Beginning

The Chapel wasn't a bit different from the game. Except now, a gritty layer of reality coated everything. Like a slap, the world reminded him this wasn't some pixelated fantasy anymore. This was real. Blood-soaked real.

A woman, barely more than a girl, lay sprawled on the cold stone. Her lifeless hand clutched a letter, the crimson stain mirroring the one blooming on her pure white dress. A struggle, a desperate fight for those final, fading breaths.

Ansel swallowed the lump in his throat. Staff wedged awkwardly under his arm, he pried the letter free. Her grip, even in death, held a chilling tenacity. He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the parchment slick with a sickening warmth. Blood. Words scrawled in burning crimson screamed across the page:

"Though the path be broken and uncertain, claim your place as Elden Lord!"

His foot took a sharp turn, his steps urgent and hectic towards the doors. With a single, great push, the dimness of Chapel gave way to Gold. Not the gleaming, triumphant kind, but a gold tinged with madness, with burning purpose that singed into his mind forever more.

—————

The ground obeyed his will. A jagged maw ripped open just outside the chapel. He gently lowered the Maiden's body inside, arranging her arms across her chest and closing her vacant eyes. Then, with a thought, the earth sealed itself shut, swallowing the young woman whole.

Ansel sank to his knees, offering a prayer for her rest. It was directed mostly at the golden Erdtree, but also to any gods who might be listening. This was his first heavy regret in this twisted world. Death, he knew, was a plaything here, manipulated and broken. But the whys and whos were mysteries he lacked the answers to. He cursed his own laziness for abandoning the game at the beginning – Margit, the Fell Omen, had well and truly put his ambitions to rest.

At least there was a silver lining. He hadn't spawned as a basic class. Instead, he found himself inhabiting the body of a Sorcerer well-versed in Gravity Magic. The past memories, however, were fractured and hazy; everything felt distant, unclear except for the ways of magic and the name – Ansel. Creepily, it was his own.

The implications weren't lost on him. But he was certain his appearance wasn't his own. The blonde hair and toned physique obviously screamed otherwise. Still, a mirror remained a desperate need.

Ansel rose, legs creaking in protest as he crossed the bridge. He stopped just shy of the archway, the Erdtree looming oppressively in the bright sky. Inside the arch stood a statue of an otherworldly woman, her arms outstretched in a gesture of supplication or perhaps warning. The air here hung heavy, thick with an unsettling dampness.

He knew this place held the promise of death, but dying wasn't on his agenda. Tarnished or not – undead as they came – he wasn't eager to gamble with what remained of his life.

The arcane secrets of Gravity Magic swirled in his mind. While flight was likely beyond his current skill level, he could manipulate the earth, reshape it to a certain degree. Perhaps he could lighten his own weight, or even mold the ground to break his fall. It was a desperate hope, but all he had at the moment.

With a controlled yet desperate resolve, Ansel approached the arch, skirting wide of the platforms before the statue. He hugged the edge, searching for a way down the cliff face. But as he suspected, his efforts were futile. The world seemed to mock his attempt, a cruel laugh echoing in the heavy air. Before he even reached his third step, a shadow engulfed him. A streak of silver plummeted from the sky, glinting menacingly as it descended at inhuman speed.

Adrenaline hammered in his ears, drowning out all thought. Pure instinct took over. As the blade tore through the air where his head had been a moment before, Ansel flung himself to the side in a desperate roll. The weapon buried itself deep in the wall with a sickening thud, inches from his face. Fear stripped his mind bare, his body a puppet yanked by primal urges. He scrambled back to his feet, a burst of speed surging through him that would make Olympic champions weep. But it wasn't enough.

The colossal statue of Queen Marika loomed closer with each frantic stride. The great roar of his monstrous attacker echoed behind him, a relentless predator closing the distance in a beat. A flash of silver caught his eye, sending him diving to the ground just in time. The monstrous blade whistled past, shearing off a lock of hair before embedding itself in the holy statue with another ear-splitting clang.

