I stand atop a precipice of anticipation.

Backed by soldiers of black and white, sided by a towering warden and a stunted blond nobleman; I face a crowd numbering in the tens of thousands.

It's an extraordinary sight, one that makes strange feelings swirl about around me, knowing these gathered masses are all staring at me.

An accumulated mindset; a living carpet of contention.

Voices rise and fall from that never-ending mob; the boundaries of the outermost spectators are lost between the rows of the bordering buildings. They watch in the crowded center street, watch from the windows and rooftops of nearby houses and towers. Tens of thousands of eyes, all on me.

If Kenneth Haight and Edgar weren't siding me, if Morne's 4,000 soldiers weren't behind me; if Melina wasn't resting on my shoulder; I'd shrink away from this view. But I stand strong, wearing no armor and wielding no weapon; I have only a wooden limb with a cloth-covered head soaked in whale blubber, held tightly in my right hand.

I know what it is; I know what Neil's asking of me.

And when I look right, I know I'll regret it.

Three souls, three prisoners tied up and left to suffer atop wooden stakes. They're fashioned in a vaguely Christian manner, arms held out on the top of the poles like they were being crucified. The bar that holds their arms out bows downward in a vaguely semicircular shape, symbolizing the religion that's holds its weight in this world: The Golden Order.

It strikes the pose of worship of one of the Order's core laws: The Law of Causality.

All must return to one. All must return to the Erdtree.

Trey is up there; he looks like he's been beaten severely. The Leonine Misbegotten is up there; he snarls and roars, fighting against his chains. But those two only surround the one who's given the most scorn from the roaring crowd: a single Limgrave soldier. I don't know who he is, and I have never seen his face before. He's larger than most, but he's just a normal soldier.

He's supposed to represent Rick, as the Rick Melina and I defeated was sent tumbling down into the ocean, never to be seen again. Neil decided Bellard needed someone to blame as the leader of the Limgrave Horde, so after taking my descriptions of the man that rode atop Agheel into account, he found the largest Limgrave soldier Morne was able to capture.

This man is the end result of that, and he's the one who's been decided will take the blame of the worst of the enemy's transgressions.

He won't get a quick death by the sword, and his body reduced to ash. He will be burned at the stake, as will the instigator and the traitor.

All of them will burn by my hand.

"There can be no greater injustice," Neil Haight begins, taking a step forward.

He speaks loud, letting his voice echo about the city. The crowd's voices die down.

"Than leaving sinners to their devices."

He wears a strange metal mask, topped with the semblance of a small crown. He paces on the boardwalk we all stand upon, quelling the voices of the masses with his.

"The three who stand before you now, are the very sinners that I speak of."

He thrusts an outstretched hand, pointing toward the three, each in turn.

"The Leonine Misbegotten, who instigated our own servants to turn against us. He bears the fruits of his labor."

The crowd jeers: it sounds like rolling thunder.

"Trey, the Traitor of Castle Morne. Who took the Princess of Morne away from us, and who poisoned our water, compromised our defenses, and ran off with our treasured sword. He will receive his just deserts."

The soldiers behind me growl, Edgar tenses up beside me. I feel something sting deep down.

"And Rick, the unknown soldier. Who brought the plague of Agheel upon us, and who nearly brought our great city to ruins. He will be given what he is due."

My grip strains on the rod.

Edgar lightly shoves me.

"You're up." He utters.

Neil extends a hand my way, and I step up. Melina breaks away from my shoulder, hovering about around me with light wingbeats. Neil's eyes look pleased, and he turns back to the crowd.

"This young man that stands before you today, is the Tarnished, Lance Thompson. He is not like these three sinners. He infiltrated the enemy in our sewers, assembled us to arms, and blessed us with a gift from on high. He slayed Agheel, bested Rick in combat, and brought us out of our dark fate."

He imposes upon me, clapping a husky hand on my shoulder. His smile in his eyes is genuine, and it feels so out of place in this situation that it sickens me.

"Now, on this day, he will finish what he started."

In a lower voice, so only I can hear.

"On your way Milord Lance, a crowd of this size desires swift vengeance."

I nod.

I march over to the three prisoners. They all bear their eyes down on me, none of their expressions pleasing to look at. When I stop, I raise my wooden rod into the air.

...

If this were a movie, this would be the part that I refuse. The part when I say there's a better way to do this; I'd try to take the moral high ground. I'd stand up to Neil and the Warden and soothe everything over with some speech.

But I have no room in my heart for that.

I'm not so forgiving. Not to these kinds of people.

I stare right back at the three.

Melina, if you will.

Kindling, accept this meager flame.

She lands lightly atop the cloth, and bursts into flames.

The blubber pops and burns, the torch flares to life. The crowd begins to cheer. Colors of a sunset illuminate the three faces looking down on me; their expressions quickly change into fear.

"Bastard Tarnished!"

The Leonine roars, grinding his fang-like teeth together. He struggles to free himself, to break his chains and claim my head.

