The strongest of swords come about bathed in heat. Heat that scorches the flesh from bones, destroys lesser metals. What should spell a brittle nature - a doom - instead lends the fortitude to find their destiny.
Next, through enduring unrelenting force, blunt trauma, they find shape. Flattened and refined into perfect cutting edges, beaten into a warlike shape, ready to be turned loose onto any who invoke their master's wrath.
They think not of the reason, for they know their purpose - to cut - and fulfilling it is reason enough. Their existence is rational, justified, so long as they can carry out one basic function. Crusted in putrid blood or polished to a mirror-sheen, they cut.
Knights are kin to them, in these regards.
"I am Iji, a blacksmith who once served the Carian royals. An old codger who refuses to retire his rusty hammer… so here I am, still quietly plying my trade on this spot."
"Carian royals… I imagine their estate is quite spacious if they employed trolls."
Curiosity and hunger, a hunger for knowledge and history, was never sated in Arthur. He wished to know more about the royal families of the lands… after all, if he was to become Elden Lord for the purpose of restoring order, he would need to be acquainted with them.
"Wait… did you say 'Iji'? I know you! Well… I do not know you, but I know of you. Blaidd told me of you when we met in Limgrave. How fortunate!"
"Blaidd actually did that, did he? Quite a rare occurrence, for such a guarded soul as he. Perhaps he sensed something unusual about you. At any rate, if you're friendly with Blaidd, I've something else that might suit you."
What would that be? A gigantic monster of a sword to match his? I am only half his size, you surely know…
One hand held the large book open and the other searched around before finally taking the object - some sort of ornate crest - in its gigantic fingers.
"This looks… luxurious. What is it? I can hardly fathom being given such a thing without cost. Fear not, for I have plenty of runes, and payment is non-negotiable."
"It is the crest of knights sworn to Carian princesses as retainers… the greatest honor short of being sworn to the Queen herself."
"Well… how wonderful. I am glad you decided to show me. Unfortunately, I am not sworn to any royalty… at least, not of the Carian sort. Indeed, the Lady I have dedicated myself to is of very much foreign birth. Such an unearned adornment might ill suit me."
Inspecting it more closely, the fine filigree of the crest was more apparent. More beautiful. Still, such beauty was not his to wear upon his chest, for he'd not served Caria in his life. He knew from Sir Gideon only the name of its Queen and one of its princesses. Indeed, he was better going without adornment… at least, without sumptuous adornment. The dragon figure atop his steel helm was enough.
"A fair choice. The knights were held to the highest standard, at the height of the royal family… but, of course, such days are long past."
"Well, they must be some… very noble fellows. I… stumbled across the sword of one, or who I believe to be one, and it is the most knightly sword I've ever seen. Have you seen its like?"
His gauntleted fingers wrapped around the glintstone handle of the sword and drew it from it sheath in one motion. As the blade came into view, it bounced the sunlight off of its fine edges and its steel flat.
The knight tossed it up only to catch it by its other end, firmly gripping the tapered portion of its blade.
"Oh, yes… this is, indeed, the sword of a Carian knight. Where ever did you find it? The enchanted knights of the royal family numbered less than twenty before their decline, and their swords were all their own. You would be hard-pressed to find such a thing simply lying around."
"Well… you see… it is a distinct possibility that… I found it in a hearse, clasped within the hands of a deceased knight, and I took it."
"Ah."
The sense of honor that seemingly hushed itself when he had looted the sword now spoke up, and his hands moved to return the weapon. His face burned with shame…
… or was that just the air inside his helm growing hot and stale?
"Before you say anything more, I must apologize… you must have forged this blade, as you were the royal smith, and known the fellow who wielded it. Meanwhile, I happened upon it and stole it with only whispered apologies to compensate. Take it back. I… I know not what I was thinking, or perhaps I did not think; either way, I should not have it, and I know such. Just… I had simply never seen a sword so beautiful, and I wanted a blade for myself akin to the knights I looked up to in boyhood… I was wrong. Take it."