For a split second, the monster faltered, its attention snagged on the smoking crack where its blade met the holy statue. In that fleeting moment, Ansel saw his chance. He didn't waste it on spells or staff. Prone on the ground, a heartbeat away from the beast's murderous fury, his violet eyes blazed with power. His hands, raw and desperate, clawed into the earth. They tore into the damp soil, ignoring the blossoming pain as they dug, deeper, faster. The very ground roared in response, answering his frantic plea.

He dared not stop, even as his fingers bled and bones threatened to splinter. Not even the monstrous roars of pain and fury immediately cut short could break his focus. The very mountain groaned and rumbled in response, spewing dust and rock into the world.

Ansel dared not stop.

—————

Melina crested the plateau, a frown twisting her face. The Chapel of Anticipation, or what was left of it anyway, was a mess of broken stone. A plume of smoke spiralled high in the distance, the dust settling after the Tarnished tore through everything like a storm.

Torrent, her spectral steed, didn't need prompting. He ghosted towards the ruins with a restless energy Melina knew all too well. The bridge that once led to the Chapel was splinters scattered across the chasm. No problem. With a flick of her wrist, she channeled a surge of power, ferrying them across a makeshift path of hovering stones and debris.

Gravity was still in tatters, but not total pandemonium. The mountaintop where the Chapel used to stand was a graveyard of jagged rocks and overturned earth. All that remained of the building itself were spikes and splinters. A cruel monument to the destruction.

Torrent landed softly in a clearing untouched by the chaos, directly in front of the ruined statue of her mother. It was the only thing still standing. In the centre stood the Tarnished, surveying the monstrous corpse of the Grafted Scion he'd just slain. Blood blossomed across its body like a gruesome flower, tens of spikes jutting from its belly like a macabre self-inflicted torture. To top it all off, a massive spear of rock had replaced its head.

Melina watched, silent as the grave. So did Torrent. The Tarnished noticed them before they even revealed themselves, a flicker of tension in his shoulders betraying their arrival. But he didn't raise a weapon, just stood there, ragged and drained from the fight.

There was no denying it: Melina was intrigued. This Tarnished, he had power, raw and pure. It sparked a flicker of hope for the path to ErdTree. Yet, a strange hesitation snagged at her. Something about him, something she couldn't grasp, held her back.

Here, Melina, once an Empyrean, found herself uncertain. The Tarnished finally stirred, turning to face them. Young, that was the first thing that slammed into her. Almost boyish, with features that hadn't quite hardened into adulthood. Blonde hair, eyes a startling violet that seemed to hold the depths of a storm, framed a face that was both pale and angular, yet held a hint of nobility. His hands, his fingers were slick with blood, one thumb even twisted at an unnatural angle, marred with wounds and shredded flesh.

He wore black traveling garb, once shimmering with enchantments that faintly glinted in the dying light. Silver accents, once may have been fashionable, were now dulled and tarnished, mirroring the state of his clothes. The garments themselves hung in shreds, whispering tales of a thousand battles endured. In between his hand, a violet staff pulsed with glint-stones of the highest caliber.

Melina could almost weave his past from the threads of his appearance - a noble, possibly from Leyndell, well-versed in gravity magic that whispered of Sellia, the Town of Sorcery. A likely connection, but the Alabaster Lords who ruled the city were capricious beings. Even Radahn, the Starscrouge, was only accepted by them for tutelage as a political favour. Still, if he was truly a Leyndell nobel scion, he must have been outcast by her mother with Godfrey, banished to the Lands beyond the fog. Emphasising on if, there were too many mysteries clinging to this Tarnished standing before her.

"Overdid it a touch, did I?" the Tarnished asked, a humourless lilt to his voice as he surveyed the destruction wrought by his own hands.

"A bit much, indeed." Melina said, dismounting Torrent to meet him eye to eye. "Word of your actions will soon reach the ears of Godrick the Grafted, and perhaps even further afield."