"Bastard lowly Tarnished!"

"How does it feel, huh!?" Trey chokes out, trying to gloat one last time. "You'll never see Irina again! You never will!"

Seeing his face for the first time, he's nothing impressive. His dim brown eyes simply reflect what his words entails. He's rotten to the core.

The Limgrave soldier only looks at me, hate and fear mixing in his dimmed eyes. Despite that, he smiles.

"Go on, Tarnished." He says with a quivering voice. "Send me to the Greater Will."

I avert my gaze.

You won't be going there, none of you will.

I toss the torch, letting it clatter into the stacks of wood underneath the three poles.

Because if you die near me, you will never return to the Erdtree. In a way, I'm a scar on the Golden Order, an infraction of one of its core principles.

And as the flames rise, consuming the three's screams and their very lives, their runes come to me, as I stand listless in front of the roaring flames. Melina lands atop my shoulder, as the fires reach the tops of the burning crosses, flickering up toward the evening sky.

I have taken their souls and devoured them.

Backed by the applause ranging in the tens of thousands, blocked by a wall of fire that begins to smell of charred flesh; accounted of my sins and my transgressions... Trey is the last to die, fighting the flames until his eyelids and skin melt away, bug-eyed face slacking as his jaw dislocates afront blackening exposed teeth and a searing tongue. His final scream echoes long and far.

I only hope Irina can hear it.

The Leonine is no more.

The Limgrave soldier is no more.

Trey is no more.

The procession afterwards is for the warriors only.

Except for Neil.

He's practically leading the thing.

One last feast, one last hurrah. A tribute to both Edgar and I, and a goodbye. Honestly, I'm starting to think Morne takes any opportunity they can get to feast; It's happened almost daily since the end of the battle. I can only assume the produce of the Weeping Peninsula is abundant, despite what the Limgrave Horde did on their way to get here.

Now, the mess hall in the keep could never hold everyone, even if it's just the soldiers. So instead, the feast was held outside, on the beach. At a location west of Bellard, of expansive sand and a grand view of the endless ocean beyond.

Unlike near Morne's beaches, it's quite windy out here. The waters are dark and angry, lashing out at us, like it were a wild animal kept locked in a cage. The salty smell it casts our way also doesn't help much; the ale everyone drinks is salty enough.

I wasn't particularly hungry, and I wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. I wasn't in the mood for anything. I planned to stand on the outskirts, and simply let my presence be known. But Drew and his buddies found me, and dragged me to a table in the end.

Oh well.

Nothing of note happened for the most part, just more of the same. The soldiers I knew sat with me, and we entertained ourselves with pointless conversations and meaningless arguments. Though, it was comforting to see the amount of soldiers I know are now capable of filling an entire refectory table; it felt nice knowing I was surrounded by people that did more than tolerate me.

Despite my soured mood, soon enough, I was cackling along.

They laughed at my blunders, joked with me about foolish gambits. One even invited me to a duel, but the others shot him down. His name is Redd, if I remember correctly. He wields a spear and greatshield, which aren't the easiest to get around. But with one reminder from Kal that I bested Roard, a knight with similar armaments, Redd backed down with a slightly surprised look.

It only makes sense, seeing as Roard is sitting right next to me. The spirit knight acts like a rambunctious child, competing with me for the attention of practically everyone. Nothing he eats or drinks gives him any form of nourishment, yet he eats and drinks away. The soldiers love him, and he adores their eyes on him just the same.

Not in anyway like my past self, I refuse to feel left out. I jump in on Roard's stories, throwing the knight into a headlock as I talk over him. Roard grabs me back, and we break out into something of a wrestling match, much to the soldiers' enjoyment.

Despite his actions, Roard is grinning like an idiot, laughing even when he loses the advantage. To him, and to me, it's all just for fun.

Melina's staying out of all of it completely, resigning herself to rest by a fallen tree on the beach, watching the ocean. I can see her small smoldering wings from here, though she's merely a speck.

Even so, we can still talk in my Mind at this distance, and I hold a conversation with her even as I show Roard why I'm a black belt in karate.

The feast is fun, but the main event began with Neil gathering everyone's attention, raising a chalice of expensive wine in a toast of celebration, before calling me to his table.

"Milord Lance." Neil calls over the wind. "If you would."

Roard and I exchange a look. The knight shrugs, getting up and dusting himself free of sand.

"Go on then, boss. I bet it's something lucrative, you know?"

I scratch the back of my head.

"I suppose so."

"Neil doesn't bite, lad." Weller says, gnawing on a sausage. "Watch out for the warden though."

Kal elbows him in the side, grunting.

"Give the kid a break. 'Least the warden likes em."

"The warden likes everyone."

Drew surmises, resting his head on his hand. I still can't place where he stands in the chain of command; mostly everyone just respects him.

Mostly everyone.

"Oh yeh?" Redd pines, crossing his burly arms. "Then how come I feel the need to spoil me britches every time he looks at me?"

