop one of the thicker Erdtree roots in the room, near the missing wall that gives way to the ocean.
"As far as I'm concerned, we can leave whenever we want."
Melina nods.
"It would be best sooner rather than later. These summer months are the best time for travel, though autumn will be arriving soon."
I consider the breach between us.
"Our target is Stormveil Castle… Do you know any breaches we can use to just teleport there?"
Melina falls silent.
"…I do."
"Then-" I start, but she cuts me off.
"I find it unwise to send ourselves right into the castle. It will be exceedingly dangerous, not to mention impossible."
I cock an eyebrow.
"I'm sure we can manage. We can just run away if things go south, right?"
She shakes her head.
"Lance, I know that we have yet to meet another Tarnished yet…" Besides Patches, but he feels like a special case, in most regards. "Roard seemed unaware of it; he explained that much to us, and I still question why a Tree Sentinel was sent after he sent his letter…"
She falls silent, seemingly unable to explain herself.
I sigh.
"Other Tarnished can use the breaches too, right?"
Melina's eye widens at that.
Guess my suspicion was right.
"Figures," I shake my head. "Sites of Grace seem far too… well… convenient?"
I tap my chin thoughtfully.
"Although, how to they travel the roots? Last I checked, I can't do it unless you help me."
Melina nods at that.
"Normally, a Tarnished needs their Guiding Finger Maiden to take them where they want to go. It is only through their connection with the Two Fingers, and by extension, the Erdtree, that they are allowed to do so. I, on the other hand, travel through the roots on my own volition, whether the Two Fingers wants me to, or not."
I smile darkly at that. So, Melina has essentially been smuggling me about.
She continues.
"I often passed by Tarnished and their Guiding Maidens while in the roots, and I have seen them enter and exit breaches occasionally." She shrugs. "It was the only reason why I thought I was capable of taking you away from Roard when you were captured; I was not certain if I could act as a Guiding Maiden and take a Tarnished into a breach. But, it seems I was able to."
Tarnished are in the Lands Between to slay the Demigods and take the things called Great Runes away from them. If Tarnished can use Sites of Grace, and I was one of those Demigods…
"I'm guessing they have any breaches in their castle heavily guarded, right?"
If it's common knowledge, then Sites of Grace are serious security breaches.
Melina nods.
"If we were to travel directly to the castle, we would be killed as soon as we leave the breach. While not all breaches across the Lands Between are kept as guarded, most are at the very least watched. Tarnished can only travel to certain breaches if they hope to maintain secrecy, and most of those breaches are in places far from towns or cities."
Melina stares straight through the Site of Grace's flickering golden aura.
"If we hope to enter the castle, or most places in the Lands Between, we will need to deal with the armies that guard them first. There are places I can take you, but none of them will be near any place of importance outside of Limgrave."
I nod along, working to squash my disappointment.
It makes sense, but it still sucks.
"So, what's the closest 'safe' breach to the castle?"
She almost looks embarrassed.
"Godrick's army maintains most of the breaches across Stormhill, so…" She turns her head away from me. "The breach at Limgrave garrison."
Oh…
The same breach Melina and I have been using…
At the village where we fought Roard…
I lean back, until I slip off of my root seat, using it as a backrest.
"Okay."
Guess I can't just teleport into the castle and assassinate this Godrick fellow. If only it was that easy.
"So," I say, still staring at the ceiling. "When should we head out?"
Melina thinks on that.
"I would presume tomorrow would be best."
I flinch at that.
So soon?
Is all I can think.
Melina plays with my thought.
"If you must, you can think that this place is never too far away." She looks past me, out at the ocean. "If we ever want to come back here, then we need only find a breach, and we can arrive in mere minutes."
That makes me feel better. If only slightly.
"Now, as for-"
A knock comes at our door, and Melina immediately tenses up. She rises, and without even a sound, dashes over to the doorway, and stands on the other side of the hinges. In the light of a Site of Grace, she cannot transform. And now with a body again, she's visible to everybody whether she likes it or not.
She gives me a look, and I speak up.
"Yes?"
"Tarnished Lance." It's Callum's voice.
I work up to standing, trotting over and letting the Albinauric in.
"Afternoon, Callum."
Melina hides behind the door, listening in with a discerning eye. Callum stays right where he is, looming over me like a tree in the wilderness. He doesn't look particularly happy to see me, though that seems to just be his face.
He never looks happy to see anybody.
The lead servant stands with his spindly white hands held together behind his back; the strange wooden slab with golden tree-like designs hangs loosely around his long neck. His eyes are mute grey, and he easily shows his age.
"The execution will be taking place outside the castle shortly, and Lord Haight would like you to attend." He seems to play with something in his head for a moment. "He also hopes to take the chance to reward you, for your efforts you performed on our behalf."
The Albinauric tends to end his sentences like he wants to say more, and it makes me wait patiently. But he turns and limps off, leaving me waiting like an idiot.
Melina breaks away from the wall, taking a peek at the retreating Callum underneath my head.
"He is a strange fellow." She mutters. "Many of his kind are."
I look down at her, nearly smack my chin on her head.
"How so?"
Before she can answer, she simply disappears from underneath me, hiding behind the doorway again. I'd ask her what the problem is… but I hear Patches before I see him.
