Chapter 24: Camp Crashers

Melina rests, watching the cool night sky.

So many stars, suspended up in the dark heavens in such an unmoving state that one would think they were painted there.

With it, a large and illustrious moon treks across the unending void, casting its brilliant silver light over everything under the stars.

The Erdtree towers above and overwhelms the northern horizon; Melina has never been so far from its welcoming rays before.

She has never felt so alone.

Cut off from the roots, isolated in a foreign land. She is with Lance, her only lifeline. But he is like an island. She may still exist, but the feeling is akin to being stranded.

Despite that, she enjoys the new scenery.

It has been long since her days consisted of more than just golden light; it is a fresh experience. And, while she will never say it out loud, tagging along with Lance has made her life a whole lot more interesting.

She sits up, making herself comfortable. There's not much time until sunrise; she'll have to admire the stars while she can.

Lance's quiet breaths steadily drift from the confines of his tent; his runes have calmed to the level of eastern seas in the winter. He finally found sleep not many hours ago; he was awake for a long time. She is glad he was able to find some form of rest.

Melina gazes at the burn scars on her hands, deep in her thoughts.

Lance gave his enemies Destined Death.

It is difficult to believe.

Now that she thinks about it; it would not be impossible to believe.

Lance has stolen runes; he has stolen souls. The grace, the gold that dwells in every living thing; the part of the body that is the body. The spirit of beings; the particles that are themselves beings. Runes that become white when they lose their body; runes that think and dream even when in another body. Those runes, those souls of soldiers and sentinels and wanderers; Lance has reaped them as if they were golden wheat during harvest.

At first, she thought nothing of it when he slayed the wanderers; they were back up and walking the next day.

Then, she questioned it when the Sentinel was slain, and his runes came to Lance from afar.

She became wary of it when Lance began killing in Roard's camp, and their runes were stolen and sealed within his body.

Now, she has come full circle: Lance has some form of the Rune of Death.

It is not on his blade; he took the Sentinel's soul without ever swinging his sword. It is not in his mind; she has never seen even a trace of it. It is somewhere else. Within the body, and there is only one other place that could hold a rune; there is only one other place it could be.

It is in his heart. That is the only place.

As to how he uses that Rune of Death? He felt anger toward Roard and the Soldiers, he felt remorse toward the wanderers. He felt terror toward the Sentinel, felt vexed by that soldier; the first person he ever killed.

Somehow, in some way, to whoever he interacts with, his Rune of Death becomes activated.

Interaction, is that the cause?

Is it toward any he considers an enemy?

Melina cannot place how he uses it, cannot piece it together. He obviously does so without thinking; stealing souls and reaping runes without ever swinging his blade at times.

What's more, he is a Tarnished.

Tarnished can grow stronger with their runes, increase their attributes based on how much of the grace of gold dwells in their bodies. They naturally accumulate the runes, albeit in small increments. But this young man does not accumulate runes; it is as if his body rejects them.

He is not like most Tarnished.

Yet he gains his runes through the loss of others' lives, taking them for himself. It is predatory in nature. Melina saw it as a beneficial coincidence; she could teach Lance to fight, and he could grow stronger simultaneously. But if he truly gives any he deems an enemy Destined Death, then…

A boy, from another world. A clever young man, with a natural affinity for the sword.

His grace has light, light that Melina can dwell in. A light that gives a lost soul refuge, allows a fledgling rune to survive away from the Erdtree's own light.

He carries a Rune of Death in his heart. He reaps the runes of his enemies, steals their souls and administers Destined Death on a whim.

He knew these lands, put a spell on his own memories, and rendered himself innocent in the mind.

He is a boy from another world, with a sinister shadow following him.

Just what is he?

A solemn note rings in the night air, dragging Melina out of her thoughts.

She rests on her knees near the center of camp, within the realm of Lance's light that bleeds out through the gap in his tent's entrance. She surmised she was alone, allowed some time to remain in silence.

But a spindly man in his night garments sits across from her; his face almost always covered by that cloth.

Kalé plays a tune, a soft and melancholy thing.

