Chapter 32: All Quiet on the Northern Front

Somewhere, out in the courtyard, Morne soldiers are preoccupied with tying misbegotten corpses into large bundles, weighing each ball composed of several bodies with a good-sized stone.

The trebuchets face South-East now; the sounds of screaming pulleys and spinning gears announces every time each launches its volley.

The sounds are muffled through the walls of the keep, but they are distinguishable regardless. If people in Bellard look up, they'll see Castle Morne throwing misshapen projectiles into the ocean, which splash harmlessly a good quarter mile offshore. The projectiles sink quickly, never to be seen by the light of day again. To whatever lurks in the waters of a world like this one, I hope you enjoy the feast.

In case the enemy gets wind of what we're up to, if they realize what we throw are no mere stones, a good chunk of soldiers guard the front gate. We were able to move a couple ballistae off the ramparts too, to accompany in the defense, along with strange devices Neil said are a working prototype Castle Morne has been creating "as tribute" for Godrick.

They look like a small cannon with a dragon's head, propped up and manned by a single soldier on a shoddy tripod. From what I've been able to surmise, they're a type of flamethrower. They don't seem particularly effective at stopping misbegotten, which still crawl after even being lit aflame.

But I don't say anything about it; I've already pushed my luck today.

Whatever the case, Neil has the front of Castle Morne locked down, as a skeleton crew works unendingly to send misbegotten bodies to the deep, before the sun sets on the horizon.

As for me, I'm keeping an eye on Irina for everyone.

Within Morne's walls is probably the safest place in Bellard right now, so she's not in any particular danger. Even still, we don't know who sabotaged the gate, and the wheel was completely destroyed. It seems it was done by brute force, which would most definitely mean a misbegotten did it. But there was no sign of them until after the gate had already fallen; either it snuck in, or it was something else entirely.

There's a chance Irina isn't safe here after all.

So, I stay by her side, much to my guilt.

I want to say something, but the words get caught up in my throat. Truthfully, I still want to get Irina out of here. Could use the back entrance, could sneak her out. But, at this point, nobody knows if they can trust Dalia's words. She said them like they were the truth, and it made everybody unsure. If I leave with Irina now, it'd be easy to say I'm a traitor; Trey might just spin it that way. I haven't seen him since he stormed out of that Rowa Berry room, so I don't know what he's up to. But I'm sure he'd love a reason to get rid of me.

Basically, I'm stuck here.

I'll just bide my time and wait until Edgar wakes up to fix everything.

As long as nothing bad happens until then, I should be golden.

"How does he look?"

Irina looks like she's quietly shaking next to me, she tries to stand tall regardless.

I look over the corpse in front of me, feeling that pit in my stomach lighten a little.

"He looks peaceful."

Edgar, lying dead in his bed. Everyone said he got into this bed himself, simply went to rest his eyes after the battle ended. Besides several cuts on his face, the heavy dents in his armor, and the odd accumulation of foam on the corner of his mouth, one would think he's just sleeping.

But there definitely is something about him that just feels uncanny. It's just how still he is, as if he were a statue. You might just convince yourself he's alive, but something tells you he's gone to the other side.

It feels like I'm at a visitation before the funeral.

Boggles my mind that he's dead, seeing as how I was just talking to him recently. Throws me off even more, knowing it's only temporary. He'll have a part of himself fail to return with him, some piece that makes him human. He'll never get it back, and he'll be permanently less than he ever was.

But still, he'll be alive, against all odds.

Like a messed-up miracle, he'll rise again, as if death was something to mock.

As if we all already lived in the afterlife.

"If you didn't know any better, you'd probably think he's sleeping." I go silent after that.

I'm happy she's talking with me again, but now's not the time to strike up idle conversation.

The mood's not right.

What does he look like to you?

How so?

Like, you can see runes. So what does he look like?

Well, he is a body without runes, without a soul. His mind is still here, but without his soul, he cannot hope to live.

Are the mind and the soul different things?

Yes.

The mind is physical, it is the body. It is your thoughts, your feelings, your life.

The soul is different; it is you.

You could say they are separate halves of the same whole.

Weird.

Sounds similar to what I believe.

You remember how you can see yourself, even when we enter your mind?

Yeah?

The realm we resided in, in that darkness; in your home and when we were visiting your memories, that was your mind.

The you that you see when we are there, that is your soul.

Then, are you a soul too?

…Yes. In a sense. I know little of what transpired before I began to wander, but my mind -my body- was slain, burned to ash in what I presume was a special kind of flame.

…Maliketh? If Ranni's story is anything to go off of, then whoever that is could be a possibility...

I know not why my soul was spared, or how my two halves separated. By all accounts, I should be dead, or at least a spirit.

Are you not a spirit?

I am not.

I have begun to grow a body… a mind… ever since joining you.

Really?

It is only semi-corporeal, but I have begun to feel pain when I try to pass through solid objects, and the sensation has only sharpened with time. There may come a day when I will be able to govern my own movement, though such an idea is still far off.

Until I have my mind again, I will not be whole.

Without a body, I cannot hope to move freely, and if the warden has no soul, then he cannot hope to live.

I look over Edgar again, as if I could discover something if I stare long enough.

Until he is made whole again, he will be a mind without a soul. He will be dead.

So, when I kill someone, am I killing both halves? Is that how my Rune of Death works? It still doesn't answer why I only take the souls... er, runes... of those I consider an enemy, but I guess the more I know, the better.

Seems complicated.

It is simply how this world works. With the Rune of Death bound, there is a piece missing in the cycle; life continues to be born, but it fails to die. Like a tumor, it grows, refusing to eternally rest as it multiplies unendingly.

Life returns from death, but it is not the same.

Pieces of the soul are lost in the process, as you lose more of what makes yourself you, until the mind overpowers you, slaying the soul but leaving the body alive.

We call such soulless minds as Those Who Live in Death, given false life through the cancer of the Erdtree, Deathroot. They are vacuous bodies decayed beyond recognition, and hold nothing but resent for those that still live. They lost their minds, killed their soul, and are as hollow inside as the void.

The warden is far from such a fate, but this most recent death has pushed him closer to that edge. When he awakens, he may not be the same as you remember him.

I feel a little shiver.

Alright, I'll keep it in mind.

