Fang And Claw

Godrick's Greatspear materialized in his blood-crusted hand, and nearly instantly, his charred hand began to peel, fresh, supple skin taking its place.

[Vigor's Embrace]

(198/300 -> 300/300)

[Lansseax's Glaive] powered by 92 Faith was apocalyptic.

Thou shalt never wield Lightning as we do.

Godrick smirked as he took in the blackened, vitrified ground and ceiling. The roots hanging from above were atomized while the cavern was turned into something out of the Alice in Wonderland folktale.

The walls, ground, and roof were turned into a kaleidoscope of colours and textures that made one's head swirl while bursts of red-gold lightning curled around at random, playfully nipping at his bare feet. He was sure that if he were any other mortal, he would've spontaneously combusted at its touch.

"W-what art thou?" Quilath mumbled from afar, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and focus. She could scarcely look away from him, her gaze filled with unease. "Art thou a dragon come to toy with the world as if it were a plaything?"

"No." Godrick dismissed his Greatspear with a flick of his wrist, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face her. "I am no dragon, though the Gravel Lords have granted me their blessing. Now, come. Thy skills are required."

Quilath hesitated, a brief moment of doubt flickering across her features. She had witnessed her liege clash with Gransseax, a being so vast it defied the mind, yet even then she had never seen Ancient Dragon Lightning wielded with such brute force. His power was staggering, but raw strength alone did not earn her allegiance.

Still, she descended slowly, her blood-red eyes now tinged with the faintest trace of fear.

"If thou hast come seeking my hand to forge thy weapons, thou will leave disappointed."

"Why is that?" Godrick asked, his voice steady yet edged with curiosity.

"There is no longer a forge in the Lands Between strong enough to craft weapons of true legend," she sighed, her fingers trailing absently over the pommel of her sword. "Perhaps Leyndell still has its forge... but even then, who knows?"

"Hmmm... No matter," Godrick replied after a pause, eyes narrowing in thought. "I have no need of weapons forged. What I seek is far greater. I wish for thee to build my lair."

Quilath blinked, stunned for a moment, before casting a glance around. "Stormveil in its entirety is thine, is it not?"

"Some things are best left unseen by prying eyes...." Godrick muttered.

"Ah... of course. Thou Demigods ever keep thy secrets," Quilath shrugged, giving a reluctant nod. "But I shall remind thee once again, I serve thee not... and I work not for free."

Silence lingered between them as Godrick's gaze grew colder. He slowly pulled out a gnarled staff, ancient and foreboding—the [Staff of the Black Star].

Quilath's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into her features. "Thou think—"

"I thought not," Godrick interrupted, slipping the staff away. In its place, he produced a slab of cast iron so heavy it cracked the glass floor beneath them. Its surface emanated the malice of the thousands of souls it had slain.

Quilath's lips twitched in barely suppressed excitement, her exterior trembling despite herself. "That… cannot be all. The effort—"

"That is all," Godrick's voice cut through her protest, his gaze sharp as his swirling irises bore into hers while the memory of the terror she had once felt in its presence flickered back.

"...Fine," Quilath relented with a sigh. "What wilt thou be doing?"

Godrick wiped away a patch of crusted blood from his chin, his expression shifting into something darker, something resolute.

He was going to get his hands dirty.

***

One Year Later.

*** 

"What?" Taraghlan's gaze narrowed as the page before him nervously licked his lips. "Say that again."

"Lord Alenor was seen commuting with the Redmanes approximately a month ago, Lord Regent," the boy said, his fingers twitching with anxiety. Even he knew what this meant.

Taraghlan stared at the papers on his desk, lost in thought.

That war-hungry bastard...

He clutched his quill tight as he frowned.

The Starscourge is not one to employ diplomacy, especially not to a mortal and betrayer like Alenor. Even that traitor must know this, so who is he truly meeting? Is this a ploy to throw us off?

Taraghlan almost snorted at that thought. Alenor did not rely on deception, that thick-skulled fool.

Was he meeting a betrayer of the Redmanes? Impossible. They were too adamant a follower of the Starscourge to even think of betrayal.

"Oh, you're dismissed," Taraghlan waved off the page, who was steadily losing his composure, but just as he turned around to leave Taraghlan's office, the doors burst open, revealing a younger page stricken with exhaustion as though he'd run all the way here.

"Lord Regent!" the boy heaved as he attempted to stand at attention and salute.

"What is this?" Taraghlan stood up from his desk, his brows furrowing

What now?

"It's news of Knight Commander Orlan, Champion Forthus, and... err... Gilika," he said, an odd look coming over him when he mentioned the Demi-Human Queen.

Taraghlan ignored it, gesturing for the boy to continue.

"In the operation to liberate Kenneth Haight, our forces executed a successful assault on the encampments under the command of Traitor Commander Isolde. The enemy positions were decisively overrun, largely due to the strategic support of the two allied Demi-Human Queens. Despite deploying a force of 10,000, our casualties remained minimal during the initial engagement.

