I was never anything special in school.
I wasn't the Valedictorian, the Quaterback, the popular one, or the funny one. I wasn't the outcast, the class clown, the infamous hollerer, or the kid who lived school spirit.
I was a twig, with shaggy brown hair and mute navy-blue eyes. Pale skin, a prominent Adams Apple, slender arms and legs. Taller than most, but if I didn't know martial arts, any boy worth his salt could beat me in a fight.
I didn't mingle, never strayed far from Daniel's side in the classes we had together, and I was rather aloof and reserved; joining in groups and laughing along, but never truly becoming apart of anything.
I was content to simply sit back and watch, observe my fellow classmates.
Watch their eyes, their mannerisms, listen in to their stories. To them, I was a "Cross Country Kid", but to me, they were people with lives far more interesting than mine.
I loved to watch. I loved to listen.
As such, I was an intent listener, and while I was never a straight-A student, I played attention in class.
I enjoyed the sciences, tolerated math and found geography and civics fascinating. I had some skill in art, and if I didn't decide against it, I probably would've joined theater.
But there was one class in particular that I took my Senior year; the memories of which still feel fresh in my head.
Psychology.
The study of the mind; the concepts of behavior, reaction and action; the entirety of the human experience. It captivated me, just as much as my teacher for it did. It stoked embers in my mind, as Mr. Bradwick taught us of the intricacies of what we know as a human, sharing his insights, and his experiences along the way.
A devout religious man, he often spoke with clever conviction, teaching with a pure middle ground between God and Man. Our beliefs didn't line up; he was a Mormon, and my family is Evangelical. My father warned me of Mr. Bradwick, saying that I will be dammed if I listen to him and his heretical teachings.
When he learned I was in that man's psychology class, he stood at dinner, ready to call up the school at that very moment.
But Mr. Bradwick never shared much of his personal beliefs, never tried to preach or prophesy or force anything. He was loved and respected in the school, and unlike my father, never spoke ill of anyone's beliefs, even if they were atheist or agnostic.
What's more, I found the man interesting.
His eyes had a certain glint to them, as if he were playfully mischievous. He'd crack jokes, speak sarcastically about ridiculous Freudian concepts, and make sure to include everyone in class. Even me.
He was great, and he helped me realize something.
Whether we're Christian, atheist, agnostic, Buddhist, Islamic or anything else. What languages we speak, what lands we come from, what places we call home or figures we call family; we're the same.
Following my father's words, I expected Mr. Bradwick to be a deceiver, a liar, and a heretic.
What I saw was a flawed but kind man, making the most of his situation, and striving to love everyone equally. A simple teacher, who loved his job and his students as much as he loved his salary paycheck.
Even though we were different, in the Eye of the Beholder, we were the same.
"The debate of Nature vs. Nurture has been argued and discussed and beat down hundreds of times over."
He said one class day, tapping the yard stick he usually messed with on the carpeted ground.
"We'll touch on it lightly today, but you don't need to write down any notes for this, you just need to listen. By a show of hands, what do you think defines someone? Who says nature?"
A small portion of hands raised. Mr. Bradwick nodded after a quick count.
"Okay, that's about a fourth of you. So, how about Nurture?"
The rest of the hands went up, including mine. Mr. Bradwick nodded again.
"Now, how about both?"
Many in the class murmured and giggled; nobody figured that they could pick both as an answer. Mr. Bradwick shrugged.
"Honestly, it's up to you. Nobody knows for certain which takes precedence, and that's why it's argued over to this day."
He pointed at the whiteboard, as his presentation changed slides. Two faces displayed, one in black and white, while the other was of an oil painting.
"Someone by the name of John B. Watson would say it's all nurture. We're blank slates at birth, ready to be inscribed and molded into what we become when we're adults. Then there were fellows such as René Descartes, who argued that many of our mannerisms and traits are determined by genetics. You may know René as the man who famously quoted the phrase: "I think, therefore I am."
He changed slides again.
"I'm not here to convince you of one or the other, but let me throw a fun fact your way."
He pointed a finger back at us then, sporting that mischievous smile of his.
"You should write this part down, by the way, it'll be on the test."
I got my pencil ready.
The slide switched to an artistic rendition of a human mind, with swirling patterns and multitudes of colors. Alongside it, was a big question mark. Mr. Bradwick tapped his ruler on the ground again.
