The full moon, a symbol of long-faded Caria, shone splendid over the lake. Fog thickly spread out after hiding away from fearsome daylight, and a sweet breeze came clad in the scent of tranquil water. Moonlight shot down and rebounded off of steel armor as the knight and his steed rode on the hunt for a glintstone key.
An old map, plucked from a dead man's hands outside the sealed Academy gate, marked… a location. Which location was yet to be determined, but at least he had a reference. It was some small landmass or other to the near-West of the Academy.
It does not behoove a knight to take from the dead, Arthur was aware, but curiosity is surely a forgivable thing. Either way, the sin of corpse-looting was already committed, and he would surely atone for it in church later. In the present moment, the call to adventure still rung true.
"Hyah! Go steadfast, my noble steed! We tire not!"
After a day of travel and some fighting, this wasn't entirely true. Still, he'd not slump from the saddle, no matter how long sleepless hours dragged on.
The leather reins directed the way, and in an environment of muted blues - lake, sky and Carian glintstone - a new, vibrant shade made itself known. Before a spread of stone structures which jutted high upward, cerulean-blue flowers swayed with the breeze atop dirt and grass. Their saturation naturally drew his curiosity. The light-blue gleam of a small item drew his interest - situated behind a row of flowers that were unlike any he had ever encountered, it shot through to his eyes despite the fog.
That natural human desire to pursue shiny things found purchase in the knight; he wanted not only to enjoy the flowers, and perhaps bring back a luxurious bouquet of them for Roderika, but to take the glistening item that lured from beyond.
Arthur tugged hard on the reins and brought his mount to a stop, stepping down from atop his back. Bent, his knee now was, in the center of a miniature blue meadow. He briefly removed his gauntlet to carefully pluck half-a-dozen of the cerulean flowers by their thin stems. It came only naturally to set down that gauntlet, divest himself of his helm and bring the blue-petalled blossoms up to meet his nose.
They smelled of… he could not categorize it in his head. They looked incredible, and he had never seen such a vivid plant in his life… but they smelled far too distinct to even be described. They appeared uniquely vibrant, yes, but were still clearly blue. He could not relate their smell to any other flowers - faded erdleaves were earthy and aromatic of an age gone by, while pale-purple water lilies were unusually soothing, a scent suggesting their exceptional frailty. Erdleaves were abundant, while water lilies seemingly made effort to break apart in his hands… but not these. These were different.
He lowered them from his face and, taking great care not to damage or press them too hard, gently fit them into a pouch. Upon his return to the Hold, Roderika would like these. He hoped so, at least; her taste in flowers was something he'd never inquired of. After this important task was concluded, the pouch safely nestled in his pocket, he ventured closer to the light and could discern more of the surrounding terrain.
Multiple angled stones shot out of the ground, it seemed. Bringing Thops' staff into the air with his left hand, he focused and summoned a small glintstone over his head, as luminous as the moon itself. A central structure, the tallest one, had… a body leaning against it. The source of the glintstone's shine… rather, the corpse that held it. It was a key. Just one step closer, the knight heard what sounded like… snoring. Powerful snoring. Turning to his right, patches of blue glintstone subtly shifted as something moved.
It was after that he realized…
Oh.
That is a dragon. That snoring makes sense.
Wait…
A d-d–d-dragon!
Arthur was no coward, not at all, but even he didn't much care to be within the proximity of a beast of such scale. He, unlike many other of his fellow foolhardy Tarnished, still enjoyed being alive.
Of comfort, very small, was the fact that it had not awoken from his oblivious sploshing in the water.
The dragon slept. Of course it should; they're hardly different from other creatures, and it is night-time, the appointed period for rest… so why shouldn't it sleep?
Perfect luck, surely… must it have gone to sleep here?
Alright. I suppose I had better hope that this dragon is hard-of-hearing…
In the dark of the Liurnian night, where the moon came up almost like a watchdog over the lake (only without the stony face of a feline), the key's shine was like a beacon demanding his attention. Even without the natural human ambition of claiming every shiny object for themselves, curiosity drives many a man to tread into dangerous territory.