Irina shifts about uncomfortably next to me, occasionally glancing at a certain corner of the room. Nothing's over there; there's not much in this room besides a bed and accompanying nightstand. If it's any consolation, she keeps looking North.

She perhaps worried about the city?

No news of the enemy popping up since we began my little operation, but that could always change. Irina certainly looks anxious, is she that worried?

"Everything alright?" I ask.

She starts a little at my voice; she finds her hands on her seal.

"…Was it a mistake to return?"

...

I let out a steady breath.

How am I supposed to answer that?

"Well, do you think it was a mistake?"

She grimaces to herself, fidgeting enough that you'd think she needed to go to the bathroom.

"I-… I do not know. I wanted to see father again, but… not like this."

I cross my arms, wondering if this is what it feels like to be in the right.

"Just give him a few hours. I'm sure he'll be ecstatic to see you here."

Like he'll be any happier to see me either.

Your negativity will not be helpful here.

Please, consider your words.

"I did not want to worry him."

"If I'm gonna be honest with you, he won't be very happy about all this."

I sigh. I'm being a dick. Didn't I want to apologize?

"Here, just blame it on Dalia. She's planning to take the blow anyways." I shrug. "And if she's right, then Edgar will be relived to see you again."

No sign of the female knight either, not I've gone to look for her. Everyone kinda just went their own ways once that meeting adjourned; I'm here now because Irina said she wanted to see her father.

But she looks downcast, like this didn't help at all...

I swallow my grievances.

"Hey cheer up, alright? If he's mad, then I'll take the blame too." I nod. "You don't need to worry about it."

She doesn't say anything to me, staring unendingly down at the floor. Until her head looks North again.

"It's cold." She says.

Is it? We're next to the beach in the middle of late summer; I've had almost a constant sweat going since we crossed into the Weeping Peninsula.

"You want a blanket?"

I could probably go find one. But she shakes her head, holding onto her seal like she thought it was a source of heat itself.

"No. I will be fine."

She slightly turns to me, craning her head my way.

"We can leave now."

"Alright."

So much for a family reunion.

For the next few hours, I experienced something I've never once felt since coming to this world: boredom.

With my plan underway out in the courtyard, and no sign of the enemy, there's not a whole lot going on in the castle. I can't quite leave, not able to take Irina anywhere until Edgar wakes up.

I'm technically locked here, not that anyone could catch me if I really decided to make a run for it. Trey and Dalia would surely be a problem, but I could take on a couple soldiers if my intent was just to run away. And besides, Melina could help steer me away from trouble.

Still, I linger.

I lived a mostly secluded life before coming to this world, so maybe I was just happy to finally get a chance to catch my breath.

That, or I still want to help around here.

It got even more open when Irina had me guide her to Neil's quarters, which was basically just a giant library with a lavish bed and ornamental furniture taking up the tiled floor.

So many books, of varying colors and sizes.

I stuck my nose in a few, looking at the strange writing. It's not English, not even an Arabic font. Looks closer to those runic texts you occasionally see in Norse Mythology, all a bunch of chicken scratch in my eyes. Yet, I can read it perfectly fine...

Why is that?

It's not like I'm translating it, per se, but It's more like I know it by heart, like I've learned it before and understanding it was second nature.

I could easily read the alien font, which told the tale of a blind swordsman with a sword that flowed like water itself. Didn't read too far, but the story sounded interesting.

I closed the book as the doors to the room swung open, and Neil himself sauntered in. It was then that I was temporarily excused from guard duty, as Neil wanted time to speak to Irina alone, along with continue his lessons in teaching her how to write.

"Come back when the sun reaches the horizon, Milord Lance." He said with his usually snooty expression. "We will be finished by then."

I was excused to leave.

Ten minutes later, and it's just Melina and I, up on the front ramparts of the castle.

Begin.

I start walking away from her in as straight a line as I can manage, going along the rampart path with steady steps.

To my right, is the rest of Castle Morne, and an expansive blue that stretches out to the horizon past that.

To my left, the entirety of Bellard, with the upper echelons of the Erdtree spanning up into the afternoon sky.

It's a wonderful view, though it's constantly interrupted by literal flying corpses zipping by on my right, flying high and disappearing into the hanging smoke above, before reappearing as it carries on into that endless ocean.

Alright.

And…

…

…Stop.

I halt on my furthest foot, turning back around.

You sure?

Yes.

This is the farthest your light currently reaches.

From here, Melina looks no larger than a speck, though there's not much size to her otherwise. As for the distance…

That was 54 paces.

My gait's about five feet, give or take.

So…

Crap wait.

…

Uh. 270 feet? That's quite the distance if my math's right.

Your light has grown considerably.

It was about 10 feet when we first started out, running through the caves beneath the Stranded Graveyard. It really has gotten larger.

That's quite the distance, and you can still hear me? I'm not quiet or anything?

No.

Neat.

She draws back to me, covering the distance between us in under a second. She's remarkably fast when she wants to be.

I expect it will only grow further.

In time, I may be able to exist at a distance that even the eye cannot perceive.

And you said you're growing a body before, what did you mean by that?

She makes a small circular motion, like she was trying to get a better look at herself.

Well, I do not think I will look human, I may continue to be perceived as a speck to others. I merely stated that I am losing the ability to phase through objects; it is becoming more difficult for me.

She reiterates.

I always had a form of a body, but it has begun to grow considerably since accompanying you.

Huh. Think it has something to do with me collecting runes?

Perhaps.

In my years of wandering, seeing this world -both its greatness and its depravity- I have never seen one like you.

One could even call it an irregularity, especially amongst the Tarnished.

I look north, giving the Erdtree a long gaze.

Still can't fathom how big it must look up close; the thing completely dominates the northern horizon. Due to the distance we are now, only the top branches can be seen above the plateau that makes up Bellard's northern border; those golden limbs are so diluted by the atmosphere that they're practically sapped of color.

Looks more like distant mountains than anything else, even when it does mess with your mind; realizing the twigs on that thing probably rival Earth's tallest skyscrapers in size. I wonder what the leaves are like? Are they normal sized? Or would one leaf be the size of the cul-de-sac outside home? Maybe larger? I guess only time will tell.

I wonder.

I reach out, as if I could touch the Erdtree.

Where are all the Tarnished?

Hmm?

Like, I think Patches was the only Tarnished we came across so far, but it seems like everyone knows who they are.

Where are they?