"Studies were conducted on sets of twins and even triplets that were separated at birth. Even when raised in households of varying economic standing and environment, those twins with identical genetics had nearly the same personalities. These studies, and others from differing sources, had biologists come to the conclusion that around 40% of the variants in our personalities and behavior comes from our genetics."
I was captivated at that moment, to hear such a number. It's no secret that the outcome of a child can depend greatly on the type of parents that raises them. A young lady I had a crush on in elementary school raised her hand, her face creased with concern. Mr. Bradwick called on her, and she practically shouted her words.
"But, my uncle said that parents influence their children the most. If you're a bad parent, then you'll raise a bad child."
Mr. Bradwick looked relieved, like he wanted someone to make such a statement.
"That's true; it's common belief that good parents will raise well-behaved kids. But, if only for a moment, think on this: Is it good parents that raise well-behaved children? Or is it that well-behaved children are treated good by their parents? That a child with a loving personality will be loved back?"
The young lady was clueless; I didn't understand it either.
And yet, I raised my hand as well. I rarely spoke out in class; many here didn't even know what my voice sounded like. But I just had to know.
I needed to.
Mr. Bradwick looked joyous to see me with my hand raised.
"Yes, Mr. Thompson?"
The class all turned their heads to me. I felt my words catch in my throat, but I took a deep breath.
"If 40% can be related to genetics, then what about the other 60%?"
The glint shined in Mr. Bradwick's eyes in that moment.
"That, Mr. Thompson, is the million dollar question. The greater half of our personality is a complete mystery to us. Call it nurture, call it your spirit, or call it whatever the heck you want. That 60% is unknown. There's an untold number of variables that go into our personality; that's why we're all so unique. Seven and a half billion people on this earth, and not one of us is 100% like another. It's simply divine. So, to answer your question Mr. Thompson, there's no answer to that 60%. We simply do not know."
"We simply do not know."
The nightly winds howl, though that's nothing new.
Rainfall bears down upon the roof above, though not a drop slips in.
The framework of this humble tavern follows the designs of many a building found all across Stormhill, exemplifying a form of sturdiness that the residents themselves mirror. Safe to say these timber walls of elm and spruce won't let even a gentle breeze in, much like how these people won't let even a whisper out about Stormveil Castle.
The Tarnished Sorcerer Rogier rests in a secluded corner of the tavern, minding himself by resting his legs atop his table, letting his pointed hat obscure his face. One hand on his lap, other hand grasping a sorry excuse for a chalice, he appears half-asleep.
That, or drunk.
Joking aside, he's listening intently to the other conversations taking place across the spacious room, piecing together the stories told through the muffled words that find their way to his covered ears.
He waits with bated breath, for key words or clues, anything to go off of. Any rumors of the castle as of late, or any talks about dark thorns or peculiar centipedes.
Anything.
Sadly, as with most nights, nothing of value leaves these residents' cracked lips. Settlements in Stormhill are few and far between; one could count the population within a mile of this tavern on both hands. As such, the sunken fellows that find their way through these walls are regulars, who travel far and wide through the storming woods to entertain a nightly drink.
And so, as such, their conversations are a equally as regular.
One conversation is of the most mundane thing: complaining of wolves in the mountains that occasionally make meals of a Shepard's livestock. Another argument pertains to the difficulties of acquiring timber during these summer highstorms; one has a better chance to be squashed under a tree felled by the wind than spend a night uninterrupted this time of the year.
The final conversation at least holds Rogier's interest somewhat.
Two fellows on the other side of the room have begun to discuss about him of all things.
Making rather rude comments about his peculiar way of dress, or speaking false omens of the rapier and glintstone staff he has strapped to his hips. They even whisper of planning to take him for what he owns when he leaves later tonight.
While Rogier would normally accept the challenge, he'd rather not stir up trouble. After his last embarrassment of an attempt at piercing Stormveil's walls, he's taken to hiding out in the mountains until the search parties lose interest in him.
He could bide his time, wait until grace gives him a much needed edge. But, seeing as how his Finger Maiden met an unfortunate end long ago, he has no hope of becoming strengthened any more. Without her, he has no means of using the runes passively accumulating in his Soul, and no means of travel besides his own two feet; he's essentially been cut off from the Roundtable Hold.