Melina knows the song; it is a common song in The Lands Between. St. Trina's Melody, a song that sounds similar to a lullaby. Merchants like Kalé always play it, though Melina does not know why. She has seen many things in her travels through gold, but she had never interacted with anyone. She knows not why Merchants play the song of St. Trina, and she suspects that she might never know.

Besides Kalé, most merchants are aloof by nature, choosing obscene places to set up camp. They sell their wares, keep their words short, and scarcely stay in the same place for long. They aren't open to sharing their secrets.

A strange clan.

Kalé plays his song, keeping the volume low. If he is awake, then dawn must be soon approaching. Melina surmised that she would be able to hear his song for a spell at the least, but the merchant shivers, messing up his tune. He jolts a little in place, rubbing his crossed arms with his hands.

"By the outer gods, it's cold."

He beings muttering to himself, cutting his playing short. He gets up, coming back a few minutes later, arms full of sticks and dead leaves.

Melina watches quietly.

It is not like she can go anywhere else.

She could wait in Lance's tent, but she would rather not. Quite cramped for space. So unless she wants to start clipping her corporeal self through the tent's linen walls, she will stay here, watching a rowdy man fiddle with a flint and steel.

Kalé tries once, then twice. Sparks fly, but none catch. Within the tiny bursts of light, Melina watches as the merchant grows perturbed. Seventh time, eighth.

"Come on, you blasted thing."

He strikes the flint against the steel again and again, but it seems to be a lost cause.

"Blasted, coastal air." He grumbles.

After the twelfth, he gives up, tossing the flint and steel aside. He slumps, staring at the small assemblance of timber and leaves that he crafted.

Silence ensues.

"Hey."

Melina perks up.

Kalé is staring right at her.

…

He speaks like he is talking to someone; he leans in.

"You can understand me, right?"

Melina is at a loss. It is obvious Kalé is trying to talk to her. As to why, she has no clue. Why now? Why so sudden? She does not entirely trust Kalé yet; she does not know his goals.

The merchant presses.

"Blink twice if that's a yes."

…

"Hello there." She says.

It is obvious that he cannot hear her, but her floating rune flashes twice with her words. The merchant's face lights up.

"Ah, I knew it." He utters in a self-congratulatory tone. "You and your friend are just full of surprises."

Why did Melina answer him? She cannot place her reasoning down.

"A peculiar lot, you two make. Then again, you need to have some peculiarities if you want to keep your head on your shoulders. Especially in these lands." He gazes longingly at the small assortment of sticks and leaves he made. "Heh. I knew I wasn't crazy."

As if hesitating, he eyes Melina again.

"Don't worry, I won't tell a soul about you two. You can have my word on that."

He gestures to Lance's tent.

"Tell him that, when you get the chance."

She cannot say anything back that he would understand, so she stays silent.

"That being said." He fiddles with his cloth covering. "Your friend doesn't carry any firepots or torches, yet something burned Roard to a crisp. Might that of been you?"

What is his game? Is he trying to…

oh.

It clicks for Melina.

He's not looking for another angle or secret; it is far simpler than that. Kalé is a clever man, far too clever for his own good. Yet his desires are always rather shallow, almost entirely self-serving. She still does not entirely trust him, but he is a minimal threat. And if he truly keeps his word, then he is nothing more than a client for Lance to watch over.

Melina leans forward, placing her hand near the closest twig.

"Kindling, accept this meager flame."

This place really is hell.

I 've been constantly thinking so since I've arrived in this land.

At first, I was obviously overreacting; I merely meant that it's cruel, dark, and unforgiving. The hell that I think about is composed of fire and brimstone, where devils torture you for eternity. Three pronged spears, twisted expressions, elated laughs; it's a whole spectacle. This land isn't like how my pastor described hell.

But when I awake, seemingly able to find sleep in the night, I'm not given even a second to think before Kalé's words from last night crawl up and into my mind.

…

True Death is not real here, but people can still suffer.

They can still die, still cry; still get bled out, cut up, and disemboweled.

Burned at the stake, impaled on hooks, decapitated.