Kal points him out as I stand. I shouldn't keep Neil waiting.

"Only cuz you slack off on sentry duty all the time. That soilin's there cuz you got a guilty conscience."

Redd rebukes, but I don't hear it. Other conversations between soldiers ping against my ears a I walk down the aisles of tables, and I only get snippets of them. But I'm not listening, kicking a small seashell out of the way.

Sounds like it's our big moment. You sure you don't want to be here?

I am certain. I cannot find it to our advantage if I reveal myself.

And when you were talking to them?

Roard has shown everyone that your spirits can talk, and we will leave it at that.

But you don't want them to see your face.

I do not.

Even if you show up as a butterfly?

...I apologize.

It's fine. I won't force it.

As I approach his table, Neil raises his chalice to me. His table is separated from the rest, and it is only he and Edgar that sit here. He looks delighted to see me, though Edgar has defaulted to his usual stoic expressions.

We were at an impasse when it came to Dalia, and something sinister has taken hold in the back of Edgar's eyes. But still, the warden cracks a small smile, showing me a share of respect as he raises his mug to me too.

"Tidings of grace, Milord Lance." Neil announces.

I did some digging on the culture of nobles for this very moment, and I give a small bow, with both of my hands held together behind my back. "Milord" is a title for those of nobility, and I'd rather smile along than try to correct Neil. Having a last name means you're a noble, and I'm not looking to spit on Neil's customs.

"Tidings, Milord Neil." I answer, before turning to Edgar.

"Tidings, Warden Edgar."

The warden raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Tarnished Lance." He says.

Neil gestures to the chair in front of me, directly across form he and the warden. I take it, sitting down with my heart taken off my sleeve and hidden away.

"How have the reconstruction efforts been faring?" I ask, hoping to get a conversation started.

Neil Haight takes a sip of his wine.

"Yes, there have been missteps in places, but the restoration of this great city has taken root, I assure you. It may take time until the Gem of the Weeping Peninsula is returned to its former luster, but valiant efforts have already begun."

"The mess that dragon caused on the city center will take the longest to fix." Edgar says flatly, staring into his mug. "Unclogging the sewers of corpses will take longer still."

Neil turns his head on Edgar, resting a placated hand onto his puffed out chest.

"Which you can take charge of overseeing, warden. That, and much more. I implore you, stay. Your leadership will be horribly missed in your absence. It may take years longer to rebuild without you."

It sounds shallow, but Neil's haughty eyes hold genuine concern. Not for his city, but for Edgar.

He must see the madness growing in his eyes too.

"I will not disgrace my daughter in such a way, Lord Haight." Edgar forces out. He takes a swig of his mug. "The creatures that took her from me deserve a fitting end. I must see to it."

Neil exchanges a look with me, as if he wants me to say something too.

I can't.

I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around Edgar. The only way I can think of appealing to the warden would be through using Irina's name.

Such an action might send Edgar over the edge.

"Where will you go?" I ask instead. Neil sighs.

"Liurnia." Edgar utters.

"And they're there? ... The man with silver skin?"

Edgar doesn't answer.

Godrick's castle is on the way to Liurnia, right?

Yes. It is.

You think it's a bad idea?

It would not hurt to offer.

"Can I accompany you?"

Neil nearly chokes on his wine. Edgar looks up at me only with his eyes.

"Tarnished Lance," He begins. "I appreciate what you have done here. I truly do. But in the centuries that I have spent providing Irina with every inch of my being, your presence has been but a sliver. I see you as an ally, but you hold no weight in my heart. If you were to fall in battle, I would not mourn for you."

I set my jaw.

He shot me down, hard.

It suddenly feels very uncomfortable sitting at this table. The mood was soured.

"Then," I force out. "I apologize for overstepping."

...

...

...

"Ah, yes!" Neil exclaims, clapping his hands together. "I suppose a reward is in order! A token of thanks, Milord Lance, from Morne to you. Would you not agree, warden?"

Edgar remains silent, making sure not to make eye contact with me. Neil doesn't let that slow him down, and he gestures an open hand to me.

"Anything you need, just name it. I am certain we can provide."

I clasp my hands together.

"If I..."

I trail off.

There is something I need. Quite a few somethings, really.

But...

Really wish you were here right now.

...

Coming.

Lightly, like a leaf falling from a tree, Melina lands lightly on my shoulder. Neil notices, and he cocks an eyebrow. Melina looks about as tense as a butterfly can possibly show, but she arrests herself in place. The warmth radiating off her makes some of my nervousness melt away.

Thank you.

I clear my throat, making sure to look Neil right in the eyes.

"If I said I'm planning to slay Lord Godrick the Grafted, what would be your answer?"

The weight of my words are palpable. Edgar locks his gaze on me, and Neil stiffens up. But a fire lights in his eyes, and he leans in, as if he needed to whisper.

"Are you sure?"

I nod my head.

