Surreal

Ansel grunted, sweat stinging his eyes as he grappled with the chaotic gravity in the Chapel. His purple glintstone staff pulsed like a heartbeat, pushing back against the crushing weight. Yeah, breaking stuff was definitely easier than un-breaking it.

The air shimmered like a heat haze as his magic finally took hold. Debris clattered to the floor with a bone-jarring rattle, and the wicked spikes that had sprouted from the ground crumbled like stale bread. The Chapel itself still looked like a bomb had went off here, but in the middle of the wreckage stood the holy statue of Queen Marika, untouched by the chaos. Cracked and weathered, sure, but still defiant. Divine providence, maybe.

With the spikes gone, the monstrous Grafted Scion flopped to the ground with a wet thud. Blood flooded out of it like a burst wineskin, its head completely gone from Ansel's attack. But he caught a glimpse before it went burning crimson - a young girl's face, so twisted and wrong.

"It was a girl?" Ansel rasped, the words catching in his throat. He sank to his knees beside the mangled corpse, his hand closing around a beautiful golden shield and sword. They felt heavy with history, but way too clunky for him to even think about using without some magic enhancement boosting him up. So, this was how it went - the frustrating stat requirements from the games, brought to life. He wondered how messed up the magic weapons would be.

Melina's voice, cool as ever, cut through the silence. "Was, indeed," she emphasised, her one eye lingering on the grotesque form. "Those things are Grafted Scions. Rumoured to be the children of Godrick the Grafted, forced to share in his..." she paused heavily, "blessings."

Ansel lurched back, stomach twisting. A child. How messed up was her life before this? Was she even aware of the things happened to her? He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the image of the girl's face burned there. When he opened them again, he looked at Melina, his voice tight. "Let's bury her," he said.

Melina merely gave a small nod, then with a flourish that seemed to belong to another age, produced a small pouch from seemingly thin air. Seriously, how did she do that? Ansel added another question to his ever-growing list.

"A Pouch of Plenty," Melina explained, looking at the golden shield and sword. "Magically enchanted to hold a vast amount of thine belongings. Not infinite, mind you, but enough for our journey ahead." She paused, meeting his eyes. "I have placed certain items within, to ease thy path. Whenever thou dost desire to retrieve an item, simply insert thine hand and will it forth."

Holy shit, this is inventory! Ansel snatched the pouch, dropping the sword and shield with a clatter. It was unreal seeing the game mechanics come to life before his very eyes. He clutched the pouch, his curiosity burning. What had Melina stashed in here?

With a flick of his wrist, Ansel willed its contents forth. Four golden flasks and a radiant circular light materialised in the air. Three of the flasks shimmered with crimson tears, while the other held a pool of azure liquid. The final item, a rune, pulsed with a brilliance that completed eclipsed even the one he'd gained from burying the little girl. Like a little star, it illuminated the ruins of the once chapel in holy light.

"Healing potions, right?" Ansel muttered, his hand hovering over the crimson-filled flasks. These were obvious enough. He shifted his hand, a memory sparking in his mind. "Mana potion, then?" he guessed, eyeing the blue flask. Finally, his gaze settled on the dazzling rune, a distant guess forming in his mind. "And this is...?"

"A golden rune," Melina confirmed. "Take it."

Ansel grasped the rune. A burst of golden light erupted, engulfing him briefly. The same ethereal lightness he'd experienced before washed over him, amplifying the glow of the ErdTree in the distance within his gaze. Then, just as quickly, the feeling subsided.

Melina spoke, her voice laced with unwavering seriousness. "Combined with your own prowess and the runes you've already acquired, which I shall soon convert into strength at a site of grace— all of this should smoothly facilitate your return to the Lands Between."

"Thank you," Ansel offered, bowing his head in gratitude.

Melina, however, pressed on, her lips pursed into a thin line. "Every Tarnished is granted this privilege," she stated distantly.

"Perhaps," Ansel conceded, carefully stowing his belongings in the Pouch of Plenty. The pouch's opening seemed to magically expand as he brought the massive shield and hefty sword near it, effortlessly swallowing them whole. "But I have a feeling," he continued, meeting Melina's gaze directly, "this privilege, my privilege, is...extraordinary."

Maybe it was a foolish attempt at prying, a hunch he couldn't quite shake. After all, Melina wasn't exactly your average maiden. The games had hinted at a deeper story, and the way she carried herself confirmed it. Still, even if it was a gamble, they were in this together for the foreseeable future. Building some rapport wouldn't hurt.