Drawn and quartered, sawed in half, torn apart limb from limb.

They don't fear death here; they fear the pain, and what they will become if they die enough, if their souls… their runes… get trapped in their decaying husks of bodies, absorbed and trapped within black roots creeping through the land just inches beneath the surface.

They fear eternal torment, not with fire and brimstone, but with brambles and darkness and desolation. A cold end, and there's no higher deity to atone on their behalf; to save them from a doomed existence.

This world is purgatory.

There's no escape.

You wouldn't be able to run away from this, couldn't forfeit your life to end the bitter cycle. You would just come back, again and again, with your skin a little greyer, eyes a little deader, and body a little thinner. Forever and ever; there will be no end for these people.

This world is hell; the name fits perfectly.

I sit up once the sun's light makes the inside of my tent glow. I stretch, rubbing over a few spots where my muscles feel sore. I still haven't gotten used to sleeping outside like this; you'd think it would be second nature after nearly a month of doing it, but I still have a runny nose in the morning, with darkening rings under my eyes. Waking up multiple times a night has become second nature, while nothing else has.

Despite my gripes, I'm still grateful.

I'm grateful for the tent and thin sleeping bag Kalé provided, grateful for the armor and armaments I have. I'm grateful I'm not dead, grateful that Melina is still here; grateful that I haven't been abandoned and forsaken; everything's going steady despite my rocky beginning.

-I don't know when it started, but I found myself praying, expressing my gratitude-

I fall into asking for blessings; we're supposed to cross into the Weeping Peninsula today. I pray for my safety, Kalé's safety, and our success. I ask that I will be able to keep my conviction, find my footing if we fall into dire straits, and that I can discover what I must do to guarantee that safety I desire. I feel dragged down by my more disturbing actions, feel that I've begun to lose myself.

I hope that, if I truly did release Roard and his men from this hell, that they might be able to find peace, despite the fact that they surely must have died with regrets.

"Amen." I mutter.

And with that, so begins another day.

I'm messing with my crusty mop clinging to my head when I exit my tent, trying to fix it to the best of my abilities with fingers alone. My hair has gotten quite long, to the point that it gets in my eyes consistently. The messy style I usually keep it in is already gone; I look more like a ratty bum you'd find loitering on the side of the street. It only makes sense; I haven't bathed since sharing a lake with a dragon. I feel oily and I probably smell like a wet dog, my skin has the strange scent I was only able to smell after working out and not bothering to bathe.

I could really use a shower; I really need to do something about my hair.

Either cut it with a throwing knife or tie it up behind my head. Whichever way, it needs to be one of them; I'd hate it if I messed up in battle because I couldn't see.

I put the thought on the backburner for now, it happens to be pretty far down on my list of worries.

Good morning.

Melina floats up to me, her tennis ball-sized light joining me as I stride through the early morning air.

Morning.

Kalé chimes in without knowing it; he's taken a seat by the campfire he made last night; fresh logs already aflame in its center. He's still in his nightgown; I on the other hand have no change of clothes.

"You holding in there? You look like you slept atop Mt. Gelmir."

Don't know where that is, but I'm guessing he means I look tired.

"Didn't get much sleep."

I test bundling up my hair behind my head; my front bangs don't quite reach. Looks like I'll have to cut it myself after all.

"Had a lot on my mind."

Kalé nods to that; I'm thankful that he's treating me the same. I don't know what I would do if he feared or revered me after the bombshell he dropped last night, couldn't stomach it if my traveling partner started giving me the cold shoulder out of nowhere.

"Apologies mate, I lost my head last night. Not too often do I get heated, and when I do, I tend to regret it afterwards."

I readjust my chainmail as I slip it on, before covering it in the very clothes I had on my back when I awoke.

"Don't worry about it." I say with a flat tone. "If that was you angry, then I look outlandish by comparison."

I had my own outburst; played to my own running gag. I thought I got used to this world by now, yet I'm still getting thrown through a new fiery hoop on a daily basis. None of that's Kalé's fault, so it was selfish of me to act in such a way. He lives in hell, and I tried getting mad at him when I thought it wasn't a bad thing.