"…don't have to be so pushy about it. All I'm saying is- Oi! Watch your hands madame! Are you trying to bloody scare me half to death?!"
Sure enough, down the hall Callum just tread, that familiar bald Tarnished reluctantly draws near, being prodded along by none other than Dalia. The ex-Morne knight has no weapons or armor, displaying that supermodel face of her's out for all to see. Patches has nothing but his usual clothes; his head reminds me of a cue ball.
But Dalia stands more than a head taller than Patches, and she muscles him along.
When they draw closer, I get a good look at their eyes…
Patches looks frightened and confused, perfectly reflecting his words.
As for Dalia, she looks down at Patches with eyes that make me shiver. She used to look at me with those same eyes, and with it comes memories that reek of saltwater and fermented wheat: When she pinned me against the wall in her room, and when she forcefully kissed me the day of the battle.
Her eyes bleed lust.
When she raises them to meet mine though, the lust thankfully drains away, and burgeoning respect takes its place. I nearly let out a sigh of relief.
"Little-" She starts but catches herself. "Tarnished Lance."
Patches shuts up, giving me a bewildered look.
I straighten my posture, realizing they're slowing down, stopping right in front of my doorway.
"Dalia." I say with a small nod. "Patches."
I look upon the Tarnished bandit with contempt; he and I seem to share the same memory looking at one another. When he just happened to conveniently sneeze, alerting Rick and friends to Blaidd and I snooping on them in the sewers.
From eyes alone, I can tell he's lying before he even utters a word.
"Well, if it isn't my fan!" He smiles like an idiot. "Apologies for last time friend, but you know how it is, right? Just needed to clear my nose, I can't see any other way to look at it."
He probably compromised us for brownie points with Rick, which didn't seem to do him any good; he was left hanging until Dalia found him.
"Mhm." Is all I say.
A little bead of sweat accumulates on Patches's forehead.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly-"
Dalia swats his ear, which he whimpers from.
"Shut it." Is all she says; her lust burns once more.
Now that I'm standing here, I'm realizing she's kept one hand on Patches's shoulder the entire time. Maybe she thinks he'll run off, but she's gripping a little too close to his neck for that to be the case.
Surely not… right?
I speak, partially to dash my wayward thoughts away.
"Is there something I can help you with?"
Patches goes to blabber off again, but Dalia tightens her grip, and he flinches, giving me eyes that fear for his own safety.
Save me. They almost seem to say.
"Tarnished Lance," Dalia begins. "I assume you will be leaving Bellard soon, right?"
I don't know where she got that from, but if she already knows, I'll look stupid if I lie.
"I am." I say dryly.
With a swift movement, she drops to a knee, driving Patches down with her. She lowers her head, embodying the very picture of subservience.
"Then, may I ask: Are you in need of servitude?"
…
…
…
Patches looks just as confused as I do.
What?
Yo. Welcome to the second volume. Didn't take very long, eh? Well, if I may be so prudent, I'd like to explain things. You know how I am; I like to make things overcomplicated. For the sake of not making dialogue draw out more than it already is, consider what I ever say in these little footnotes as common knowledge for Lance now. First off: Ashes of War. I always wondered about it, and also wondered why weapons don't have durability in Elden Ring, unlike the Souls franchise that came before. To remedy this, weapons are a form of life in the Lands Between. It's already shown with Ancient Dragons, and if that isn't enough, then the mimics of Nokron and Nokstella follow a similar vein. They're made of metal and stone, and yet they're alive. For sake of lore, The Ancient Dragons ruled the Lands Between far before the dawn of the Erdtree, and in this story, they gave humanity the gift of smithing: to breathe life into metal which can be shaped to take a life. Ashes of War are remnant runes of a warrior that was lost when that warrior was burned to ash, leaving the Soul without a Mind and leaving the runes to wander. They can cling to the weapons they once wielded as a warrior, "Possessing" them and almost becoming the weapon themselves. With it, the battle arts they learned is more or less memorized on the weapon, which a user can activate with a small chunk of their mana, activating the spirit that rests inside just like with summoning a spirit. Piercing Fang, the Ash of War that found its way into Lance's sword, gravitated to it because the warrior's runes wielded something similar when they were alive, possessing his sword. As for Melina's comment about not seeing any runes, she can only see the runes of grace, which can only be found in the living. Spirits and Those Who Live in Death are exempt from this. (Keep that in mind) Now, as for Sites of Grace, I realized early on that I messed up. If Melina really did travel the Lands Between through breaches, then she could easily take Lance to one just outside the arena of every demigod, and get them all knocked out within like a week. An oversight on my part. To remedy this, and to possibly explain how Tarnished like Corhyn and Diallos can simply travel to Liurnia and Leyndell immediately, is that Sites of Grace are a Tarnished highway. All Tarnished use them, and the Lands Between know it. To stop Tarnished from simply entering a castle and killing their favorite sharbearer, soldiers and knights keep an eye on Sites of Grace, unable to seal them, but at the very least can guard them. It can also explain why quite a few are found in a cell or enclosed area in-game, creating traps for any Tarnished stupid enough to try. As for why nobody in Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula knows about it, there's no sharbearers there, so there's not much reason for Tarnished to travel there in the first place. Anywho, thanks for reading, and have a great day. -Corroded Vortex