Melina seems to hesitate.

About that…

"Oi Tarnished!"

A voice I don't recognize calls out behind me, interrupting my thoughts. I turn, and find a soldier staring me down, just at the turn on the rampart. For a moment, I think he's here to start something. But he just has a disgruntled face by nature, as do they all.

And by that, I mean the other two soldiers who appear behind him, giving me complicated expressions as well. They all practically look the same, only small differences that are hard to distinguish. Still, none have hostility in their eyes, though I can't accurately describe what they do have.

The lead soldier jabs a thumb back behind his shoulder, talking with more curiosity in his voice than suspicion.

"Got rations in the mess hall."

I feel something weird twist in my gut, and I lose my train of thought.

"Looking to grab a bite?"

I-

…

What?

He- …

So- …

Huh?

I point at my chest.

"Me?"

Did I just get invited to something?

Me?

Of all people?

The soldiers made room in the mess hall.

Just hours prior, the place was full of bodies and discarded armaments. The bodies are still here, but everything else was cleared off the tables.

Granted, it was all shoved off onto the floor, so the place isn't exactly clean per se.

The ground's cluttered now, but at least the tables and benches are clear. For the soldiers, it's good enough.

Normally, the menials would come and clean this all, make it spic and span fast like.

Unfortunately, there is no longer a single living menial in Bellard; they're either in hiding, or their corpses are being volleyed into the ocean just outside.

Bellard has been uprooted, the entire enslaved lower class has rebelled. Even if the soldiers end up retaking the city and scrubbing the enemy clean, life will never be the same.

Well, at least for now, such worries are a long ways away.

At least for now, thoughts about the far future are blurry.

At least for now, the soldiers will celebrate their recent victory.

In wars that wage in these lands, without the Rune of Death, wars can last for centuries.

If both sides of a conflict only ever fight in disputed territory, the numbers of the armies will rarely wane. Even if half an army gets wiped out, if the victorious side is unable to collect the bodies and burn them completely down to ash, and if even a single shard of a bone remains intact in that ash, they will be unable to stop the revival.

The decimated army will replenish itself and the cycle will continue.

In such scenarios, it comes down to strategic planning, working up reserve forces to come in as the other side tries to collect bodies, plan ambushes using their own comrades as bait. If not that, then selling souls, burning towns to halt an advance, bargaining, invading, backstabbing, capturing; Anything's up for grabs.

Many paths, layers upon layers of trickery.

Wars that will see the end of their soldiers' sanity, haggard faces as they rise for battle, day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade. Century after century.

Again and again, as if they were stuck in looping time, a life that repeats and connects like it rhymes. They rise to see their body solely waste away before their very eyes, feel chunks of their memories erode away after they die, sense parts of themselves going far away, further than the farthest reaches of the sky. They can't remember their families, know not who are their friends.

They revive only knowing their kingdom's colors; it's their form of comradery.

Such is their lives, and the lives of their predecessors who already lost their souls: fighting for a purpose lost long ago.

Yet, this cycle, though rarely, can be broken.

The misbegotten invasion yesterday could be considered a decisive battle; all bets were off.

If Morne lost, there would be no coming back. The misbegotten would have overtaken the castle, and the soldiers would be unable to regroup, reorganize, or recuperate. They would revive in poorly timed increments, and quickly killed before they can ever hope to mount a counterattack. Some might be able to flee the castle walls, but most would be trapped, unable to escape a prison of bleeding limbs and decapitated heads.

Bellard would be lost.

But at the same time, in that decisive battle, Morne victory would mean the enemy had its head cut off. Within Morne's walls, it is deep in allied territory. Near-impossible for the misbegotten to reclaim their slain comrades, near-impossible to renew their numbers.

With this victory, a large chunk has been taken out of the enemy force, and with every scream of gears and timber from outside, the Morne soldiers hear another year being shaved off the time this war will take. The trebuchets throw their enemy into the deep; the trebuchets remove another chunk of their cursed fate from their clouded eyes. The battle was Morne victory, and now, with the corpse removal fully underway and not a peep from the retreated enemy, there is nothing better to do than celebrate.

Right?

So, the soldiers not on active duty flock to the mess hall through word of mouth, quickly cluttering the massive room with conjoined laughter and melding conversations. Their warden is dead for now, so there is a sour spell over everyone. But today is without a doubt possible because of their warden's efforts, along with every soldier in attendance today. Even that Tarnished boy too; they are all victorious.

This calls for celebration!

Nobody is entirely sure who started it, some say one of the two knights did. But it doesn't matter in the soldiers' minds who decided they would have a feast. The food is here, the others are here. Nobody has stopped them, so it must be fine.

Which means they're celebrating.

The menu is nothing fancy, just gruel and preserved sausage links, cooked up by a few footsoldiers and accompanied servants who knew how, mixed with Bellard native spices that taste vaguely similar to Italian remedies by the Tarnished Boy's perspective, if the spice had a zest similar to dill weed in it.

Accompanied by this plain yet welcome treat, a weak ale brewed of fermented Limgrave wheat and ocean water taken from Bellard's shores is brought in by the barrel.

Many can't take the salty flavor, but these soldiers have spent centuries drinking it; they find the acquired taste as succulent, fulfilling, even nostalgic to some lengths.

It's safe to say the Tarnished Boy didn't partake of the ale, saying something ridiculous about being "underage", for whatever that means.

It didn't stop some soldiers from berating him into having at least a sip.

The boy, despite carrying himself with at least a sense of pride, looked wildly uncomfortable in present company, even going so far as to flinch whenever a soldier made any form of contact with him. He seemed to calm down and enjoy himself as time went on, but it was rough going for him at first.

Still, it was warranted.

Not every soldier wants him here, in their presence.

A few mummers of "spoilin' my drink" could be heard in the rambunctious crowd, along with hushed insults and omitted curses; the Tarnished Boy could pick out a few angered eyes locked onto him.

He's not exactly welcome, and his background is enough to make most turn their heads.

But even so, the Tarnished Boy began to feel comfortable, and when he finally tried a sip of Bellard's homemade booze, his vocal gag and disgusted expression caused roars of excited approval and jeering cheers to ring out through the mess hall.

The general consensus slowly began to form that the Tarnished was "one of them now."