However, Knight Commander Orlan's confrontation with Isolde was interrupted by the intervention of the Council's reinforcements. The ensuing conflict escalated, resulting in heavy losses—approximately one-third of our forces were eliminated. The enemy's superior equipment played a role. It significantly outmatched our own."

Taraghlan bit his lip after the robotic report that the boy delivered, but it looked like he had more to say. Indeed, the boy took a deep breath before continuing.

"Unfortunately, the battle disturbed a nest of Drakes in the Mistwoods..."

Taraghlan groaned.

This could not be happening.

"Our forces managed to hole up in Fort Haight while the fate of the Council's forces is unknown. They're currently trapped in the Fort while the Drakes have taken over the Mistwoods..."

The boy paused, disbelief flickering across his face as he spoke.

"Your Excellency, they've transformed most of Evershade into a charred wasteland...."

Silence reigned in the office for nearly a minute before the pages departed, leaving Taraghlan deeply troubled.

He should have seen it coming. The past year had unfolded too smoothly, and trouble was merely biding its time, waiting to land heavily upon his shoulders once again.

Their Lord had vanished after his arrival, leaving behind a tree monster to tend to the Erdtree sapling, with no communication since. Yet, the replenishment of their treasury had given them an incredible boost.

The renovation of Stormveil had accelerated significantly as they restocked their granaries, not to mention the abrupt surge in Gatefront's economy due to increased circulation of gold. They did their utmost to mitigate the effects of inflation by avoiding a sudden influx of currency, but a slight rise was inevitable. This was counterbalanced by increases in both tax rates and wages.

The future looked good for a while before they realised that it was merely the calm before the storm. Just before they could get to armouring and outfitting the army, the signs of the Redmanes preparing for a war intensified.

Stormveil's analysts had predicted they would not see conflict until the next century—an estimate already quite conservative—but it seemed Radhan's patience was far thinner than anticipated.

And now? Orlan, Forthus, and Gilika were trapped alongside the last loyal noble, surrounded by accursed drakes! Even if he mobilized the entirety of the army, it would be a pyrrhic victory in a best-case scenario. 

He chose to push these thoughts aside for the moment, grappling with the mountain of paperwork at his side for a few hours. When he finally signed the approval for the shipment of specialized ores to the weaponsmiths, he felt he had reached his limit for the day.

Walking back to his chambers, escorted by his guards, was always a gruelling reminder of his responsibilities, and today it weighed especially heavy on him.

He caressed the withered finger around his neck for solace, on the verge of whispering a prayer to Marika when he halted himself.

'Marika has failed everybody', he reminded himself, his jaw clenching with rage as his mind wandered to her most recent progeny.

He bottled his rage once again as he was reminded of that loving face. 

'In time. All in time', he soothed himself before he began his prayer.

Not to the false lords that languished in the Golden Thrones of the Erdtree, but to the only being who had given his long life hope.

'O Godrick the Golden, Harbinger of Lotted Life, and sovereign to this humble retainer, I beseech thee. As thou didst deliver us in the past, grant thy strength once more. Rid the Mistwoods of the drakes that defile its boughs, and free thy servant from their fates.'

The wrinkled finger fell back onto his chest as he felt a burden lift off his shoulders. He did not know why, but for some odd reason that wormed its way into the back of his head, he felt that, unlike the other gods who did not deign to even bother, his Lord would answer him.

'Wishful thinking', he attempted to convince himself as he continued his walk.

"Vale! Lord Regent!", his guards saluted him as stopped before a set of luxurious doors that led to his lodging.

He returned with a half-hearted salute as he opened the twin doors.

The chamber was modest for one of his blood, yet it would've been the envy of anybody else. A four-poster bed, draped in deep crimson velvet, dominated the room. Its dark wooden frame gleamed in the soft glow of a single candle, flickering atop a narrow mantel above a stone fireplace.

The air smelled faintly of burning pine, mixing with the scent of old leather from the worn chair near the hearth. A simple oak desk, cluttered with parchment and a few precious quills, sat against the far wall beneath a tapestry depicting a long-forgotten battle.

On the floor, a faded rug, once vibrant with patterns of gold and green, muffled the sound of footsteps. It was a place of quiet reflection.

His heart felt lighter already, but just as he was about to undress, he froze, finding something unusual on his bed. As the perfectionist he was, he took pride in making his bed every morning. This was not something he remembered being there.

A thick heavy-set book lay half open on his bed, wrinkling the mattress. Taraghlan rushed over, his heart pounding, and picked it up, turning it over to read its cover that was emblazoned in red.

CODEX ANGELUS

As it was picked up, a small piece of parchment slipped out, carefully written in golden ink.

"And lo, when the drakes stretched forth their maw, false in fury and traitorous in roar, did the God-Emperor descend, bearing the blessing of the Gravel Lords. Torn asunder were their hearts, slaughtered was their pride, for none could stand 'fore his wrath...."

***