"Perhaps," Melina merely acknowledged, her single eye boring into him for a long moment. Ansel didn't push it further – for now. It was a long shot, after all.

"Come on," he said with a sigh, gesturing towards the slain girl. "Let's give her a proper send-off."

They buried the girl within the hallowed grounds of the Chapel. Ansel dug the makeshift grave with his magic, the clang of his glintstone staff against the hardened earth a somber counterpoint to Melina's murmured prayers. It was a hasty ceremony, born of necessity. Who knew what Godrick's reaction would be when whispers of his fallen Scion reached his gilded ears?

Melina knelt beside the fresh mound, her voice taking on an ethereal quality as she began the burial rites. "O, Erdtree," she whispered, the words seeming to hang heavy in the air, "shine thine light upon this lost soul." A shift settled upon the surrounding area, a weight pressing down upon Ansel that defied easy explanation. He strained to perceive its essence, a sense of otherworldly power beyond his grasp. Perhaps it was the manifested power of faith or something altogether different.

"What was that?" Ansel finally managed to force the question out.

Melina rose to her feet, her expression unreadable. "I have ensured the roots of the Erdtree reach her soul," she explained succinctly. "Though fractured and broken, she shall find repose. This way, she will not rise again."

Ansel could feel there was more to the ritual than met the eye. He resisted the urge to glance back at the shadowed Chapel, where the young maiden now lay buried. An unsettling churn twisted in his gut. "Will they... always rise?" he finally asked, his voice laced with unease.

"Yes," Melina's response was patient, tinged with a touch of pity as she continued her unsettling observation of him. "Most become hollow shells, losing a part of themselves with each death. But Tarnished like you," her voice hardened slightly, "are touched by the Erdtree's grace. Death is but a mere inconvenience."

Ansel swallowed, his hesitation palpable. "Then..." he stammered, "can you bless the maiden as well?"

Melina, as always, responded with a silent nod. A sharp whinny erupted from Torrent, a call that seemed distant to Ansel's ears. They mounted the spectral steed together, Melina in front, him clinging on behind.

Reaching the chasm where the bridge once stood, Ansel took charge. With a flick of his wrist, his glintstone staff pulsed with a violent glow, bathing them in an otherworldly light. He felt a lightness spread through him, as though filled with helium, the air itself defying gravity. Just one leap, and they could touch the sky.

The spell he cast was Feather, a basic tenet of Gravity Magic. It reduced the pull of gravity, creating a comforting cushion against the unforgiving ground during falls. While seemingly potent to the uninitiated, its effectiveness was limited. A strong blow or a clumsy landing could easily break its effect. He mentally grimaced, recalling the warnings from the spell's introduction: 'Don't rely on it in combat unless you have a proper strategy.'

For traversing the chasm, however, it was more than enough. Torrent let out a joyous neigh and launched himself into the air with surprising speed. The sudden surge of acceleration caught Ansel off guard, and he instinctively reached for Melina, his fingers brushing against the cool canvas of her hood. She remained stoic, a statue of composure as ever, guiding Torrent's exuberant leaps towards the looming chapel.

Landing with a thud, Melina's blessings came faster, her voice a low murmur. But the effect was the same – an otherworldly, tingling sensation that made Ansel's scalp prickle.

He stared at the grave, a heavy silence settling around him. Doubt gnawed at his gut. Was he making a mistake? A giant tree, conjured by some cosmic entity, taking the souls of the living? Screamed wrong on so many levels. But the alternative… becoming a hollow shell, repeating the cycle of death and undeath until only mindless instinct remained…

The last rite complete, Melina rose to her feet. Her gaze, always a touch unnerving, held him with a touch of finality now. Ansel felt himself straighten up instinctively, as if bracing for something.

—————-

Melina shimmered out of existence with a shower of light. Her final whisper grazed Torrent's ear, inaudible to Ansel, followed by a fleeting touch that left the spectral steed bathed in a momentary blue glow. With finality, Melina explained she'd expended much power manifesting a physical form this time, but not to worry, she could still be summoned at any Site of Grace.

Alone, Ansel mounted Torrent and gazed back at the Chapel of Anticipation. "Atta boy," he murmured, his staff humming with a purple light. "Let's begin this journey."