"I'm a Tarnished after all. I'm here to put the Demigods to the sword."

I say it like I'm mocking myself.

"Godrick is no demigod." Edgar says. "He's a coward and a thief."

His words put me off as much as when the Morne soldiers said the same thing nearly two weeks ago.

"Haven't you sworn fealty to him?" I ask genuinely, only slightly noticing my relief that Edgar hasn't completely shut me out.

Edgar crinkles his nose.

"None of Godrick's men follow him by choice, Tarnished Lance. Chivalry eludes them. They follow that weasel, for he is a remnant of the Golden Lineage. He has that alone, and he has not garnered their respect."

Neil joins in, speaking faster than ususal.

"The castle he lords over is not of his birthright, nor is his claim of Limgrave. The factions of nobles south of Stormveil Castle have spent decades designing to remove Godrick form his stolen throne, and place a rightful ruler to oversee these peaceful lands."

He reaches across the table, cupping one of his hands on mine.

"If you have the bravery to see him dealt with, then I cannot stress the weight of my words prior enough: If you need anything from us, do not hesitate to inquire."

"You're not going to stop me?" I ask incredulously.

I'd think that a lord, even a hated lord, would hold at least something in the hearts of his subjects.

"Good graces, no." Neil exclaims. "I wish you'll see to it as soon as you are able."

He sits back in his chair, placing that hand back on his chest.

"Not only has Godrick lay false claim, but he has lost himself in his weakness. He's taken to grafting, or so I've heard. He's become nothing more than an abomination, desecrating Castle Stormveil with corpses and limbs simply strewn about! We would rest in an even greater debt to you if you succeed... though..."

He trails off. I can't help but ask.

"What? What is it?"

Neil looks to Edgar. The warden merely shrugs.

"Well, Milord Lance, you would not be the first Tarnished to travel this far south. Another had made his presence known quite a few times before.

Another Tarnished?

I know nothing of such a character. We have not crossed another Tarnished yet on our travels, at the very least.

"Who was he?"

Neil stokes his chin.

"A wandering sorcerer, and a spellblade to boot. He too aims for Godrick's castle, but he has yet proven unsuccessful to pierce its walls." Neil studies me over. "Though, if a warrior of your caliber were to join him... Yes... I am almost certain the two of you are capable of it."

He sets his mind, nodding.

"Milord Lance, when you reach Stormhill, seek out a sorcerer by the name of Rogier, and tell him of me. With your purposes aligned, your goal will surely be all the more lucrative."

Rogier... That name sounds familiar.

The spell of intertwining black strings on my memory shudders. I must've met this Rogier in-game. I can only hope he's a good person, though I've yet to meet a Tarnished. I don't know what to expect.

I lean back on my chair, feeling a weight coming off my chest.

"I guess I'll be looking for this Rogier fellow then, wherever he is. Is there a specific place I should start looking?"

Neil lightly shakes his head.

"As a wanderer by nature, Rogier is but as fickle as the wind. The soldiers around here never took too kindly to him like they have with you, therefore he rarely tarried. He simply had business to attend to here, and he was always gone by next sunrise."

Something catches Neil's eye as he speaks, and he begins to trail off.

"If I were to guess, then... you... ..."

He suddenly looks as if he aged twenty years. He sighs.

"Ohh, may Queen Marika guide our hearts this day."

I turn to look.

The knight Dalia approaches the feast.

She moves like she were a ghost, light of foot and set in her expression. Her steps across the sand are close to that of marching, though she wears no armor. She makes no effort to look upon the rows Morne soldiers she passes by, who have begun to take notice of her.

She makes a beeline for our table; I flinch when Edgar rises to his full height, knocking over his chair.

I already don't like where this is going.

The attention of nearly all 4,000 soldiers spread out across the beach focus in on the lone knight, even Roard gives his full attention. Dalia looks between Neil, Edgar, and I; genuine fear rolls around in the back of her eyes. Neil would normally call out to her, as he has without anyone he knows that approaches this table. But he's silent.

At nearly three steps away, Dalia faces Edgar head on, who watches her with an expression a victim would make at their attacker in court. He finds it outrageous that she would dare show up here not on her knees.

"Warden Edgar," She starts. "Lord Neil Haight. Tarnished Lance... Good evening."

"Dame Dalia." Neil tries, testing the waters. "Can we, be of assistance?"

Without armor was a false observation, she carries her frogmouth helm with her. Tucked up between her elbow and her side, she manipulates it until she holds it with both hands, before she lowers to her knees, planting it in the sand.

Ah. I see

Melina's wings flutter, brushing against my chin.

I had a feeling.

"My Lord, and my Warden. I, Dalia, have brought grief to my comrades, and dishonor to my title as knight. Because of my follies, we gather here today without a beloved daughter, and I pray to atone."

Edgar is as stiff as a statue.

"Shorten your words, and begone knight."

He speaks with venom in his voice. That frenzying fire in the backs of his eyes increases for but a moment.

"Less I handle that burden myself."