It's not the opinion of Morne's army as a whole; in all reality only a small number truly thought something as outrageous as that, instead of just following the voice of the crowd at the time. But even so, in a majority of the soldiers' minds that were present when the Tarnished Boy finally began to smile, and even talk banter with the soldiers around him; they collectively had a similar thought.

This Tarnished is alright.

He fought for Morne, he has Edgar's approval. He's in the same boat as everyone else in that he's had to deal with Dalia's and Trey's antics. Irina is even fond of him. As far as everyone is concerned, were it not that the boy was a Tarnished, they wouldn't be wrong in thinking he's a fellow soldier.

Time went on, and the soldiers began to get comfortable around the Tarnished too.

While the Tarnished Boy never did have everyone's undivided attention in the large room at any given moment, an excessive number at his table rained questions on him. A few were familiar faces, all five soldiers that were in the Tarnished Boy's original team are here. A few others look vaguely familiar too, like the Tarnished made eye contact with them at least once before.

But a large number were new faces, who were curious more than anything else.

"So, why's you got a light followin' you around?" One soldier asked, in his Bellard accent that sounds vaguely Scottish to the Tarnished Boy. "It a curse?"

More than a few soldiers in adjacent tables strain their ears to listen; there's not one soldier within Castle Morne's walls who didn't hear the rumors.

"Aye." Another chimes in. "You get in trouble with Flame Monks or somethin'?"

That light that follows the Tarnished, moving as if it were alive. Not some spell or incantation for a light source, but an actual living thing. What's more, the rumors of what transpired in the battle within Morne's walls have circulated too: the Tarnished Boy setting misbegotten on fire without speaking incantation or sorcery.

Not weak flame either, but fire that burned hot enough to deform the body within seconds; hot enough that the soldiers who spread the rumors say they felt its heat, even from afar.

The light is what caused the fire to burn, like the smoldering butterflies of Kindling, burning anything from the slightest touch.

The Tarnished Boy gives the light by his side a glance. The light flashes like a star twinkling in the night sky. He nods, before turning back to the soldiers.

"Well, she's my spirit."

A few voices of surprise saturate the air.

"That right?"

"Told you."

"Cheh* How much?"

"Well come on then, cough it up."

"Lucky bastard, how'd you know?"

Smaller conversations erupt within those present at the table, along with handfuls of coins and trinkets passed around. Seems some placed bets, and there were even a few that guessed right.

"Careful lads." One soldier jeers, grinning darkly. "We got a summoner in our midst."

"Ain't speaking with the dead against the teachin's of the Golden Order?" One asks, looking at one soldier in particular.

Other soldiers look too; the one singled out scoffs.

"You think I know? Ask the Warden."

A soldier to his left shoulder checks him, scarfing a sausage down.

"You fool." He says with a partly stuffed mouth. "Can't quite do that, now can he?"

The soldier stuffing himself reaches for his mug of salty booze, looking to wash his meal down. But the singled out soldier punches him dead in the face. The two break down into brawl, much to the cheering of nearby spectators. Almost immediately, bets are drawn, and the table shudders violently as the two grappling men occasionally collide with it, making the silverware and dishes clatter.

During it all, and much to the Tarnished Boy's bewilderment, the soldier by the name of Kal speaks like nothing's happening.

"A spirit summoner, eh? Where's your bell?"

The Tarnished boy grows even more confused.

"Bell?"

Another soldier chimes in, nearly knocking over the Tarnished's drink.

"Yeah. All summoners have one, right?"

The Tarnished stares at the light for longer than what's considered normal, almost like he spaced out.

"Uh…" He finally says. "Don't have one."

"Huh?" The soldier by the name of Wallace joins too, cocking an eyebrow that gets lost under his steel skullcap. "How you supposed to summon spirits then? Can't exactly talk to them."

The Tarnished Boy realizes something; his eyes widening ever so slightly. He gives the light another look; the light flashes as if it confirmed his suspicions. It speaks to the Tarnished, but the soldiers can't hear it.

They can't hear the voices of spirits after all.

Only summoners and spirit tuners are capable of that, and such people are extraordinarily rare to begin with. Even then, they can't directly speak to spirits. That ability is unheard of in the Lands Between.

"I guess… I just can?" The Tarnished Boy says, unsure of it himself. "I never needed a bell, sorry."

Kal looks deflated a little. "Damn. I kind of wanted to try ringing it."

Yet another soldiers joins in, overthrowing everything Kal was about to say next.

"You said your spirit's a she?"

The Tarnished Body reluctantly nods. The soldier cracks a grin.

"Is she pretty?"

The other soldiers rise in volume, exuding a surprised kind of excitement. Why didn't they think of asking that? What's a spirit even look like to begin with?

Their expectations weren't exactly high, but they galvanize when the Tarnished Boy almost immediately blushes.

Now, in his defense, he was flustered more than anything else, just surprised by such an outlandish question.

But the soldiers don't think that; their imaginations go elsewhere. Their jeers and cheers conglomerate, erupting as a conjoined "OOOOOOOOOH!" that drowns out everything else in the room.

The boy tries explaining himself, but it only makes the situation worse; it's like they're teasing him. But even so, he talks, more and more, and his words go elsewhere.

Such a conversation proliferates and develops, until this Tarnished Boy lets too much go, telling the soldiers around him about his run-in with the Tree Sentinel, and the resulting clash with Agheel after he fell off a cliff.

The boy used a small amount of embellishment, trying his best to convey his feelings and thoughts as it was happening, describing the felled trees, the thunderous hooves; the shrieking roar, the blazing flames. A scene of an armored titan upon an elephant sized steed, duking it out with a primordial monster of black wings and hellish fire while in the torrent of a stampeding storm.

It was too much, but the soldiers didn't question it.

They cheered along, cracking jokes and reacting with excited notes of anything but reason.

One even joked that Agheel has it out for the Tarnished, seeing how that dragon seems to have followed the boy around everywhere he goes.

They enjoyed the story.

As if it were tradition, Wallace picks up when the Tarnished Boy's story ends, telling his own tale of battling a demi-human mob. The next soldier jumps in, talking about his run-in with a Rune Bear. One soldier after another tells their own tale, and it feels like time simply speeds up for the Tarnished Boy; the sun nearly touches the horizon before he knows it.

Hours have passed by in mere minutes.