Perhaps it, only augmented by foolishness (or bravery; the knight still hadn't quite figured out the distinction), could encourage him to sneak beside the wing of a lumbering dragon.
Oh, wait. We're past the point of 'perhaps'.
"..."
Easy… easy… easy…
Sabatons lowered themselves as stealthily as they could into the submerged soil… as they raised, entrapped lakewater dripped out of their crevices and returned to the earth. It gave a dropping background to the knight's sneaking.
"..."
Gently… gently… gently!
He set down his foot just a bit too harshly, and froze momentarily to look at the dragon once more.
When no flaming breath incinerated him, Arthur presumed himself to be in the clear… for now.
Inching closer and closer, the boldness needed to hasten his step came more and more. As he snatched the shining item - a silver key - from the corpse's hands, he noticed the odd stone mask that complemented its Academy robes. Another student, it seems. They do have a knack for showing up in odd places.
Inspecting the magical key, he briefly admired its ornate design by running his fingers across it. Far better than the average house- or gaol-key, that was for sure. The knight secured it into his chest-pocket beneath his steel cuirass and turned to go.
Well… that was not so hard.
Finally sensing a thief upon its domain, or a knight to have for dinner, or perhaps both… the dragon stirred from its slumber. Its wings, marked with patches of glintstone, unfurled from their comfortably-rested position.
"Ah."
While the knight considered what to do, the dragon decided on having him well-done. A blanket of blue fire was let loose, and its burn was… unique. Magical. Still awful. Arthur shielded his head with his arms in a horizontally-crossed position and stepped back, though there was only so much good it could do.
Fire was conducted by his steel suit of armor, and the sizzling of his skin felt imminent. It licked at his flesh, gnawing and tearing with molten teeth. Godrick's flame was a simple torch in comparison to this. Still, he was not set alight, by some miracle. Even if he were, he was in the middle of a lake… thought perhaps glintstone fire functioned differently from the usual variety.
When the burning came to an end, the knight's sheer grit enabled him to push through the terrible heat's remnants, and he got started on drawing his greatsword with his right hand. Through all pains, he spoke… though it was obvious that it was more for his own bravado, as dragons likely do not converse in man's language.
"Agh… damn you! Enjoy the bloody death you have just earne-"
A mild swat of the left wing, almost like driving away a fly with one's hand in annoyance, sent him into the stone structure to his right. Pained groans echoed in his helmet for a time, and his ribs felt awful. Peeling himself up from the waterlogged ground, he quickly called upon Torrent once more after sheathing his sword. This would be a fight for another day.
Mounted up, he sped away… but the glintstone dragon hardly wanted to allow him a retreat.
"Hyah! Go! Go!"
As the knight bravely fled on horseback, cutting behind his foe, the dragon spun and clipped his steed with the outer portion of his tail. It would have been a grazing hit or even a near-miss with any more luck, but unfortunately both horse and rider were toppled, sent flying to the ground ten feet away. Arthur landed face down in the water, his armor and (much more importantly) helm filling up easily.
When he picked himself up, his first act was to rip the helm off and dump it out. As much as it could shine from a thorough washing, now was not the time!
Stumbling up to his feet, he called for Torrent once more and hauled himself onto the saddle. Everything hurt from being scorched by flame and subsequently thrashed with animalistic force; still, this was better than fighting Godrick, if only because he was not so near to death. Being sent into the water for some seconds helped with the burning sensation, in fact, though a magical burn remained.
What would be even better, though? Not being near a dragon at all. It was with this understanding that he spurred his steed on as if his life depended on it. Perhaps that was because it did.
Out in the open water, it remained nearly impossible to see past maybe ten feet, given the fog and time of night. He followed moonlight as best as he could, just as he followed grace by day, and soon enough felt less endangered. Perhaps he had lost that damned dragon… or perhaps it had simply chosen not to pursue. He hurt either way.
His spectral steed galloped, kicking up water that would immediately return from whence it came. Where would he go? Anywhere except back.