Less he runs into D, or any other Tarnished not already turned to chrysalids, he must bide his time and wait, hope to Marika that someone will spill something come soon.
As for now, his investigation of what hides within the castle is on hold.
That is, until the tavern door swings open, and the howls of the winds outside enter the blissful silence. The others fall quiet, the graying man calling himself a tavernkeeper behind the counter lowers the mug he carried.
Rogier tilts up his hat with a gloved finger, getting a glance at the two newcomers who stalk in through the doors.
They carry themselves like weary travelers, donned in dark cloaks with their tattered hoods drawn. They drip with fresh rainfall, and their footsteps leave small puddles in their wake.
One is slightly stunted in height, carrying themselves with a realm of grace.
The other, taller one, has a twin set of peculiarly thin silver and black greatswords stashed in a crossed shape across their back.
This one approaches the tavernkeeper, easily catching the man's attention. The tavernkeeper takes to the newcomers with a grunt, spitting at the tall one's feet. Rogier recognizes that gesture.
"Two meals of whatever you have, and a room for the night."
The tall one's voice sounded younger then Rogier had anticipated, though the voice still carries a weight to it.
"Begone Tarnished. Your kind aren't welcome here." The tavernkeeper mulls. "Be lucky I don't have a blade with which to gut you myself."
The other regulars in the tavern tense up, Rogier's eyes twinkle. As if ignoring the threat, the tall one procures a tels, placing it on the bar. He pushes it forward with two gloved fingers, letting the ivory slide across the polished timber.
The tavernkeeper's eyes widen.
One of those coins can equate to the price of a high-quality slave, or three months worth of ample food for a family.
"I insist." The tall one says.
The tavernkeeper quickly slides the tels out of view, turning.
"I'm sure I have some staling bread in the back. Sit down already, you've left enough rain on my bar."
The two hooded figures take a table not far from Rogier, making themselves comfortable.
Rogier is incredibly intrigued.
He has seen other Tarnished from time to time here in Stormhill. But this one has company. If he is a Tarnished, then the short one must be…
He eagerly tunes in to their words.
"You do not need to do that."
The short one states with a soft, feminine voice, seating herself across from the tall one. She removes her hood, exposing her cherry blonde hair to the warm candlelight. The side of her facing Rogier has an eye sealed behind a spindly black tattoo, which never opens.
The tall one removes his hood, and a young man with long brown hair sighs, leaning back in his chair. He gestures to the young lady with a whisked hand.
"I know. But it's either that or threaten them, and I'm not looking to do that everywhere we go."
He crosses his arms, brandishing glinting chainmail at the elbows. He tied some of the longest bangs of his hair back into a small ponytail on the back of his head, giving his dark blue eyes ample view of everyone else in the tavern that watches them; he stares them all down until they turn away.
Sure enough, he looks Rogier's way, and the Tarnished sorcerer gets a view at the unnatural golden gleam that rests in the back of his black pupils. That glow is of fresh luster, the grace of gold that was restored in Rogier's begotten kind, while the others in the Lands Between have begun to lose theirs. It's unmistakable, and it surely enough exposes the young man for what he is.
A Tarnished.
Though, the glow is almost uncanny. It seems as if the young Tarnished put the very bark of the Erdtree long-past into his eyes. The glow is intense, so to speak.
The Tarnished young man doesn't seem to catch Rogier's eyes on him, so he looks away, relieving himself of his cloak and resting his arms on his table.
"I don't like upending people that are just living their lives like that. I wouldn't want the same done to me, in any case."
The young woman places her hands on her lap together.
"Do not let it dwell on you. Many have cemented views of Tarnished. People like who we know in Morne are few and far between."
Rogier becomes even more intrigued, the young woman continues.
"Your acts of kindness are noble, but it will not change how everyone will treat you."
"We've got the coin, and I'd rather know people have at least one positive memory of a Tarnished, for what it's worth."
Rogier almost lets out a sigh.
Such a naïve understanding; he can only assume this young Tarnished has not been in the Lands Between for long. It's a wonder he hasn't ended up grafted or burned at the stake yet.
The young woman seems to appreciate the young man's words, but shares Rogier's sentiment.
"Stay vigilant. Some may seek to take advantage of that…"
She trails off and glances toward Rogier. Her open eye is of a pure golden color, a rarity in the Lands Between. Despite it, she has no gleam in her pupil, not even a hint of luster.