"This is Roard's spear." The Tarnished Boy places the partisan on the table; the soldiers all look over it with varying expressions. "Leeched it off the guy after defeating him. Cuts through stone like butter, I'll tell ya what."

"That a fact?"

"Looks storied enough."

"Got nothing on our castle's sword though."

"Ain't he one of Godrick's knights?"

A soldier spits.

"Don't talk about that grafted weasel. You're ruining my drink."

The Tarnished Boy cocks an eyebrow.

"Hold up. Isn't he an ally of you guys?"

The soldier snarls, taking a swig of his booze.

"Aye, you'd think. But the bastard don't ever assist us, just demands a monthly tribute." He takes another sip. "We keep sending em produce and weaponry by the coffin-full, and we don't ever get anythin' in return."

Another soldier talks, sounding just as aggravated.

"You know, the snake even asked we send over our strongest, once demanded we give up our treasured sword of all things too. He be the lowest form of scum."

Shouts of agreement follow suit.

Kal even joins in too, pounding the table with a closed fist.

"Can't even keep a grip on his own men, the menials alone are enough to deal with. Now we got our own sovereign's wayward men to fight too." He jabs a finger at the Tarnished Boy. "That sorry excuse for a Lord is nothing but a parasite to this kingdom. We'd be well off without his foolish gambits."

The Tarnished Boy stares into his booze, never once having taken a drink after his initial taste.

"He sounds like scum."

The soldiers all agree.

"Damn straight."

"Plain to see."

"The boy got it right alright."

The spirit flashes, and the Tarnished Boy takes a quick glance out a window with wide eyes. The sun's rays had begun to turn a dark orange; the celebration lasted a total of seven hours up to this point.

"Crap, I gotta go."

The Tarnished Boy wrestles out of his bench seat, taking his spear with him. Many soldiers watch him go, hustling away with the light following close behind.

"Oi Tarnished!"

The boy stops before reaching the staircase to the keep's upper floors, looking back. Amongst the crowd of several hundred soldiers watching him go, one has a mug raised.

It's Kal, who gives the boy a look the boy never expected to see on anyone other than his closest friends.

"Next time, show us what that spear can do!" He barks.

Other soldiers raise their mugs as well, howling laughter and cheers. Most have no clue what Kal speaks about, but they join along nevertheless. There's still hostility in this large room toward the boy; that will never change.

But the Tarnished Boy smiles, giving a small salute with two fingers, swinging them away from his forehead.

"Count on it!" He shouts, before running up the stone stairs, feeling so giddy he might just forget what type of world he's in.

The celebration continued for a few hours longer, until it grew dark; until Morne's coffers ran dry; until the final trebuchet screamed in the approaching twilight, launching the final bodies of the misbegotten into the deep, never to be seen again.

I picked up Irina at Neil's room.

The two were engrossed in a poem Irina was writing when I knocked.

Neil said something along the lines of "Goodness me, that time already?", and let the blind girl go, stashing her poem away before I could get a chance to read it. Whatever it was, he didn't want me to see it. I tried asking Irina, but she dodged the question.

She must be embarrassed about others reading her writing.

She was tired, so I was walking her to her room. After that point, I would need to find my own quarters to stay in. There were a few open rooms in the keep's upper floor; Irina said I need to flag down someone by the name of Callum, the lead servant of Castle Morne. He'll be the one to help situate me, apparently.

But as we were walking through the long hallways, adorned with barred windows and torches, I found my mouth opening. I didn't plan what I was about to say, and I already said it by the time I realized what I was doing.

"Sorry."

Irina turns her head my way, using my arm as a guide through the hallway.

"Sir Tarnished?"

I stutter.

"Oh! Uh… I…"

I slow to a stop, finding myself uncomfortable all over again.

"I-… I'm sorry, f-for this morning. It was really rude of me to get all mad at you."

At the end of the day, I decided to get mad at who's basically royalty. I'm not well versed with the customs of the era this world's currently in, and I have been speaking rather inappropriately to people of high standing. Everyone around me has been regarding Neil, Edgar, and Irina with respect and reverence, while I've been acting like they're just people I ran into on the streets of Springfield.

…

No… that's not even the worst part.

If I was frustrated, I should've talked with someone about it. If not anyone, then at least Melina. I didn't even know I was bottling it up, thought I was doing just fine. I really have been running all over Bellard like an errand boy, and I'm not used to any of this.

I may have gotten a little stronger over time, but I'm still a snobby little brat.

"I hope you can forgive me. I promise it won't happen ever again."

Irina slightly frowns.

If she doesn't forgive me, I'm fine with that. As long as she doesn't resent me, I'll live with it. She glances somewhere, lingering on something neither she nor I can see. She's simply staring at the wall…

"Come now, I would like to rest. We can speak about this tomorrow."

She brushed me off.

But… I breathe a sigh of relief.

Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

When we part ways at her doorway, she fails to look up at me. She lingers at the doorway, holding onto its knob for support.

There's an awkward feeling in the air.

"Well, I thank you for accompanying me today, Sir Tarnished. I am sorry that you have become wrapped up in all this."

She closes the door before I can say anything… maybe she does resent me after all.

"See you tomorrow!" I shout.

Think she'll be alright?

I… am not so sure.

Well, I was hoping for some encouraging words or something.

Apologies, but her runes are unstable.

I physically react, nearly tripping up as we walk down the long halls, looking for this Callum person.

Hey wait, isn't that bad?

Yes, it should be. But she is not injured, nor is she distressed. It is like her runes are restless, like they yearn for something.

So, her soul is excited?

That is a way you could put it. I advise we keep an eye on her, she may be planning something.

Dalia is certainly planning something, wherever she is. But her runes gave no such thing away, bleeding no such ill intent; what's the difference here?

…Where is Dalia anyways?

When we finally track down this Callum character, after asking servants and lingering soldiers alike, I lay my eyes upon a truly lanky person.

From what I've pieced together, the misbegotten were something like slaves in the place, doing grunt work and cleaning and the like. Outside of them, there are still servants. But unlike the menials, these servants are paid.

Most are human like me, near my same height with a few exceptions of either being taller or shorter.

But Callum, like a few people I saw back in Town in Limgrave, are ridiculously tall, rivaling the knights with their helmets on in height. I heard a name in my head called Albinauric, and it feels like it fits. But I know nothing about albinaurics, besides them being very thin, tall, and incredibly pale.