"So," the Tarnished continued with the same humorous tone. "I can't really avoid the path ahead now, can I?"

That gave Melina pause. She looked up to meet his violet eyes, burning lavender pools reflecting the uncertainty that mirrored her own heart. "Do thy not wish for this path, Tarnished?"

"Hah," the Tarnished looked up at the Erdtree that dominated the sky. "Of course, this is not a path I wish, after all, but as is already obvious, our choices matter not here."

Melina looked at Tarnished, her one-eye flickering with sympathy. She understood his pain better than anyone. "Here," she materialised a golden flask filled with crimson tears. "Drink this." When Tarnished merely looked on without grabbing the flask, she added gently. "It will heal you."

"You," the Tarnished gulped down the crimson tears, his eyes closing serenely at the blissful taste of the tears. His wounds began to heal visibly, his twisted thumb placing itself back to its place with a wince. He finally met his eyes with a shimmer of calmness, of certainty. "are a finger maiden," there was no question in his tone, even the tremble of his voice was mostly gone.

And that brought relief to her heart. Melina nodded. "That's indeed a role I assume," she carefully chose her words. "and you, as I see, are maidenless."

A chuckle escaped his lips, though this was a disconcerting mirthful sound, before a somber expression took upon his features. "There was a maiden inside the dark chapel, murdered in cold blood." He hesitated. "Was she…..supposed be my maiden?"

"No," Melina shook her head. "She was killed by her own Tarnished, fallen to the hunger of Blood. You, I am afraid, were maidenless from the beginning."

This time, the Tarnished erupted into laughter, a sound so utterly ridiculous and freeing that Melina struggled to maintain a stoic face. "What findst thou so amusing in mine words?" she inquired, a hint of impatience flickering in her voice as his laughter subsided.

The Tarnished didn't answer her question, instead he extended his healed, lustrous hand to her. "Then, as I'm maidenless and you're a maiden, wannabe mine?"

The weight of the decision slammed into Melina. This wasn't some grand declaration. It was raw, a question born from necessity and... something else. A flicker of something yet again she couldn't decipher. "You will take me to the ErdTree in return?" she countered, her voice barely a whisper.

Behind her, Torrent let out a whinny that sounded suspiciously like a cheer.

The Tarnished grinned, eyes glinting. "The ErdTree, huh? Why not? Equivalent exchange, that's the name of the great game, right?"

"Indeed," Melina murmured, her gaze lingering on the hand. A flicker of doubt crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. With a firm grip, she met his hand. "Then let our accord be forged on that very principle."

A gamble. A leap into the unknown. Whoever this Tarnished was, whatever fate awaited him, Melina clung to the hope it wouldn't be a disaster.

Their hands clasped, the sound swallowed by Torrent's ecstatic whinnies. The spectral steed danced around them, shimmering light a celebration of their accord.

"Energetic fella, your ride," the Tarnished chuckled.

"Torrent," Melina said, pulling back. "And his enthusiasm speaks volumes. He chose you before I did, clearly." She produced a shimmering ring, its surface swirling with faint light. "He's a spectral steed, and he's chosen you."

The Tarnished accepted the ring with a nod, a hint of seriousness in his eyes. He turned to Torrent, who nuzzled him eagerly. "Alright, boy, alright," he murmured, ruffling the creature's spectral mane.

"Take care of him," Melina said, her voice firm. "He loves Rowa Raisins."

"Then," the Tarnished declared, a grin splitting his face, "our first order of business is a giant heist of Rowa Raisins, wouldn't you say?"

Torrent let out another joyous whinny, nuzzling the Tarnished further. As he ruffled the steed, Melina couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the Tarnished's easy acceptance. A flicker of resignation, buried beneath the surface joy. A subtle tension in his shoulders. Her lips tightened. This wasn't just some eager, ambitious, glory seeking Tarnished. "Melina," she extended her own hand this time, her voice leaving no room for doubt of their accord.

The Tarnished met her grip, a firmer hold this time. "Ansel,"