Is she not a Finger Maiden then?
As if the two played to the same tune, the young man looks Rogier's way again, his eyebrows knitting together. It is like they hold a conversation, even without speaking a word. It is like they know Rogier is listening, even when he has yet to even tilt his hat their way.
A tight grin spreads across Rogier's face.
Well, if he's been found out, then now may be the best time to make his acquaintances. He uncrosses his boots and swings his legs off the table, leaving his chalice behind.
He's been waiting for anything to show, and these two peculiar, if not naïve, people might be just what he needs.
That man is listening to us. '
I start, and I look right, at the strangely dressed fellow in the corner of the tavern. I'd thought that he was asleep, or at the very least drunk.
I knit my eyebrows together, preparing to reach for my sword if I need to.
You sure?
Yes. He is awake, and his runes have…
Wait.
What? What is it?
Before she can answer, the man, who I'd take was dressed like a jester, with his greens and yellows and browns, swings his curled boots off his table, rising with a sly smile over his mouth.
Like magic, or because of practice, the man's hat tilts just so, even as he glides over to us, that I never get a look at his eyes.
He moves like he weighs nothing, brandishing an ornamental rapier and what looks like a wooden rod tipped with a blue crystal strapped at his waist. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that rod was a big wand.
He stops at our table, eyes always just out of reach. He has that familiar citrus scent that Ranni always had, and as he turns his head and big pointy hat my way, a cerulean trinket on a chain dangles about just beside his head.
"A word of advice, friend." He sounds younger than I expected. "Best you keep your eyes hidden. People don't take to our kind like one might expect."
Yes… His runes… He's Tarnished.
I nearly jump in my seat.
What?!
Neither Melina nor I answer the Tarnished newcomer, so he tilts his head to the chair he just stopped behind.
"May I?"
I find my voice.
"...By all means."
The man smoothly draws the chair out and plops himself down, placing his gloved hands with inlaid gems on his lap, making himself comfortable.
A Tarnished. A real Tarnished.
One besides me…
I didn't know what I was expecting.
He's surely dressed erratically and carries an air of mystery about him. The commotion I caused must've cued him in to what we are…
Maybe I was just expecting it to be obvious, expecting there to be one key difference between Tarnished and normal people.
Yet, this man feels completely normal, again, if not for the eccentric clothes.
I wonder what he knows, and I have a sneaking suspicion he's our guy.
It's been nearly twelve seconds of silence since the man sat down, and I don't know what I'm supposed to talk about. I was hoping for an introduction, but the man seems content in simply staying anonymous.
"Well, if I'll be honest, this tavern was a welcome sight." I say, trying to think of a way to start up a conversation. "After nearly a week of wandering around these mountains, this may be the first place that hasn't chased us out."
Melina doesn't say anything, merely watching the man like she was trying to pick him apart. The man scoffs, showing some teeth.
"A week, you say? My, what were you two doing wandering around Stormhill for a week? This land is practically crawling with Godrick's men."
I cross my leg over my knee.
"We're looking for someone."
He already seems to know what I am, and I can only guess he tried clueing me into what he is. I don't know the relations between Tarnished, like, if it's a race for the Great Runes, or if it's a combined effort. I can only hope we all have a sense of comradery, no matter how alienated I feel based off my background in particular.
I guess it's time to find out.
"We're trying to track down a Tarnished by the name of Rogier. Happen to know his whereabouts?"
What's the chance this man is him?
Likely. He is dressed like a spellblade, at the very least. We can only make sure.
It'd make things easier if he is.
Despite our predictions, the Tarnished man caresses his chin.
"Ah, I'm certain I have heard of such a fellow, though the mountains of Stormhill are crawling with our Tarnished brethren. Many familiar names have a home in these woods."
Melina and I have discovered nothing of the sort.
Besides scattered buildings and the occasional strange ruins, Stormhill is barren. In the five days we've spent searching for Rogier, we've found nothing but perturbed hermits and intrusive wolfpacks.
We've yet to find a Site of Grace, our spellblade Tarnished, or even a straight path to Castle Stormveil.
Not a trace of any other Tarnished.
This spellblade sitting beside us plays on his words; I can't tell what are lies and what is the truth without seeing his eyes.
"Pray tell, why are you searching for him? I've heard he's elusive and doesn't fare to be discovered. You must have a good reason to stay the trail during these summer highstorms."