All around him, the soundscape of a dark night washed over him like the water beneath. Like the moon above, it was cold and solitary.
He rode, simple as that. Direction was arbitrary with the fog.
…
His eyes soon could make out another small, elevated mass of land with what appeared to be a building.
A church.
Some holy protection would be much appreciated.
"A-ha! We meet again, you honorless scoundrel. What was that it you said to me oh-so-long-ago? 'You are maidenless, uh-huh-huh, feel free to go off and die in a ditch somewhere, huh-huh-huh!' Well, it may please you to know that I found a maiden! Two, in fact! Where are your maidens, hmm?"
The smug white-garbed man simply stood there with a dumb look on his face… mask. Knight Arthur had hastily sought refuge in the church, and in place of it he encountered the rude bastard who had mocked him during their first meeting.
"If-"
"What? Naught to say for yourself? Ha! It seems you have gone white-faced in more ways than just your mask! In the presence of a true Tarnished warrior, a Knight of the Roundtable Hold, you have no ground. Craven!"
Elicited from the masked man, a scoff was.
"Oh, earned a seat at the Roundtable Hold, have you? Good. For. You. I am sure your maiden - oh, apologies, maidens are having joyous times in the service of a graceless runt like you who will die in obscurity. That is… if they even exist."
"Of course they exist. The first one even bestowed upon me a ring to summon a spectral horse, and instructed an odd blue witch to deliver unto myself a 'spirit bell' or some such. Look upon it. … do you see?"
The knight held up the ring, which functioned more like a whistle, with his thumb and index finger.
"The second… well, she gifted me with a phial of jellyfish ashes. That is true devotion, is it not?"
Varré laughed. It was clear that this Tarnished upstart was touched in the head. Two maidens… jellyfish… oh, please. Perhaps it was best he'd not lured him into the fold… Luminary Mohg has little use for idiots.
"I see. As you aren't a miserable corpse awaiting old Godrick's graft, I take it you claimed a Great Rune and had audience with the Two Fingers. What was your impression?"
'I can only imagine that this runt believes himself a great champion, his sword directed easily by honeyed words.'
"As a matter of fact, I did. For your information, I… had and have my doubts, for religion never did come naturally to me, but my loyalty lies with the Greater Will for the time being. So long as its path is righteous, I shall walk it… and no greater path could be than to make whole what once was fractured. The Fingers seem an aid in this endeavor. I trust them well enough."
'Fool.'
Arthur recalled his enlightening conversations with the fellow who went only by a single letter - 'D'. The Hunter of the Dead. A zealous fellow, but perhaps that was just what these lands needed. He'd instilled in the knight an interest in Golden Order tenets, and demonstrated just how powerful they could be in battle. The way his bimetallic blade enwreathed itself with holy gold… quite illustrious.
That was quite a time ago, though, and he had been out of the Hold when Arthur stumbled in bloodied. As far as the knight could gather, he and that large-hatted sorcerer - Rogier was his name - split over differences in religious opinion or some other trifling reason. Now, the Hunter claimed, the formidable spellblade was reduced to a shell on account of 'Those Who Live in Death'.
He wasn't wrong… with how he sat disabled on the balcony, a blanket over his withering form, he seemed unlikely to do any more fighting. Any more walking.
Those Who Live in Death have got to be a terrible blight on the world to afflict a man so. They and all of their kind must be violently granted a final rest… not only so others are spared from their affliction, but so that they may not suffer any further in undeath.
Rogier's fascination with the subject was a contentious thing, to say the least. No matter, he supposed; he got along with D and Rogier equally. The first provided knowledge of religion, the other of history. Long-past history, tales of Carian heresy integrated into Erdtree custom.
A tolerant act like this shone brightly in his eyes; a flexible, all-encompassing range of tenets proved enticing.
Such is the downfall of heroes, that a golden exterior blinds them to imperfect fundamentals.