The troll blacksmith laughed.
"No… keep it. As terrible as it is for a knight to be buried without his sword, it'll do no good in a grave. You've many battles to fight, if you are a Tarnished seeking the throne beneath the Erdtree… so long as you carry this bravely, it will not go to waste."
Surprise overtook the knight.
"Truly?"
"Yes. All I would ask of you is that you carry out with it the glorious deeds of a knight. Even if you do not serve Caria, you may honor its name through pure and noble acts with the blade."
Arthur pulled back the sword and rested it upon his palms, the sharp tip in his left and golden pommel in his right. Through the stifling visor of his helm, he looked over it from end to end.
A moment passed, a quiet moment of mental debate.
To be worthy of grace is one thing already, for Queen Marika could not have just any man upon the throne…
… but to be worthy of bearing a royal dynasty's honor in my sword?
The moment was gone with the lakeside breeze, and he found himself with a new comfort, the sense of remorse from graverobbing having lessened.
Gratitude shone in his eyes and voice; he looked up to Iji.
"... thank you. I swore to the fallen knight as I took the sword in my hands… swore that I would carry his will alongside mine as I raised it to my foes. I swear to you now that very same thing. Such tremendous power is contained within it, power enough to slaughter and slaughter effortlessly… but I shall use it for good. Never for evil."
"A knight is only so much as his vow upheld, and I'll consider this to be yours. … I never did ask you of your name. Brave Tarnished, who are you?"
"I am Knight Arthur of the Roundtable Hold."
The act of speaking his title with pride now came naturally, almost like he were giving his own last name.
"Well, Knight Arthur… if you would seek Caria Manor, allow me to impart a word of warning. This territory once belonged to the royal family, and the Manor lies not far beyond this point."
The knight almost got to walking in the estate's direction until he recalled the word 'warning'.
"When the Raya Lucaria Academy turned on the Carians, the Knights of the Cuckoo descended on this tract. After levelling it, they carried on to the Manor. The Carians were taken off guard, but their strength had not waned, and they repelled the knights' onslaught… by conjuring an enchanted snare that remains potent to this day. That is why I say, Tarnished, don't go near the Manor… unless you wish to lie with the corpses of the heedless Knights of the Cuckoo."
"How fascinating. The Academy turned against the royals? Well, it must have been quite an awful institution to have done so. I could never fathom betraying my liege, were they just and fair."
As he came to know more about the Academy, the speculation of what lay inside only grew. According to Thops they had imposed on themselves an isolation and neutrality in the Shattering, and he could be the first Tarnished to set foot there in centuries.
If they were able to revolt against the Carians, they must have had some powerful magic in their possession. Perhaps he could return Sellen and Thops to the place for more thorough studies alongside them.
"The situation of the royal family is quite a complex one. As it last stood, the Knights of the Cuckoo proclaimed 'our enemy is none other than Caria itself'. Allow me to provide you with a brief history lesson. In an age long, long past, the Golden Order and the Carian family were engaged in a most terrible war. Radagon, a warrior and champion of the Greater Will, met Lady Rennala in battle - the Queen of the Full Moon."
"A battling Queen, you say? She must have been powerful."
"Yes, she was. Few, or perhaps none at all, could hope to rival the power of the magic she cast forth. However, the war ended peaceably when Radagon repented over his territorial ambitions. The two champions married, and engaged in love rather than war. Such an age is beyond memory for all but the venerable…"
Iji let out a nostalgic sigh. The times when Lady Rennala was happiest - the day of her marriage and every day with Radagon after - were unforgettable even by an aged mind.
"… but, oh, I still remember those days."
The idea of making love rather than war was truly heartwarming to the knight. Ever the romantic he was. What knight could stand to be loveless? Love is what makes a knight… though the object of that love cannot be just any. Mercenaries love money, or at least hate being without purpose to raise their blade. Knights love virtue, and properly will serve only fair Lords… or Ladies.