I'm almost certain this man is Rogier.
I feel relieved, if not winded. After five days, he simply appeared out of nowhere.
The search is over.
A door to the back room swings open, and the tavernkeeper storms out, carrying two plates of cured meats and bread smothered in butter and goat cheese. Despite his claims, he prepared Melina and I something rather nice, at least nice compared to moldy bread.
He slides the plates onto our table, giving the man who pretends he isn't Rogier a scornful eye. He finishes with giving us two mugs filled what what looks to be plain water, turning and retreating before he can meet my gaze.
"Thank you." I call after him.
He grumbles a complaint to himself. The others in the tavern give me hateful glares.
I turn back on Rogier, sliding my plate and mug in front of myself.
"My friend here and I just arrived from Bellard down in the Weeping Peninsula, looking to find a way to take down Godrick."
I say it low enough that only the three of us can hear it, picking a cured meat and taking a bite out of it. It's salty, and I can't tell what animal it came from. If the tavernkeeper poisoned it, or any of our food and drink, I can only hope Melina's healing magic will be enough to save us.
"We made acquaintances with the local Lord there, and he spoke of a spellblade Tarnished we could find somewhere in Stormhill."
Rogier sits back, his hat tipping down with him.
"Local Lord? Then you must mean Lord Haight." I nod, Rogier continues. "I've heard quite the commotion occurred down there recently. Happen to know what all the buzz was about?"
I shrug, silently apologizing to Irina.
"Nothing major, just some issues with the demi-humans sneaking into the city. It all died down relatively quickly."
Must we spin lies?
Rogier turns on Melina, resting a gloved hand on the table.
"Apologies young miss, but might you be a Finger Maiden? I'd only heard the news last night. Might that be how you two traveled here so quickly?"
"I am not." Melina admits, averting her gaze.
She takes a sip of her water with both hands clasping her mug.
"But I can act as one, and all that entails."
Something wrong?
I had wondered why Neil said he was a wanderer. He must've lost his maiden at some point.
So, he can't travel through breaches then.
That, and he cannot turn his accumulated runes into strength.
Rogier looks pleased at Melina's answer, and he calls over the tavernkeep for a meal of his own. I knit my eyebrows.
Can all Tarnished steal runes from the people they kill? I thought I was the only one.
I am sure I spoke of it before, but Tarnished normally obtain runes naturally over time through their grace, and their connection to the Erdtree.
She glances my way in our telepathic silence.
The process can be expedited through practice and training and other likewise activities. Tarnished need a Finger Maiden to use those runes, less the runes accumulate stagnate. Without connection through the Two Fingers, communion with the Greater Will is impossible. Thus is the state of things.
"Going after Godrick then?" Rogier states, after conversing meager words with the tavernkeep. "I take it you're after his Great Rune then?"
Melina and I exchange a glance. I gesture to Rogier.
"Aren't all Tarnished? I don't know why else we'd stick around here."
Rogier slowly nods.
"Can't speak a more true phrase, friend. Though that mindset isn't nearly as popular these days."
I cock an eyebrow. Rogier continues, nonchalantly rising and retrieving his chalice from his table, taking a sip of the red liquid within it.
"I haven't a clue what you know, but at first, we Tarnished were gunning for the shardbearers' thrones, much as Marika spurned us. Guided by the rays of grace, we stormed these lands to fulfill our duty to the Elden Ring." He taps the table, nailing down his point. "Yet, I've seen neither hide nor hair of this guidance for the longest time, and I'm not the only one. Many Tarnished have lost what they had been given, and they have been reduced to pillagers or criminals and the like. I'm sure the friend you seek is in the same boat."
"Why are you here then?" I try. "If I take your words for the truth, then why hide out in a tavern in the middle of Stormhill, Rogier?"
Rogier freezes, before sharing a light chuckle to himself.
"My oh my, I've been played for a fool at my own game. Was it that obvious?"
He shrugs to himself with a light-hearted sigh.
"Not that I was trying very hard to stay hidden, but apologies for not introducing myself sooner."
He raises his head but a sliver, yet his eyes come into view. I can finally see them, and...
Huh...
There is a strange golden glow in his pupils, like he had the eyes of an animal reflecting off light in the dark. It's unnatural, and it messes with my ability to read his emotions.