Callum was standing at attention outside Edgar's room when I found him, he seemed to be messing around with a clipboard. When he saw me, his eyes flashed something like he was thinking: Of course…

But he gives a small bow with his head, which doesn't do much to make him seem any shorter.

"Ah, the Tarnished. Lance, was it?"

His accent is entirely different from everyone else in this city, one could even call it Irish. Not exactly how Irish people sound, but it's close.

"Hey. I'm guessing you're Callum?"

The Albinauric holds himself with an almost noble aura, so prim and proper you'd think he was some sort of butler. He doesn't dress like it, as he looks like he just came from the slums. But he holds himself to a high regard and acts accordingly.

"You would be right." He says, glancing over his clipboard again.

It's then that I notice he's wearing a strange board that he has hanging around his neck, adorned with a golden tree design and two holes, as if they were giant handcuffs. The thing looks heavy, but he doesn't seem to mind it. Instead, he turns, walking away with a slightly limping gait.

"Follow me, I assume you're here for accommodations, yes?"

I hurry along.

"Uh, yeah. If you could."

We take a strange route, circling the entire floor before finally descending one. As we go, he keeps minimal conversation with me, asking merely how Irina has been faring more than anything else.

By the time we reach the next floor down, between the top floors and the floor with the mess hall, he naturally starts talking about more than rooms.

"Per Lord Neil's word, you'll be given a private room for now. He wishes to show you a modulum of hospitality for now. Are you aware what your duties are during your stay?"

I'm still trying to find out how I got wrapped up in all this. I want to help, but really, why does Morne allow me to stick around?

"Guard Irina." I answer, thinking that's my main job here.

Callum nods.

"Yes. Though I assume Edgar would like to make use of you talents as well."

I think for a moment he's talking about… you know what. But there's no way they know.

"Don't think I have much to offer if I'm being honest."

The Albinauric talks without ever looking at me, that board rhythmically bouncing off his slender chest. I'd love to ask what it's purpose is, but the fact it looks like handcuffs, it's probably best if I don't.

"Edgar is a prominent judge of character. If he has found worth in you, then worth you have. I assure you, if you will provide your assistance through this ordeal, you will surely be compensated."

I know he's omitting stuff.

If the soldiers' stories were anything to go off of, wars like these can last decades. The conflict here is skewed a ways, as there is a severe numbers disadvantage for Morne. Even with nearly 4,000 men, there is 5 misbegotten for every 1 soldier. The slave populace for a city this size is nothing to sneeze at, and there's 500 Godrick soldiers and a freaking dragon atop that.

All in all, this war may end quickly, and victory on our end is the unlikely result.

The enemy retreated for now, but they won't try something so foolhardy as simply rushing into a heavily defended castle. If this leader of the Godrick soldiers has the misbegotten and Agheel under their thumb, then I guess we can only expect something worse will come next.

…Hm?

I stutter to a halt, staring through one of the many open doorways in this hallway.

The rooms simply have their doors open if they're vacant, closed if occupied.

Easy, right?

Well, this room is the same as all the others, quite plain besides bare furniture and a small wall ornament of crossed longswords over a shield, hanging over a dormant fireplace.

But there is something off about this room in particular, there's roots everywhere.

Piercing through between the cracks in the cobblestone floor, crawling up the adjacent pillars and spreading out across the ceiling. There's more tripping hazards then I can count, and there's something, amongst this all, that truly catches my eye.

A Site of Grace.

"Is this room open?"

Callum looks at me for the second time since we met, before walking over to inspect the room.

"Oh… yes, it is. Though, I would not recommend it."

He gives the place a once-over, like he's needed to stare at it countless times before.

"Ever since the Erdtree's roots have taken over this particular room, it is rather uncouth for habitation." He gesturers to the Site of Grace. "What's more, these roots have sprung a breach. You will not find sound rest near one, I assure you."

He doesn't notice the nostalgia in my eyes, nobody except me could read that.

I haven't seen a breach in so long; they're rarer than I made them out to be. Seeing that there was one at the Stranded Graveyard, with another at that rundown village not a 20 minute walk away, I thought they were fairly common. But this is the first one I've seen since before Kalé and I crossed Bellard Bridge, the fourth one I've ever seen, and it's the first I've found that's inside no less.

This room is perfect for a Tarnished like me.

"We usually have this room filled up last when guests visit." Callum continues, watching with a calloused expression as I saunter into the room. "It always has been a troublesome place, I assure you."

"I'll take it."

…

…

…

"Come again?"

I plop down on a bed, a real bed, for the first time since coming to the world of Elden Ring.

…

…

…Holy crap.

I might never leave.

Stiff frame, wool mattress, feather pillows, and two thin sheets? It's heaven after sleeping on the floor for so long.

Before I know it, I'm laying sprawled out, letting out a satisfied sigh.

"I can get used to this."

Door's closed, night's coming; people are winding down. I asked that I be awoken when Edgar revives; I'd like to appeal to him before Dalia gets a chance. I can't quite say I can relax yet, but I have at least a few hours for now.

Until then, I guess I can just laze around.

Melina wanders over to the Site of Grace near the other corner of this side of the room, her body materializing into existence as she enters its golden light. Last I saw her, I had burn scars from blood tears roiling down my left cheek. I still don't know what was up with those, and I've been meaning to ask. But I just haven't gotten the chance yet.

Oh well, I'm sure Melina will tell me once she's ready.

It involves a touchy subject, after all.

Speaking of Melina, the first thing she does is take a deep breath, wincing a little.

"My, you are right." She says, her soft-spoken voice out for all to hear. "You truly can taste the sea in the air."

I look left, out a single window in this room. The thing is barred up and probably won't open, but it gives a view of the South; a vast ocean as far as the eye can see.

"Oh yeah." I surmise, sitting up on my new bed. "You've never been this far south."

She nods.

"Nor have I ever drawn near to the ocean. Paths to the Erdtree tended to keep me far from the shore."

She considers the fireplace, walking up to it and gracefully hunching down.

"Kindling, accept this meager flame."

Her outstretched hand glitters for a split second, and a small yet familiar light jumps from her outermost finger to a small stack of wood in the fireplace.

The light lands gracefully on that brown surface like a butterfly touching down, and the whole stack of timber bursts into flames.

Warmth and sunset light bathes over everything in the room.

"Uh, what about the roots?"