"You are right to doubt. My own doubts have been piling up, you see. The words of the Two Fingers cannot be trusted. Truly naught but rambling, senile delusions. I believe that when the Elden Ring was shattered the Two Fingers were corrupted, their guidance skewed."
Arthur shook his head.
"Mistake me not, I trust in the Fingers and the Golden Order to a fair extent. I fight alongside their few remaining champions for an end to this misery coating the land... but oh, of course, of course. I should believe the arrogant knave who instructed me to die upon our first meeting."
In spite of his great mistrust towards Varré, he did… have something of a point. There lingered a small, staunch and unyielding element of Arthur that urged him to ignore the Two Fingers in favor of his own instinct. His own sense of right and wrong. Still… no man can trust himself entirely. Maybe, just maybe… the Greater Will was the righteous guide he had sought. Sought to replace his raw understanding of 'virtue'.
"The Fingers harbor no love for our kind. That's the part that irks the most. Think on this before pledging yourself to them like a dog at their feet."
At this point, he had no vested interest in recruiting the knight to his own Lord's cause… but if he could simply send this naive lamb off the path laid by the Golden Order, that would be just as well.
"They are hardly unique in that aspect… but no hatred seems to abound, either. I would rather serve an apathetic cause than go without cause at all… for at least then I might further my own goals alongside theirs."
In truth, the label of 'Tarnished' was something of a curse alongside the many four-letter-words, except you could politely say it in the presence of fair ladies. Though he made effort to wear such a title with pride, Arthur could feel the scorn of the Erdtree heaping down upon him sometimes.
He would strive towards it still, for no knight can go without a master… even if such a master would presume him a means to an end. His resentment, despite this, had reared its head at times in regards to grace.
"I see. You may go, then. May the wisdom of the Two Fingers guide you… straight to your grave."
"I shall go there with more dignity than some mocker like you who would do nothing as it all falls to pieces. What does it take to stand off to the side and point one's finger? Nothing. Good-bye!"
Still, a seed of doubt was sown. Doubt in the Two Fingers, emissary of an unseen god. Doubt in grace.
To the West did the knight go, travelling the land on his quest. A proper knight-errant, he could be called… only he hoped never to err.
He left the water behind for the time being and, after reaching dry land, turned North. The fog was no longer veiling his every direction.
Passing between gigantic, towering stone spires with shrubbery at their bases, he came to enjoy Liurnia more and more. Its serenity lulled him.
In the dark of a long night, his heavy-lidded eyes were blinded to what sinister elements laid in wait.
"Quite a place, is this not, Torr-"
Rustle rustle rustle
Alertness rushed him and his senses, and his drowsy eyes shot open.
From behind, something smacked into and scraped his helm at the same time. It was a falling motion, clearly brought about with lethal intent. Fortunately, thick steel can oft make jokes of any blows.
"Uff!"
Taking a look behind, he saw nothing. It was not until he leaned to the left and looked past Torrent's rearside that he made out the figure of a tiny, lean humanoid. Filthy, ragged armor covered it, as did an odd peaked helm.
The small bandit was rearing back its armament - a long wooden pole with a serrated sawhead attached - for another swing, no doubt at Torrent.
Such is the folly of one who trifles with spirits.
A stiff kick from an ethereal hind-leg sent the vertically-challenged bushwhacker flying into the stone. Hard.
"Good one."
Unfortunately, some problems are more extensive than they first appear. As he prepared to continue on, a second little man jumped up from bushes to the left and swung what looked like a long-handled sickle (only more circular) straight towards his neck. Were it not threatening to cut him open, he would admire the skill it must take for somebody so small to leap so high.
He possessed only enough reflexive speed to bring up his left arm, and the sickle's sharp point slipped through a gap. The knight's elbow was badly pierced, though not through-and-through, and blood slowly seeped from the wound as he grunted with grit teeth.
"Argh!"
Were his mouth free to emit sound as it pleased, his pained noises would have been far less… restrained.
A harsh pulling sensation sent agony racing through his arm; the militiaman didn't let up for even a second, driving the blade to dig deeper into his flesh. Had this kept up, he figured that chunks would be savagely torn away by the effort. At last the knight cried out, but only briefly.