"Well? Tell me more. Were they happy? Did they have children? Are they stil-"
The troll chuckled, amused by the man's eagerness. Arthur was almost akin to a small child being read a story. Then again, considering the difference in their statures and ages, perhaps that was precisely what he was.
"Invested, are you? As was I. They had three children, prodigious ones all of them. First came Radahn, the largest and most warriorlike of the bunch by far. He was the mightiest of the demigods in his best of days, not only masterful with swords but with sorceries."
"A fighter with brawn and brains? Such is what I wish to be, though I have met with only middling success in the latter department. His sorceries must be fearsome, being the son of such a powerful magical practitioner."
A far cry from my glintstone shards…
"He inherited his father's red hair - the hair of a warrior - but his mother's attunement with the stars. With gravity magic he went on to conquer the stars, holding them in place even to this day… and thus General Radahn became Starscourge Radahn."
"Well… that is magnificent. I should like to meet him someday. Tell me of… his siblings. There are two more, yes?"
Solemnity drove Iji to shake his head slowly.
"Yes. The secondborn… Praetor Rykard, Lord of Volcano Manor… well, he is no dignified name anymore. More 'Lordly' than his brother, but more warlike than his sister. He gave hims-"
"Sister? You would not refer to… Lunar Princess Ranni?"
"I would. Howeve-"
Knight Arthur crossed his arms. He was insistent, that was all; no hostility or impatience abounded.
"In that case, tell me where she is, please. I have need to speak with her. According to a trusted advisor of mine, she has cast off her Great Rune… I would seek to claim it, since she has no apparent want of it. I must ascertain its location from her."
"Unfortunately, I am not… privy to her… whereabouts. You'll not find her in this range, I'm sorry to say."
Ooh, very convincing. I am no good liar myself, but… even I could do better. Maybe.
"Oh, of course, of course. Well… allow me to make a guess… she resides in Caria Manor over yonder, which is why you warned me of a 'snare' that is non-existent in reality?"
"... no. The snare was no fabrication, and… Lady Ranni is not there, anyway."
"Your hesitation betrays the truth into view. I depart now for an audience with Her Lunar Highness. Be well, Iji!"
The knight flourished his farewell with a bow.
"Tarnished, the enchanted snare is still very much in effect! You mustn't go near the…"
As suddenly as he had stepped through the ruins and in front of his anvil, Arthur had shot off on Torrent's back for the estate in the distance.
In the distance loomed Caria Manor. It was quite the expanse, looking at it from afar. Tall stone walls, a gate that did not appear to be closed…
"Well, that was an enthralling history lesson. That good fellow shan't deter me, though. We are much too determined, are we not? No words might turn us around. 'Enchanted snare'... quite the funny deflection."
We should have the Great Rune of Princess Ranni by the waning of noon, for I have the strongest suspicion that she is here. It must have been too great a responsibility for her, if she felt so burdened as to cast it off. I shall be happy to relieve her of it.
The horse, ever the intelligent creature, whinnied in agreement. At least, Arthur believed it to be agreement… until he looked up and noticed the rain of glintstone projectiles hammering the field before the Manor. They came down in a line that spanned a vast distance, almost like a volley of arrows from the longbowmen of an army.
"Ah. I believe this is the part where we ride like hell is at our backs, Torrent."
He didn't even need to spur the steed before he raced across the dirt, cutting across to avoid the constant glintstone from the sky. The next volley missed so closely that the vibrations from the ground's impact were felt both by horse and rider.
Now I know how levied soldiers must feel as they charge the opposing line, iron arrowheads pouring down like a storm. My homeland is oft one of rebellion and war, that much is true. Who is a king - he who seizes the throne and smears it with blood, or relinquishes it so as to maintain its golden luster?
Torrent cut right at the direction of his rider, and the snare missed by a wide margin.
Like all men of my line I wanted so badly to be a knight, but would I have made it past the first shout from our lieutenant? Past the first hail of arrows and cannon-fire, would my purpose remain standing… or would my dreams die with the blackpowder's smoke?
Lost in pondering, the knight left the artful dodging up to his steed.