She stares into the fire like it's the most entertaining thing in the world.

"Not just any fire can burn the Erdtree, do not worry. Nor can they be easily cut; you can regard them as if they were stone."

"Is that how that works?"

I slip off Roard's partisan and my great sword, leaning them up against a neat rack near the doorway. With it, I take off my chainmail too, changing back into my outer layer of normal clothes.

There's still a small hole in the chainmail where that crossbow bolt pierced through my shoulder, I'll need to get it repaired eventually unless I want more links getting loose. I wonder if they have a blacksmith here.

Could they help?

Will they do it for free?

Probably not.

I take off the empty scabbard at my hip, lingering my grip on it. The sword's lost already, shattered to pieces. The scabbard itself constantly bangs against my leg, so I'd rather not get sentimental if I don't need it.

"Say, what should I do with this?"

Melina found her way back next to the Site of Grace, taking her usual kneeling posture. It's weird seeing her like this, fully in this reality and moving about. Not in my mind, not in my dreams. But really here.

"I assume that Morne can still use it." She says. "It would be a waste to dispose of it."

She straightens her posture, one of her burn-scarred hands appearing out from within the confines of her black cloak.

"But do not mind that now." She lightly pats the floor next to her. "Come here."

"...Okay?"

When I join her, I notice her one open eye glancing at my greatsword by the door.

"That sword. It was heavy, was it not?"

Ah... that's what this is.

I shouldn't let the soldiers' words affect me like this.

I rub the back of my neck.

"That obvious?"

She gives a small nod, her cherry blonde hair looking almost golden in this light.

"Your runes certainly disliked wielding it. Its weight is unyielding for most."

I sigh.

"Yeah… I like the reach it has, and it cuts easily too." I join her in staring at it; its silver composition practically glitters in the firelight. "But the things too heavy, and it's slow to boot."

Melina nods.

"Then, shall we change that?"

I cock an eyebrow.

"So, we can do that too?"

She nods again.

Vigor, Dexterity, and Strength? What else can be changed?

"You have acquired a great deal of runes." She says, looking me over like I was a piece of artwork. "I assume that strengthening you to comfortably wielding such a sword is possible."

It doesn't quite hit me as hard as I thought it would, hearing that I can get buff so easily. I tried so hard in my past life, going to the gym every other day for so long. I tried so hard, but didn't get anywhere, just always stayed like a pencil.

I should be giddy at this chance, or feel betrayed that it's so easy now.

I should react in some way, any way, but I only nod.

"Well, that'd surely help."

Guess we're entering my mind then.

But Melina pauses, realizing something.

"Ah." She states, giving me a complicated expression. "But before that, there is someone you need to meet."

I look back toward the door.

"We expecting someone?"

She lightly shakes her head.

"No… It is complicated to explain now." She extends her hand. "I can only say: do not be alarmed when we enter your mind."

Well, isn't that foreboding.

"Uh, sure. I can do that."

Our hands graze against one another, and my reality of the world practically blacks out.

Down in the sewers, below the war-torn streets of this failing city, a Morne knight stalks alone in the darkness.

Each step, each trudge forward; sparks fly; sounds of metal digging into stone echoing off the tunnels and reservoirs.

Through those sporadic flashes of meager light, sights of a colossal sword being dragged along can be seen. It bites at the cobbled stone, etches into the floor with multiple cuts, lurches along with every step the knight takes.

It's unyielding weight, it's atrocious design; composed of conjoined blades, grafted onto the main fuller like sharpened branches of an iron tree.

A legendary sword, an infamous multifaceted blade.

Castle Morne's pride and joy; this knight has no right to wield such a thing.

But the knight knows this…

He stole it anyway.

He drags it behind him like it were a trophy kill, grunting with each step he takes. He cares not for its storied past, nor for its latent power.

The ashes of wars long past still coat its rusting blades, but he has no need of it; only inhuman monsters could wield a sword of this weight.

To him, trading this useless hunk of old metal in for a secured spot in the next kingdom sounds like a highly beneficial arrangement.

It's not long before he hears chuffs and snarls, spots subhuman creatures sparsely populating the path ahead. The misbegotten lounge around, gnawing on limbs and skulls like they were candy. They fight one another like ravenous dogs, greedily stealing from one another with claws and malformed teeth bared. They look his way as he trudges by, some growl.

They recognize him.

But they don't attack; they quickly lose interest.

There's nearly 20,000 of them down in these tunnels, eagerly waiting for the one that holds their leash to let them loose once more. They took a great deal of losses when they stormed the castle, and despite the knight's best efforts, he couldn't stop Neil from discarding of them.

The knight snarls to himself when thinking back on it, quickening his pace.

That meddling Tarnished.

Even when he took care of sabotaging the gate, coordinating with the leader of the Limgrave Horde, and dealing with the warden; it was still a failure.

These misbegotten were useless against Morne's soldiers; they should've led with their own soldiers from the start.

Because of it, they're a day behind schedule.

The knight had to wait for the poison to take effect, had to assemble a feast to try and distract the castle. If they were victorious to begin with, such confounding actions would be unnecessary. But Trey had to pull so many strings, just to steal a stupid sword.

This better be worth it. He thinks arrogantly to himself.

More and more misbegotten, to the extent that they crowd the sewer tunnels that Trey treads. The hordes make way for him, snarling and snapping at his straining legs. The smell is abhorrent, every step he takes squishes in something other than mud.

It's enough to make his eyes water, and it gets worse still.

The misbegotten give way for Godrick Soldiers, idling around with depraved expressions. They throw taunts at Trey, howling and laughing like a rowdy gang of thugs. Some play games with makeshift dice, others lie around under the meager light beaming down form sewer grates above.

A few follow Trey, lingering behind the dragging sword like scavenging dogs following a fresh carcass.

As Trey goes deeper, he sees other things.

Actual dogs snarling and barking at his approaching form, their bodies long decayed from constant deaths over the millennia.

Smaller footsoldiers, running around like servants, distributing looted foodstuffs.

A troll, sleeping in a dead end like a breathing hill.

Stacks of armaments, fresh clothes and armor kept in rotting barrels.

Temporary camps, and many expensive trinkets of Bellard, kept in crates that are beginning to split from overflow.

And when he finally reaches his destination, where part of the ceiling caved in, he finds himself in a massive room, large enough to comfortably accommodate Morne's entire army.