The force only increased to an awful degree, and it was a guess of whether the foe was attempting to rip off his arm using the leverage or pull him down for a stab through a critical area. Either way, Arthur was not intent on finding out.
The knight tore away from the point which penetrated his elbow, sounds of pain emitting all the while, and loosed his steel-clad foot from Torrent's stirrup. He let off a kick of his own into the undersized opponent's head, knocking loose portions of its shoddy helm and sending him to the ground.
Dismounting, he rushed forth and repeatedly mashed a closed, gauntleted fist into the dazed militiaman before drawing his flamberge. Just as he readied the killing blow, the saw-wielding foe returned and struck him upon the back to no effect besides redirected attention. Knight Arthur's backhanded fist crashed into the miniature marauder, and he was soon grabbed by the throat. It is a hard life to be stunted in growth.
"Pitiful."
Raised up with as much effort as it might take to strangle a lame goose, the foul little creature found itself launched against the stone wall once more. As it staggered into an upright position, the flamberge was hacked into its neck horizontally. An unclean cut, only halfway making it in before being ripped out and driven all the way through. Such was the force, the fury, that the lethal blow was followed by the blade rebounding from the stone surface with sparks.
Arthur's fingers, enveloped in thick steel, clenched and slid alongside the bloodied midsection of the blade. It remained coated. Just as well. More violence was to be had; the knight turned, knowing this.
Another boot to the face gave him the initiative.
Before the remaining combatant could even consider rising up to continue the fight, Arthur's right foot horizontally pinned his lower portion to the ground. Above loomed the knight, and he drove down his flamberge, left hand on the ricasso and the right reverse-gripping its handle.
His undulating greatsword was thrust down without hesitation, piercing entirely through the center of his chest and even digging into the soil underneath.
The victorious knight, a steel colossus before smaller foes, let out a breath before wrenching the blade loose. An audible squelch of blood escorted it out. He moved with both arms to sheathe it, and a tremendous bolt of pain shot through his left arm, originating within his elbow. A gush of his own crimson fluid escaped through his armor's elbow gap when he raised it up to inspect it; it was too painful, bloody, to move the limb.
Surely nothing a bit of rest will not fix. I'll not be an amputee yet.
Rustle rustle rustle
RUSTLE RUSTLE RUSTLE
The knight's head snapped to his left, towards the myriad bushes from which plentiful small figures emerged. He steadied the greatsword atop his shoulder with his good arm and braced himself for more slaughter to come. Threw himself into it.
As exhaustion threatened to bring him down, so was it that pure will rallied within him. His left arm dangling limply by his side, too damaged to be of use, it was harnessing a frenetic passion that he swung his right.
By the end of it Arthur had lived to die another night - a night bought in blood - though he'd much prefer never to die at all. A common tale of man.
It seemed he never could go without bandages for long.
"Ah, gods… what a… sensitive spot. Some unflinching knight I am, eh, Melina? I suppose you never imagined your chosen Tarnished to be so… urgh… vocal in the face of battle wounds."
White cloth, white enough to be marked clean for his purposes, soaked with blood. Those on his head were removed, his wounds inflicted by Godrick healed over. Here, as the pseudo-maiden pulled the white strips of fabric taut, he was grateful to have such gentle people in his life. Roderika, her and even Fia… though he had no interest in the latter of these three anymore beyond cordiality.
The Hunter's words to him about Those Who Live in Death had somewhat recontextualized her role as a 'Deathbed Companion'. He pondered what she had said of her duty… and the grim idea of a being persisting in body while dead in soul. Horrifying to imagine being reduced to a husk, a mindless husk that would wither and rot without the cold release of death.
Nothing was truly wrong with her occupation, as far as he knew, but the concept of life-after-death as she claimed to provide was one he did not quite like. It slightly repulsed him, to be frank, though he would not tell her such.
Still… he could not forget how, in the time before Roderika had come along, Fia held him. Calmed him. It was no romantic affair, he was under no delusions, but it was more than just a touch. It was a trust.