What is the use of a knight? Are we raised from birth to meet a gory death? Is that… all we are meant for? Is there no world for us beyond the tips of our swords?
A streak of glintstone, straying perhaps inches or a foot from the line of its brethren, found impact on Arthur's helm. Shaken from the midst of his thoughts, his reflections of home, he realized just how easily one could forget themselves in the presence of peril.
"Hyah! We are nearing the bounds of the Manor! Full speed!"
The rain of magic was halted as they reached the gate.
"Well, that was not so bad. I have had worse."
I imagine Her Highness is in the throne room of the Manor, if Her Majesty Rennala is not. It has been quite a time since I have knelt before royalty. … at least, royalty that was not simply a stone replication of the real person.
It was odd, the lack of guards or nobles or… anybody. This was the residence of the region's royal family, so… where were the royals?
Where is everybody? Still in hiding from the Academy's forces?
As he passed beneath a tall, tall archway holding up a walkway, a heavy thud came from behind. He dreaded to turn around, but did so. The most bizarre sight possible spawned bewilderment in his mind.
A giant hand, severed from whatever it might have been connected to at the wrist, deathly-pale and scampering towards him on its fingers… its too many fingers. It wore rings, rings that could probably fit around Arthur's torso.
Dear gods, what obsession do Marika's vassals have with extremities? First Godrick, now…
In the midst of its advance, the hand stopped. Evidently it must have been in great fear of the valorous warrior which stood before it. Even the abominations without eyes cower in his presence!
In typical Arthurian fashion, the man drew his flamberge and rushed forward, holding it over his head with the intent of striking it down in one overhead swing.
Why is that ring glowing purple?
Everything was still. His limbs might as well have been encased in ice, with how they were completely unresponsive to his commands. It was uncomfortable, the stiff and awkward position that he was stuck in, his sword still above his head. He could not even wriggle his mouth to utter 'you bastard', such was the extent of his paralysis.
All that he could do was struggle. Even against magic which could restrain so utterly, that was his ordeal - to struggle. To fight.
The gnarled, wrinkly fingers (just one of which was as large as him) jumped forth. Just as they came within arms' reach, the magic dissipated and, in surprise, he let go of his flamberge. The blade clanged upon his helm before striking the ground and placing itself out of his reach.
Really?
There passed not even three seconds before they enveloped Arthur in their fleshy, corpse-cold grasp. He was wrung and squeezed and mashed all at once. To describe the sensation… well…
Kill me.
He meant this not, of course, but the absolute pain was enough to bring out the small, tired, sick-of-it-all voice that was ordinarily spoken over by knightly bravado.
Still, as trapped as he was within the tightening 'cage' of fingers, he was no longer constrained by magic. He could move his own fingers, and made effort to unsheathe his arming sword.
The sensation of being pushed in on from all sides was agonizing, and he grit his teeth. It felt as though his innards would be pushed out of his body through his throat and his anus and everywhere else they could exit. His limbs must be broken or tearing off, and his head might be next to be crushed into a paste.
No, do not kill me!
"Unhand me!"
With his left arm, whose healing process was done no favors by the attack, he maneuvered the Carian sword out of its sheath and slashed at the fingers' insides. Having such little space, he had to work vigorously, stabbing and sawing at them as best as he could. He soon caused enough damage to warrant being released, and fell backwards. Everything hurt - the kind of hurt that comes when your whole body has been mangled or something like it - but he pushed himself to his feet.
Two hands wrapped around the glintstone sword's grip, and they swung the armament down. The force, a force meant to cut straight through, was enough to do just that. A smaller finger of the twisted hand was half-chopped, bloody flesh cleft where bone was unyielding.
Press this advantage… give it no quarter!
"Die, beast!"
Though its other fingers splayed out in an effort to knock him backward, he had already mounted it. He clambered the extremity and stabbed down.
Glintstone and steel pierced through what could be considered the palm of the finger-monster. As the blade pierced halfway through, a focused and driven effort summoned a magical greatsword that cleft it in twain. Aged, dark blood sprayed from the violent impalement, and Arthur was coated in crimson. Just more of the usual, in other words.