Dalia raises her head. Silhouetted by the light of the Erdtree, she stares right back at the warden.

"I implore of you, satisfy the desires of justice. Punish me for my misdeeds."

Neil tries to interject.

"They are of the past Dame Dalia, I assure you. You have already paid-"

"I beg you, my Lord, it is not enough."

A tear beads at the edge of Dalia's eye; I cease up.

"Not nearly enough. Please, I cannot let this guilt gnaw at me any longer. I hope to be of service for as long as you will need me, but I will not let my mistakes go unanswered."

Back in the castle, Dalia asked me if she could be of service to me. I had no clue what she was talking about, so I more or less brushed her off.

But...

"Lord Haight."

Edgar and Neil lock eyes, the warden is on the brink.

"Allow, me."

Neil is opposed of the idea. So strongly opposed that his face sours. But that's as far as he goes.

"The end of this will not be death, I forbid it." He grunts. "I've seen enough blood this past month. And don't cast the poor girl into prison, there would be no need for it."

Edgar looks disappointed; I look relieved. Neil looks tired.

"Then..." Edgar turns back on Dalia. "Never step foot in Bellard again, Dalia. You are hereby banished." He snarls. "With it, you no longer serve Morne; your title of knight is stripped from you. Give up your armor and sword, gather your belongings, and get out of my sight."

Dalia's bow deeps.

"At once, Warden."

Neil claps a hand onto his forehead, letting out an aggravated sigh.

"Ohhh. My two knights and my Warden, gone. The figureheads of my army are no more. Do you seek to dismantle my authority entirely?!" He barks at Edgar.

"One failed you, and the other betrayed you." Edgar grumbles. "It seems to me you are a terrible judge of character."

Neil practically gasps.

"In all my years, serving as a Lord; never have I heard such baseless accusations!"

The two begin to bicker, murmurs run rampant through the soldiers. Dalia takes her leave during it all, and despite myself, I reluctantly run after her.

Melina flies close behind.

"Dalia! Wait!"

Out on the windy beach, where the sand slowly gives way to grass, away from the soldiers and the warden and the nobleman, I catch up to Dalia. She halts when she hears my voice, her hands empty of the helmet she left at Edgar's feet. She turns, and the beginning of tears have begun to trail down her cheeks. Even despite that, her face is as void of emotion as it always has.

She looks miserable.

"Tarnished Lance."

One could not tell she was crying from her voice alone, nor from her dead expression. It's only by looking into the gateways of the Soul, that I know she's hurting.

"I hope my actions did not disgrace you in any way. I had no ill intent to go against your desires for me to live." She averts her gaze, wiping her tears away. "But you must understand, it needed to be done. If I ever have the desire to forgive myself, I need everyone else to forgive me first."

...Do I forgive her?

...

No, I don't.

"That's not fair." I say, crossing my arms. "Not to you, to me, or to the warden. Not to anybody. Scars can't simply fade like that."

I know that fact well enough. But what's more...

"It was bad, yes, but it happened. It's in the past now, as Neil said."

What am I doing? What's my goal? Is it because I don't...

Well...

"Just... don't beat yourself up over it, okay?"

Dalia brushes a stubborn tear away.

"You approached me, to say that?"

"No, I-..."

Well...

I let it go.

"Nevermind."

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, or if there even is something to say here. Dalia doesn't move, so I decide to break the silence.

"Where will you go?"

In the low howl, Dalia looks back, at the city of Bellard, further down the coastline.

"I... I don't know. I have lived my entire life in Bellard, I know of no other home." She crosses her arms as well, standing nearly half a foot taller than me, shortened hair catching in the wind. "Some call this city the last land of paradise, or the final safe haven. These tame lands are all I've ever known."

She looks back to me.

I know that look.

"I fear to travel beyond these lands. I don't know what lies beyond that horizon, Tarnished Lance, and I fear to cross it alone."

I know where this is going.

"That fellow, Patches." I try. "He's taken a liking to you, hasn't he?"

Dalia shakes her head.

"If I may speak with impunity, he is a lost cause. His desires stop at riches, and he can scarcely stand his own." Lust begins to burn in her eyes as she talks about that bald Tarnished man, combatting against the sadness and regret. "I cannot hope to ask him to journey with me."

She faces me.

"I ask again, Tarnished Lance... No," She drops to a knee. "Tarnished, who may one day be lord. Allow me to serve you, as your sword. Charge me with your will and I will see it done, I swear it." She rests a closed fist on her chest. "It is my drive, to repent of the ways I have wronged you, and a countenance of my faith in you."

I...

I...

I can't.

But I can't bring myself to say that.

"You are a kind soul. I can see that much."

It's not my voice talking, and it makes Dalia raise her head. Melina flutters off my shoulder, and in a flash of firelight, the young maiden herself kneels down to Dalia's level. She takes Dalia's slacking fist between her hands, stroking it tenderly.