For better or worse though, he seems always in a chipper mood.
"I pray you show some mercy on me." His eyes glow like a predator's in the night. "One can never be too careful these days."
I cross my arms.
"Why not start over then? Say hello and get introductions out of the way. We're both Tarnished here, so why not take solace in that?" I crack a grin of my own. "Compared to misbegotten or Godrick's men, you could stab me in the gut and I'd probably forgive you if you apologized."
Rogier chuckles.
"My, you are a peculiar man, I will give you that." He flicks his chalice over. "Not to say I hate it. It feels like a breath of fresh air."
He tips his hat a little.
"Let me speak with honest words for you then. I am Rogier. A sorcerer, as you might've guessed, if the staff and hat weren't clues enough for you."
Relief finally takes root in my expression.
"Well met. Name's Lance," I start, thinking about my introduction. I'd usually say I'm a Tarnished, just to get it out of the way. But this is the first time I'm speaking to a fellow Tarnished, so my go-to is out of the question. "Swordsman, and I've dabbled in incantations."
Mind if I give him your name?
Go ahead.
I gesture to Melina.
"This is Melina, my partner and mentor. We've been travelling together for a while now, though this is the first time we've travelled this far north. First time meeting a comrade in arms too."
Rogier tilts his hat to us, his eyes disappearing under that wide brim.
"I must say friend, I find it humorous that you use longswords, on account of your name." He gestures to me with a gloved hand. "I'd find it fitting if you wielded a spear or something similar. But maybe that's your charm."
Neither I nor Melina answer him, so he switches tunes, crossing one leg over the other.
"Well, Lance, Melina, a pleasure to meet you two. I take it Sir. Neil was the one who set you on my trail then?"
I nod.
"He vouched for you, more or less, said you could help us get into Stormveil Castle."
Rogier thinks about that.
"Well, piercing the castle walls would be doing a service to us both, though it is easier said than done. I don't look to dampen your spirits, but very few Tarnished have been capable of it, and none returned alive. The place is bristling with Tarnished hunters and enough traps to satisfy a Black Knife Assassin's palate, and that only accounts for the outer walls."
The tavernkeeper brings a meal for Rogier, quickly retreating. The others that populated the place have since left, probably not wanting to deal with the stench of lowly Tarnished being in the same room as them.
"It's not exactly a place one should stroll into without a purpose in mind, and it just so happens that purpose has yet to show his face since his failed siege on the capital."
He tries out one of the slices of buttered bread.
"I've my own purposes for wanting an in into the castle, though I have yet to show anything for it. The entire venture has been deemed a lost cause. My trip to the Weeping Peninsula has been a likewise waste of time."
I try a slice as well.
"What brought you so far down south anyways? It's quite the distance to travel on foot. And if you want to get into the castle, then why the detour?"
Rogier lightly taps his fingers on the table, before crossing his arms together.
"Followed a story I heard, that just so happens to tie into my reasons for trying Stormveil. Tell me, Lance, have you ever seen a mausoleum walking on stone legs? Ever heard of it?"
I frown. Melina doesn't seem to know either.
"Mausoleum? As in a church? A walking church?"
"I take it you haven't then?"
I shake my head.
"If I'm not mistaken, buildings shouldn't walk."
Rogier tests the glorified jerky, opting to tend to the bread instead.
"I won't bore you with the details, but I traveled south in search of one of these Mausoleums, following a tip I picked up while I was in Limgrave." He shrugs. "Nothing came of it, not even an oversized footprint."
He grows serious, revealing his eyes for but a moment underneath the bring of his hat.
"Apologies, but I must ask. Do you really intend to try Stormveil? Again, I'd hate to place a damper, seeing as how you two may very well be exactly what I've needed, but the idea is considered suicide. Even the strongest Tarnished warriors have put off seeking out the Great Runes; those of us that were closest have either fallen to alluring madness or burned at the stake before an adoring crowd. In Godrick's case especially."
He places both gloved hands on the table.
"If they catch you, they will rob you of your free will. Grafting is not a pleasant experience, friend. That much, I can attest to."
I…
Well...
I hesitate to answer.
Why am I so foolhardy?
Why do I think I can do this?
I know I'm not strong.
Is it because I have Melina?
Do I believe she will save me if things go south?
Or is there another reason?
One I can't place, one that alludes me.