"Some pets they keep."
On one hip there laid a glintstone arming sword, the veteran blade of a Carian knight… on another, an iron shortsword, the untested blade of a maiden-warrior in training.
"... now, be careful with that. Wouldn't go swinging it around in a frenzy. Exciting, isn't it? To get your first sword. Well, maybe that knight will be back to show you how to use it."
From his shackled position behind the anvil, the proud smith Hewg looked on at the girl. As she spoke, she finished securing a leather sheath over her white-silk finery, tying it tight at the hip.
"Thank you, Master Hewg. I hope he's been safe."
A smile grew on her face. The wooden grip was unfamiliar in her gloved hands, but perhaps that was because she'd only ever held so much as a small dagger.
"I don't take him for dead. Something tells me he hasn't gotten himself killed yet."
Roderika emulated what she imagined a gallant knight would do with his weapon after beheading a dragon - her free hand on her hip, the other raising up the sword to the sky… or what would be the sky, had she not been in the Roundtable Hold. Even were she back in Limgrave, this shortsword wouldn't quite reach, but it mattered not.
Just through this pose a sense of heroism and valor surged. Perhaps this was how it felt to be knightly all of the time. She could just imagine Arthur standing over Godrick with that determined expression on his face, sun glazing his armor with its greatest orange radiance.
"Your grafts have reached their end, fiend. I, Knight Arthur, do proclaim it. In the name of all that is just, I condemn you!"
Maybe such posturing and grandeur was less an act to instill fear in enemies and more one to quell the fear in himself.
"He was vague about the blade, besides who he meant it for. No specifications beyond 'a shortsword for Roderika'. I forged it with you in mind. Even a girl like you who can hardly swing a sword should find it manageable."
Hewg cut into her imagination, and she took notice of the sword in her hands once more.
Indeed, it was not nearly as heavy as she expected. As opposed to many swords she had seen in her homeland, this was a utilitarian weapon, without ornamentation or embellishment. All that comprised it was solid iron and wood, for such things were all it needed. In these regards it was quite like the claymore Arthur had been carrying during their first meeting.
Her right hand kept the sword in place while her left dragged its finger along the flat of the blade. The plush leather of her glove created quite a friction as this happened.
The sword's taken its place in my life firmly, this I know… from the day I was sent away, it never left me, and it wounded me so deeply. Left a gash that bled fright and despair. Now… it's in my hands. It was given to me, but more importantly, I've taken it in my hands.
I've yet to learn how to use it, but I will. Spirit tuning and swordsmanship. Pursuing these two alongside each other can make me whole… give me a purpose beyond existing. Give me an action I might take. A means to travel alongside Arthur on the road he walks. A means to be strong.
The sword, though displaying an imperfect image, was reflective and clean enough for her to gaze upon herself. An aspect of herself, at least - her face through iron's sharp, cold eyes.
What was she but a craven?
She was brave, that's what. Brave and strong according to the most noble knight she'd ever met. The most noble yet without even the formal title of 'knight'.
For as much as he had changed her, or perhaps awakened a dormant strength, she'd change him… more than she already had, if he was to be believed. From a knight in spirit to one in title, with all the respect that was accorded - no, deserved! - by it.
Roderika had not forgotten her offer, made shortly before he had left to continue his journey towards the throne. On that glorious day, whenever it came, she would touch him on each shoulder with the flat surface of her sword as he knelt, and he would swear his knightly vows before all of the Hold, and it would be perfect. He would finally be repaid for all he'd done in service of her.
Until her fancying thoughts sorted themselves out, she didn't even feel the blushing smile that crept onto her face, or notice it reflected on the blade. Hewg did, and silently found it amusing. Amusing, and fortunate - two words he associated with the Tarnished exiles' mutual fawning over each other. Oh, to be young…
Perhaps swords, even when servant to a master and put to bloody purposes, can bring about a happiness from time to time. A pure smile.
Knights are kin to them, in this regard.