This place is dead center of the city, underneath the large fountain that every street in Bellard eventually connects to. Such pipework for that fountain can be seen; it's been torn down and twisted into a form of a throne.

Majority of the Godrick soldiers are here, along with misbegotten with axes and bows and cleavers, segregating from one another like oil and water. If this were any other circumstance, they'd be at each other's throats.

And that's when Trey lays his sight upon Agheel.

A living dragon, taking up this space like the Erdtree itself in the twilight sky. Silvery feathers coating jet black wings, thick scales and tough spines circling the twisted throne. A snub ending tail bars Trey from drawing closer; that serpentine head rises from the floor.

Agheel, in all his might, growls, looking Trey over how a man would look over an ant. His body encircles the throne like it's his treasure, his wings give that metallic chair a silverly backdrop.

He's the first of four dangerous individuals in this room.

By the throne's side, sleeping like a cat, is a Lionel Misbegotten.

Trey scowls at him, feeling an urge to drive a sword through his heart here and now. The beast of a humanoid was the initial leader of the Misbegotten rebellion; a wayward king that had come here to break his peoples' shackles. He stormed Bellard nearly a week ago; it's his sole fault that the menials rebelled. He's a formidable warrior, even fought Edgar to a standstill in one-on-one combat.

He alone would be tough for Morne to deal with, but it's what perches beside him, that Trey takes a second look at.

A Bloodhound Knight.

The sight of such an elusive warrior puts Trey off almost as much as the dragon does; he's never seen one alive before. It watches him like a hawk behind that Hounskull Bascinet; wicked blade jutting out across its back like a lingering snake.

Trey knows not why such a specialized assassin came here, but he can think up a few reasons.

And finally, amongst these three vile creatures, comfortably sitting atop his makeshift throne, is a single, albeit big, Godrick Soldier.

The brute of a man looks almost ridiculous when compared to the others that are around him, but he is not to be underestimated.

Trey is stopped by Agheel's tail, eyeing the legendary monster with an exasperated eye.

None can see his face behind his Frogmouth Helm, but he gives nothing but hostile looks.

If it were up to him, he'd kill everyone here, and take Bellard for himself.

But the force this one soldier has amassed is atrocious; Morne has no chance. Trey decided to jump ship as soon as he saw the number of the enemy; there's no stopping it. If he plays his cards right, he'll be apart of the new kingdom this one soldier wants to create, might even hold a better position.

But that's only if he proves his worth.

He intends to do just that.

The soldier gives Trey a wicked smile, raising his hand.

"Heh. There you are."

Agheel's tail obeys his command, lifting away.

The dragon does it against his will; it's obvious for anyone to see. One cannot simply tame a dragon; they would need to use a bag of tricks and a dream. How this soldier is maintaining control of Agheel is anyone's guess, but Trey already knows it's not simple charisma.

From what he's seen, this soldier has plenty of it, seeing as how he got the Godrick Soldiers and Lionel to follow him. The misbegotten follow by extension, and the Bloodhound Knight must've chosen a new master to serve.

But in Agheel's case; the dragon's certainly been bewitched by a truly potent spell.

The large man who smiles at Trey is certainly not capable of it, not in a thousand years. And that makes Trey surmise he's not the true leader here.

He's being backed by someone; someone capable of potent spells.

The invading force in this war is a conglomerate of many different pieces, and they set up camp right beneath Bellard. Morne will fall before long, and whoever truly dictates this ragtag army has a plan to make that happen.

It's as plain as day to see.

Trey heaves Morne's Grafted Blade Greatsword, dropping in front of him with a loud clang.

In the resounding silence, Trey speaks up.

"I fulfilled my end of the bargain." He says, keeping an eye on the three retainers around this soldier. "No complete yours."

The soldier looks over the greatsword between them with a satisfied grin, considering Trey.

"You're late, you know. Is it a southern tradition to waste time?"

Trey brushes the insult aside.

"I did what I must. I needed to improvise after you failed to take the castle." He speaks harshly; it's simply in his nature. "The fact I'm late says more about you than me."

Silence follows, before the soldier seems to just switch gears.

"Name's Rick." Rick says, playing with what looks like a glass eye between his gloved fingertips. "Soldier of Godrick, stalwart believer of the Golden Order." He gestures to the knight.

"And you are?"

"Trey." Trey says flatly.

Rick's fogged over eyes squint with glee.

"What, no 'Knight of Castle Morne'?"

"Not anymore."

Rick smiles at that.

"Well, Trey, if I'll be honest for a moment: I'd love to have your head for making me wait so long…"

The soldiers and misbegotten in the room stir with that; Trey doesn't bother reaching for his sword. The Lionel has since waken up, the Bloodhound Knight and Agheel are looking for a reason to kill him. The knight has no chance to escape or win if Rick sends his army after him now.

So, he waits.

Yet the large soldier only shrugs.

"But, it's your lucky day. There's been a change of plans." He whisks up a hand, beckoning something over from the shadows. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Trey turns to look…

He can see the eyes before he sees the body.

Two yellow ambers of light swoop and sway near as their owner walks, partially disappearing whenever they blink.

When the figure enters the light of the open ceiling, Trey lays his eyes upon a strange man, with skin as silver as the Nightfolk. His almost metallic hair is disheveled on his head, his composure is that of a self-interested merchant. His hands move between trying to cover his eyes and his mouth, as if something would leak out if he let it…

No, he has no eyes.

There are no organs for perception there, only something else.

Fiery yellow flames in his sockets, a unhinged countenance like something that shouldn't exist.

...

His mere presence makes danger signals fire off in Trey's head; it takes everything he has not to draw his sword.

This man is dangerous.

Rick speaks, fighting to keep the unease out of his own voice.

"This gentleman here requires your assistance in a little, side project. If you actually intend to serve me, then you'll help him in any way you can."

The dangerous man grins almost flirtatiously underneath his hands, facing Trey like how one would look at a delicious feast.

He opens his mouth.

"Salutations wayward knight, I am Shabriri."

When he speaks, Trey can hear other voices, like whispers of ghosts, clinging to his words. With it come screams. With it come cries. With it come curses, as if millions of burning souls rest in the depths of his throat.

He makes a small bow, uncouth in even his movements.

"I require your assistance… in acquiring a rather helpless little girl."