Is there some other reason why I think I'll be any different from the other Tarnished?
I don't know.
But…
"I do intend to take on Stormveil." I say. "I intend to march up to Godrick and take his Great Rune, from his cold dead hands if I have to."
You did not have to put it that way.
But it is what I'll have to do.
I'm intending to kill him.
Rogier lets out a lighthearted chuckle.
"My, you are a brave one. I'd say you were foolish as well, but you look to be of a better caliber than most…"
He seems to hesitate, finishing off his drink.
"Well, why not then? You look to take on a castle? Then our purposes are truly aligned."
He slams his chalice onto the table, before rising to his feet yet again. He steps back and performs a courtly bow. It would look graceful even if he was wearing regular clothes, but his eccentric wear accentuates the pose, giving off the feel of a deposed nobleman.
"Lance, Milady Melina, may your company have room for a humble sorcerer? If you would have me, of course."
I'm truly relieved.
I stand to my feet, letting the groan of my chair dragging across the floorboards echo about the tavern.
"I'll be honest with you, Rogier, nothing would put me more at ease. We need all the help we can get."
I extend a hand, which Rogier gives a crooked look. I think up a corny line, but I'm saying to before I can stop myself.
"What say we go make history?"
Rogier scoffs, taking my hand and giving it a stubborn shake.
"Couldn't put it better myself, friend."
After five days of searching, and a conversation I could barely follow, the Tarnished Sorcerer Rogier has finally been acquired.
How long has it been since Cree and the others left?
Roderika can't remember.
It feels like she's swimming, floating in swirling darkness with her head just barely above the water. Her ears submerged in dampened sensations, fingers tingle at the subtle chilling breeze blowing through the weathered shack.
Her tongue is dry of food or drink, and dull hunger grips at her gut. She can't smell, can't hear anything other than the constant howl. She bunches herself up against the rotting walls of the shack, hugging herself tightly.
They left her.
Each and every one of them.
They all went on without her.
Cree, Enola, John, Callon, Dreah, Mallius, Derek, and Fenn. Garf, Hughes, Meel, Roderick, and Tader.
Little Bau, the big Willow, and even Jerik too.
They are the names she can remember, and they are only sixteen of the original thirty-seven. She can't even remember half of them, and they are gone.
They have moved on.
She coddles her frail gloved hands together, whimpering sad tears of quiet joy, plagued by grief and relief alike. Mixing in her degrading head, tearing the life from her eyes until she merely stares listless at the small particles of pale white light fluttering about her hands, keeping her company during her final days.
These sweet little spirits, calling to her, asking her to be alright. Childish hope, that Roderika can return.
But she doesn't want to return, not alone.
She doesn't want to be left behind, not again.
"Please," She mutters, praying out to the Grater Will watching her from above. "Please let me join them soon."
Yo. This chapter is a shorter one, since I ran out of things to write about without touching what comes next. That, needs its own chapter. Funnily enough, I still wanted to write something after I finished within the two-week deadlines I give myself for these long suckers, and since I was done, I randomly thought: "I wonder if I could keep playing with this world-crossing concept?" It's kinda changed in this story in particular, but hey, I thought up the idea of if Melina chased the player into the real world after the Lord of Frenzied Flame ending. I call it: We Are All Lost. By the point I'm wiring this, I think I already posted the second chapter, so go check it out if it pleases ya. It's quite a bit darker, mind you, and plays more on a psychological and supernatural feeling than fantasy and adventure. I don't know how long Imma run it, considering I could finish the story in two chapters, and yet I keep coming up with new ideas that could make it run much longer. For all intents and purposes, I won't let it subtract from writing this one. Also MH Wilds is great, even if my computer has a stroke every time a monster decides to sneeze. I like how the "bosses" get easier the more you beat them up, instead of the Soulsborne "Oh, I was just holding back on you, have some latin music" formula. Have a good day and all that.
P.S. If you're reading this and you're an artist... I'd rather not sound like a bum but PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy, stop spamming me in PM's about commissions. I don't make money off these things and I don't got jack to spend either. I know y'all just trying to put food on the table, but if I see the phrase "bring your ideas to life" one more time, I might just lose my mind. You ain't getting nothing from this broke college student. If someone did sketch a character of mine just for funsies I might die of happiness, but I have no monies, plz stahp.
Love,
-Corroded Vortex