A trust he now wanted only to give to one person.
Never again. Not with her… or anybody but my Lady in the white-silk finery.
Melina tied the bandage and gently let go of his arm. They looked at each other.
His arm brought great pain, though it was no longer agonizing; he couldn't bear to have it in any other position than limply idle, and it hurt even then. With it, he'd not be gripping his sword for quite some time; it was fortunate that his dominant arm was his right.
The bandages were of little comfort, besides knowing he'd not grow weak from exsanguination or infection. Slow and insidious killers, the both of them are, akin to overconfidence in their poisoning.
"... you have proved steadfast, and that is better than to be unflinching. There is a beauty in resilience, rather than coldness… is there not? Beyond the challenge presented… the great voyage you must make yet… the Erdtree surely lies in wait for you. The Elden Ring waits for you. Endure… I know you are fit to do so."
Thrashed by the glintstone dragon earlier in the night, when the moon had not begun to wane in true Carian style, his torso still felt the impact. The warmth that her affirmations inspired within it, a different sort of fire from the blue glintstone, eased the pain.
The two side-by-side travellers, seekers of their purposes, set in between the stony spires for the night. A focused casting of starlight shone blue radiance around them, keeping the dark at bay. Running on what was soon to be pure willpower, Arthur longed for a rest. It had been some three days since he'd sat down in Boggart's shack, and a full day since his last period of sleep.
"Thank you…"
The knight smiled beneath his helm. Her words quite often had that effect on him.
During a comfortable silence, the exhaustion of inflicted bloodshed and suffered bloodloss grew. His head grew heavy beneath the weight of steel… or perhaps it was the weight of duty.
Sat against the stone with a slumped posture and legs outstretched, sleep came for him when he least expected it. It had no other choice, because if he were ready there would have been a fight.
A fight he'd lose in the end, but knowingly take nonetheless. Such was a knight's way.
"... gudnigh, Melna…"
"Rest well, Arthur."
After he had well-and-truly nodded off, the pseudo-maiden unpinned her black cloak from her thin shoulders and set it gently over his form.
The burned and bodiless have little need for a shield from the cold.
Their first meeting, a very cordial and respectful interaction as compared to his initial conversation with the man in the white mask, felt so long ago now. A month in the past. Despite this, she remembered vividly just how different he was then.
His sense of duty was the same, but his confidence in his worthiness had yet to bloom. He threw himself into his duty but denied himself all comforts - never could Arthur give himself the proud title of 'knight', nor would he allow himself to simply dwell in peace as a man.
He oft did wonder aloud whether he was worthy of even being a knight, his own answer invariably being 'no', and stated that he was not one. He wondered within his head, too, and she could tell by his facial expressions. The ways he would let his emotions show in his physicality only whenever he believed himself to be unseen.
He portrayed himself an unyielding iron force, but was just as vulnerable as any other man. Just as needing of certain joys. He would never admit it directly, though.
Not until that blonde-haired girl found him - or, rather, until he found her. They brought out the best in each other, it seemed. Roderika teased out different sorts of inner strength than Melina did.
Such is the power of a sweetheart.
That he was not relying solely on herself made the Kindling Maiden happy, in a wistful manner. She was by no means averse to comforting him, and would never refuse to, but knew that she would not be there for him forever.
No maiden can be.
Her destiny was to be met far sooner than his. As it stood, he would not be left alone - grieving and despairing - after she had fulfilled her duty as given by her mother so long ago. The knight would stay the path. He would become Lord.
Most unlike fallen champions of the Roundtable Hold, whose wills yielded before the final step. Whose quests and sufferings came to naught.
'This fight is far from its conclusion… but our pact will remain unbroken. We will find our purposes by means of one another. Sleep well, friend. Soon, your journey… our journey together continues.'
Glintstone starlight faded, yet they were not utterly abandoned to the dark, for the moon watched over the knight and the pseudo-maiden in a fluorescent vigil, pale as it was.