"Dalia, I thank you for besting Trey in combat. I am certain you have done Irina a great deed. Your perseverance to make amends with the warden are admirable as well."

Her single eye takes all of Dalia's attention.

"But, I am afraid that where Lance and I travel, no other can follow us."

For a moment, just a second; I realize Melina could end Dalia in an instant.

She could burn her to ash, and I don't think I would have it in me to try and stop her.

Since Melina and I became acquainted, many revelations and alarming events have come to pass. The power Melina holds is capable of enacting treacherous and destructive acts against any who would oppose her...

It was a lingering thought. It lasted for only a moment, but Melina's eye twitches a little.

Enough with the awful thoughts. It is distracting me.

Sorry.

Melina firmly grips Dalia's hand.

"We must travel alone for now. So we must refuse. I am sorry."

She rises with Dalia, who looks between Melina and I with a cocked eyebrow. Despite her skeptical expression, she looks wholeheartedly confused. Honestly, she looks like she wants me to say something.

"Yes, she's right." I place my hands at my hips. "I'm sorry, Dalia, but our party can only fit two."

Dalia looks almost relived. Albeit, she more so looks disappointed.

"Very well."

She fights to give me something of a small smile, but her eyes aren't smiling.

"I've heard tell of you." She looks Melina over, practically towering over her. "A talking spirit. Though I was certain you were a little glowing light."

Melina's hands disappear into her black cloak; she gives Dalia a small smile of her own.

"I was merely unable to be seen before. But I assure you, I have always been here."

So, you don't want to show yourself in front of the guys, but the ladies are alright?

Quiet. Now is not the time for jokes.

I'm not joking though.

I could see you needed assistance turning her down. I am merely lending a hand.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance otherwise." Melina says without skipping a beat.

"Likewise, talking spirit." Dalia nods, but looks my way.

"Then, I would assume this is where we part ways?"

...

I can at least leave it open, right?

... Fine. There may come a time in the future. We will have to see.

"There may come a time in the future," I start. "That I may need to call upon your help. But for now, see the world Dalia. I can guarantee at the very least that Limgrave is as gentle a place as it is here."

Images of the misbegotten flash in my head.

"Maybe even more peaceful than here. Nevertheless, be well."

Cueing in to what I've seen, I add on.

"And see if you can get Patches to accompany you. He has the spine pf a twig, but I'm sure he makes for an entertaining travel buddy."

The lust burns in Dalia.

"If I may be prudent, Tarnished Lance, you have a problem with staring."

It's the only way I get to see what's going on behind someone's words.

"And you have a problem with expressing yourself." I rebound.

She smiles at that. A genuine one.

"Then, let us work on our problems, until next we meet. Be well, Little Lance, and may the Greater Will guide you."

With that, she leaves, taking the winding path on the coastline with a slight pep in her step.

"Strange lady." I say thoughtlessly.

Melina lightly swats my arm.

"That is not a very kind thing to say." She resorts, but shrugs. "Though, I will have to agree."

If I ever meet someone normal in the Lands Between, I may just think I'm dreaming. Because in a world where death is a joke and war is just another Tuesday, those that still have their wits about them are the insane ones indeed.

That much, I've come to know.

When Melina and I left Bellard the next day, we did so riding Torrent out the front gate.

A small portion of the city saw us go, along with a large portion of the army. Those soldiers lined up in two neat rows leading up to the gate, and they stood at attention with swords and spears held aloft. There was little fanfare, but the gesture alone was well appreciated.

It made me smile at the very least.

Edgar left at the same time as we did, riding atop a horse of his own. He plans to journey northward toward Liurnia, chasing a rumor he heard regarding the man that made Irina meet her demise. Given leave of his stay at Morne, he decided it best to head out after the final faces of the enemy were executed.

As for Dalia and Patches, they left the day prior, mere hours after we parted ways on the beach. Due to her misconduct and insubordinate actions, Dalia was relieved of her duty as a knight. And, stricken with the order of banishment, she's already dead in the eyes of many in Bellard. Nevertheless, a sizeable few soldiers saw her off. Despite her recent actions, she was still a respected individual in the army. It may even be a few of the soldiers had something of a crush on her.

Patches himself seemed to have stuck to Dalia like a wet leaf. That, or she never gives him a choice otherwise. He's the type of guy who just goes with the flow, but he looked haunted before they left. I don't know what Dalia does to him behind closed doors, but Patches fears her like the he's the child of a strict mother.

Dalia herself seems to enjoy that greatly.

I don't know what my relationships are with Dalia, or Edgar, or even Patches for that matter. I feel awkward around them, if I tried to put it best. I had a positive farewell with Dalia, and Patches more or less takes nothing seriously. But in Edgar, I find myself looking away from his gaze. It's what has come to rest in his eyes, that I don't like.

There's frenzying flames swirling around in there. The same flames I saw festering in the eyes of the misbegotten. It alone seems to make Torrent tense around him, to the point the steed hesitates to even draw closer to the brooding warden.