But Torrent whinnied, his attention fixed on the staff. A strange understanding, a spiritual resonance, passed between them. And Ansel furrowed his brow, surprised. "You don't want the spell…?" His gaze fell on the mist-shrouded chasm before him, the faint roar of waves echoing in the distance. "Then how…?"

Torrent's reply was a mighty neigh, his form erupting in a brilliant blue light. The mist swirled and parted, as if willed, revealing a vast ocean and a lush land on its shores. Towering over the distant coast, an immense castle gleamed with golden spikes.

Stormveil Castle? Why is it so close? Its magnificence stole Ansel's breath for a moment, but he quickly refocused, patting Torrent's mane. "Very well then, Mighty Torrent," he chuckled, "lead the way!"

Torrent wasted no time. With a powerful launch, he propelled himself into the sky, using the very air as a platform. He sped forward at a pace that would have put race cars to shame, leaving a fading trail of blue mist in their wake. The wind tore at Ansel's face, a delicious cocktail of terror and exhilaration swirling in his chest as the world became a blur of colour. He risked a glance back, catching a final glimpse of the majestic Stormveil Castle shrinking in the distance.

Was this Melina's power at work, or was Torrent himself more than just a spectral steed? Questions swirled in his mind like the rushing wind, fleeting and disjointed. And Stormveil Castle, right there beside the Chapel of Anticipation…it suddenly clicked. I vaguely remember awakening as a Tarnished in a graveyard after being murdered in the game. Other Tarnished must have similar fates. Considering Varre standing right outside the graveyard like a pitching guide. And let's not even begin on the Golden Tree Sentinel.

This land, Ansel thought with a wry smile, had a strange way of welcoming its people back.

—————

The sun bled towards the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues as Torrent, with a series of graceful steps through the air, neared a familiar looking church with a beam of light in middle. Ansel glimpsed the glint of golden armour in the distance - the Tree Sentinel, no doubt, patrolling the entrance to the graveyard for clueless Tarnished. Despite the extraordinary journey, disorientation was a faint echo compared to the sheer scale of the continent sprawled beneath him. They'd begun their sky trek under a midday sun, and now twilight was settling.

Fast travel, Ansel mused wryly, was likely a luxury this unforgiving land wouldn't offer in reality. Too convenient, too… soft. And, He glanced at Torrent, the ethereal blue light fading rapidly from the spectral steed until it was almost an illusion. A happy nicker escaped Torrent as they landed, but Ansel could feel the exhaustion radiating from him, a crushing weight in their spiritual bond. I don't think Torrent can do this trick again…

A rough voice shattered Ansel's contemplation. He snapped his head up, hand instinctively reaching for his staff, but relaxed when he saw the familiar red-clad Merchant. His eyes burned with an unnatural yellow glow, his skin a startling shade of gray.

"My, my," the Merchant rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together. "Quite the extraordinary steed you have there."

Ansel dismounted, patting Torrent on the side. The spectral steed whined in protest, clearly wanting to stay aloft. "Rest now," Ansel promised. "A hundred rowa raisins await your return, Mighty Torrent!" With a final, happy whicker, Torrent shimmered and faded away in a flurry of starlight. Ansel turned to the Merchant, offering a polite smile.

"A physical spirit, at that?" The Merchant's surprise was evident, his gaze raking Ansel up and down. "You're no ordinary Tarnished, are you? And I can also sense..." he paused, tilting his head slightly, "that you don't intend to rob me blind."

Ansel leaned on his staff, the purple glintstones pulsing with magic. "And how exactly do you come to that conclusion?"

"For starters," the Merchant replied, a hint of amusement filtering through his mask, "you're smiling at me."

Ansel chuckled. "Old man, haven't you heard the saying? 'The smiles are best veneers.'"

The Merchant's masked face seemed to smirk. "Just invented that saying, did you?"

Ansel's smile widened, as if to prove the point.

"And who are you calling old man, boy?" the Merchant countered, his tone devoid of malice, carrying only a hint of relief. "Aye, I've seen my share of winters, but don't underestimate the fire that still burns within these bones."

"Noted," Ansel chuckled, extending his hand. "Ansel at your service."

"Kale," the Merchant, Kale apparently, took the handshake. "Purveyor of Fine Goods."

"Alright, alright, old man, you didn't have to hang me out to dry like that! Now I gotta go find myself a fancy title to match yours, see?"

"Now boy, you're laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

"You've finally figured it out!"

"Boy…"

The Grace pulsed ever so brilliantly, a shared laugh, rough around the edges but full of life.