I don't know what's taken root in him, but I fear to ask, less he direct that growing madness at me.

I'm a coward, so to speak.

I hop off Torrent when Edgar and I reach the outermost wall of Bellard, where Agheel knocked a gaping hole through it weeks prior. Melina flies off my shoulder, making small revolutions around me. I circle around Torrent, double-checking everything's been tied down adequately.

Much to my joy, I discovered something intriguing this morning: Torrent is capable of carrying my supplies. That sounds like such a "no crap" statement, but it goes beyond simply tying bags to a horse. When Torrent retreats back into the ring on my finger, unlike Melina with that necklace, the bags and rolled fabrics and satchels go with him. It doesn't make the ring heavier or anything either.

He's like a portable storage system.

I came up with multiple theories as to how that works, many of which Melina shot down. But it's safe to say I could even stash my weapons with Torrent as well, and call upon him if I ever need one.

Melina ended up chewing my ear out for thinking like that. As she said, I shouldn't think of Torrent as a tool. She expressed that part the most, like that thought alone rubbed her the wrong way. Torrent chose me, and he has a will of his own. I shouldn't expect him to come to my beck and call if I treat him with indifference. I apologized by patting Torrent's snout.

The steed happily snorted at that.

Nevertheless, I don't need to worry about how I am to carry supplies as we travel, either by horseback or on foot. I still have my satchel for things I need on-hand, but for things like camping equipment, tools, bedding, foodstuffs, the crafting kit, and miscellaneous items, Torrent is my go-to.

Edgar rides up next to me, as I mess with the groundsheet I have situated just behind the saddle. Torrent begins to pace unsteadily. He gives the horns on Torrent's head a side-eye, but he gazes beyond, at the winding path through the canyon ahead.

"And thus the journey begins." He seems to say to himself.

He looks my way, never quite losing his hollowed expression.

"Might you lend me your ear, Tarnished Lance?"

"I'm all ears."

Edgar hesitates.

"…You plan to take on Godrick, and siege Stormveil Castle, yes?"

I nod, he continues.

"A word of warning: do not trust only your eyes."

I stop what I'm doing, and I look his way.

"...Come again?"

Edgar continues.

"I served amongst the men you will face taking on the castle for a time, and we all served a Lord long before Godrick arrived. In that service, we were given power over the Storm, and all that it entails."

He closes his silverly gauntlet into a fist.

"With attacks that tear and movements that shred, we harnessed the power of the Storm into our very souls."

He slowly shakes his head.

"Look for unseen blades, Tarnished Lance, and trust your instincts. Godrick has long sought your Tarnished brethren for grafting, and he has laid traps to draw your kind in. Keep your wits about you, and when you face his garrison, tend to your footwork; be ready for what you cannot see. Do you understand me?"

I nod, lost on his words more than anything else.

Satisfied, he takes his leave, but stops just as his horse begins to gallop.

"And one last thing!" He shouts back at me. "When you take on Godrick, make sure that sniveling weasel suffers!"

He looks mad, but beneath the madness in his eyes, he gives me a genuine smile.

"He has it coming, I can guarantee you that."

He turns and gallops off; I watch him go with a complicated expression of my own. As he lives, he says his goodbye: Without fanfare or sentimental words. He spoke his mind, and made himself scarce when he found them adequate.

I hope the best for him, and hope that he finds what he's looking for, in order to find closure. But as Torrent relaxes from his diminishing presence, I can't help but feel like Edgar's story won't have a happy ending.

He lost the only thing he ever cared about.

Even if he finds the man with silver skin, and even if he kills him, what then? What will he do next? I don't try to dwell on it, and I have no right to tell him otherwise. I can only give a small wave, hoping that if we ever meet again, that Edgar will still be the same man as how I remember him: Stoic and cold, but able to care for others. Strong in his values, and steady in his goals.

I hope that's the man I see, when next we meet.

I mount Torrent, giving the spectral steed a pat on the neck.

"Well, shall we be off as well?"

In a flash of firelight, Melina takes a seat behind me on Torrent's saddle, letting her legs hang off the side. Her dark brown boots cross over one another, and she gives me a reassuring look.

"Let us begin."

We take off north, toward the Erdtree and the unseen Castle Stormveil. I haven't got a clue what to expect, or if we will even be able to persevere. But I have a single lead to go off of, of a man who might know a way to infiltrate the castle.

First things first, we need to find this Rogier fellow...

Enola peers through her spyglass, looking over a ravaged superstructure of brick and battlements and thorns. She peers at lone guised watchmen that populate the spires and boardwalks, wielding long poles with flickering flames on the tops. The horns at their sides need only be blown, and everything Enola's group has worked toward would all come crashing down.

Castle Stormveil looms overhead, breaking into the consistent storm clouds that roll by overhead like jagged teeth into white flesh. Imposing as it is aged, the castle hides their target, and thus, hides their destiny. These next few days will be stressful indeed.

"Quite the place, isn't it?" A voice from behind her remarks

Enola lowers her spyglass, receding back into their hideout. She turns her head, waving brown hair tied up in a bun on her freckled head. She's dressed up in light armor, composed of leather padding tied down with overlapping swathes of colored cloth. Her bow and quiver rest neatly against her slim back, and a small dagger in her boot jostles about as she takes a step.

"I swear," She seethes. "Those guards don't follow any set schedule. It'll be easier digging a hole in a lake than finding a hole here."

Cree, a stout man with a large flail, listens to Enola's complaints with a discerning eye, crossing his burly arms over one another. He doesn't have anything covering his chest, though his legs are armored with bleached greaves.

Enola stashes her spyglass away.

"If we want a way through, it'll have to be by chance. And dumb luck."

The two Tarnished move through the rest of the small shack, an abandoned settlement they found up in Stormhill. It's close to the castle, and the surrounding forest hides it well enough. It'll be a matter of time before Godrick's men sniff them out though, and time is not on their side.

Cree shakes his bald head, matching his pace with Enola's.

"I'm sorry Enola, but we can't leave this to chance."

Enola's expression sours, Cree continues carefully.

"I know you want us to approach this head-on, but the insider Callon met says he can get us inside. It's our best shot at Godrick."

"No." Enola growls. "I don't trust it. I'd never trust an Albinauric."

They join the other Tarnished in the next building over, who keep their heads low. Callon isn't here, but the other two are. John kneels on the floor, giving the two a sad smile as they enter. The other Tarnished, Roderika, sits with her back to the wall, her head in her knees. As usual, she looks crestfallen, shivering to herself. There used to be more of them, much more. But through many failed attempts to pierce the castle's defenses, their party of nearly forty, have been cut down to a mere five souls.

"Cree." John says, rising to his feet. He addresses Enola next. "Enola. Any luck?"

Enola shakes her head.

"No dice."

John is a frivolous man, with minor armor and a single straightsword and shield. It's simply luck that he's still alive, and he seems to realize it. He does what he can tending to Roderika, though his efforts have yet to bear fruit.

The head of their party has fallen to her fears, and everyone has begun to think this journey has been for naught.

"How is she faring?" Cree asks, looking Roderika over.

The young Tarnished hides her blonde head with her red cloak, her knees covered over with the fair white gown she wears. She whimpers softly to herself, never acknowledging Enola and Cree's presence.

"Not well." John admits. "She's begun to talk to herself, muttering misgivings and the like."

He gives Cree a meaningful look.

"We may need to reconsider this venture."

Cree sighs.

"Perhaps. But let us see if Callon's lead bears any fruit. We can decide our next move after that."

He glances at Enola.

"That alright with you?"

Enola merely shrugs.

"I'll follow you Cree, but I still have my reservations about all this."

It's good enough for Cree.

A new figure runs in through the open doorway, whisking his black hood out of the way. The hookclaws stashed at his sides are clean of blood; Callon hadn't found any prey. He looks excited and nervous at the same time though.

"Gostoc says we have a window! But we need to move now."

The man is light on his feet, his dark hair matching perfectly with his onyx eyes. His intent is genuine, and a small fire lights in Cree's eyes.

"Are you certain?"

Callon nods.

"There's a path that circumvents the front gate. It's our best shot."

Cree grins. "Then, let us be off. One last time Tarnished?"

Enola nods, running to get her things. Callon takes off, and Cree goes to follow. But he stops.

"You too, John."

John looks back at Roderika.

"But..."

Cree claps a thick hand on his shoulder.

"We need everyone, John. This is our last chance. So much as grace spurns us, we must see this through."

"You will... join them as well?"

Roderika's voice, wavering and quiet, sounds out, as the young Tarnished lifts her head. Cree and John feel a small shiver travel down their spines. Roderika looks upon them with pale blue eyes, which look nearly dead of emotion. She's paler than she is naturally, and her head bobs like she were half awake.

It has hurt everyone to see her deteriorate to such an extent.

"You will all go? And become grafted to the spider as well?"

She smiles, but it's a delirious smile.

"Will you all become beautiful little chrysalids?"

Cree takes a deep breath, taking a knee in front of her. Roderika watches him, but it's like she's looking right through him.

"Don't worry." Cree says, closing a fist to his chest. "We'll see to it that we finally slay Godrick. We will get you that Great Rune, Lady Roderika, I swear it."

"Cree..." She says absentmindedly.

Cree rises, just as Enola joins them again in the room. She tilts her head toward where Callon left, already inclined to begin. Cree follows Enola out, pushing a reluctant John along.

"We will be back soon, Lady Roderika!" He calls back, drawing his flail into his hands. "Wait for us to return until then!"

With that they leave, and Roderika is left alone in the windy room. She beings to laugh lightly to herself, nearly shedding tears.

"All of you then?" She says to nobody. "You all left me behind?"

A tear falls.

"I only hope, I can join you all soon..."