"I overstepped. I can only imagine how hard it is to have such twisted immortality."

Kalé grins a little at that last bit; he seems to like how it sounded. I personally borrowed it from a movie, but I'm not saying that out loud.

"It does have its good sides. Takes a few mishaps before you notice a difference; don't age very quickly either."

I cock an eyebrow.

"Seriously?"

He nods, kicking a new log into the fire.

"Guess me right, and I'll give ya a tellis."

More currency names…

"72?" I try.

I don't know how slow slowly aging is.

Kalé chuckles. "Nay. Try several hundred."

I go silent.

Besides his wrinkles, he doesn't look a day over 40. If he's that old...

He shrugs at my expression.

"Dying of natural causes hasn't been a thing for a while; once you're fully matured, you stay that age."

"I saw old people in town, what about them?"

"Been that age since the Rune of Death was bound, makes living harder, but at least they don't scoop you up to fight pointless wars."

Huh. I guess that makes sense.

"So, when you say mature, does that mean there's still children being born?"

The merchant nods.

"Aye."

I nod in tandem, swallowing the information. It's too early to freak out; I'll just take it at face value.

This place is indeed hell, but it sounds like people try to make the most of it.

Life always goes on, huh?

Yes.

I take a seat.

The fire's warm, a good type of warm. Like hanging out in front of a hearth during the winter months. While I don't have such memories, I can easily imagine them. This sensation, radiating over the body, chasing away the chilly humid air. It's peaceful.

"Mate."

"?"

"What's your spirit's name again?"

I give Melina a sideways glance. What brought this up? I recall telling Kalé when I first met him; maybe he forgot?

Go ahead. I still do not see him as a threat.

"Melina." I say.

Some form of recognition flashes across Kalé's eyes. It's not the familiarity kind, but more like he's heard the name somewhere before.

"What brought this up?"

Kalé looks between Melina and I, seemingly trying to piece something together in his head.

"Nothing much." He retorts. "Just trying to figure something out."

He has a habit of not explaining himself; oh how I wish Melina could somehow read his mind for us. But, it doesn't work that way; the merchant will remain a mystery as long as he wills it.

"Spirits with a will are few and far between, and even then, they tend to be merely echoes. Your Melina here has yet to waver from this realm; she is a rare sort."

He gives me a onceover. I don't have my weapons on me.

"By the by, what's a spirit summoner doing this far south in the first place? Thought your lot dallied around Liurnia."

More things I don't know, about more places I don't know about.

Why am I here?

I answer honestly.

"I'd like to know why myself."

He cocks an eyebrow, I continue.

"You said it yourself, Tarnished come from different lands. I'm new to this place. I was attacked by a grafted scion in my house, and I woke up not far from where I met you."

"Ah, Godrick's assassins then?" He looks me over again… why doe he keep doing that? "I'll be honest with ya, you're the first Tarnished I've met." He strokes the bottom of his cloth covering, as if he had a beard. "You're not what I envisioned."

"What did you envision?"

He shrugs.

"Murderers, thieves, liars… monsters?"

I feel something prick at my heart, I grimace.

"Don't know what you're talking about. I'm all of those things."

Kalé lightly shakes his head, picking his stringed instrument off the ground where he left it.

"No, I'm talking about true monsters. The kind that eat children, pillage towns, and torture captives. Leyndell sure paints you all that way."

I sigh. So Tarnished are seen as evil people, some things make sense now.

Just what are the Tarnished? I'd love to ask that, but I hold my tongue. Maybe I don't want to know, that or I'd rather not make Kalé waste his breath. I feel like it's obvious.

We're invaders.

Of course the residents would make us out to be demons. I should be grateful I've only had trouble with Roard and his men. Though, I guess there was the Sentinel too. At least Kalé has been rather understanding, him and everyone in that town. Some were put off by me, seeing something that only they could see, something that practically preached to the world that I'm Tarnished. But I wasn't attacked, wasn't berated or insulted. Those people just kept to themselves.

"Whatever the case, glad you have a good head on your shoulders."

Kalé says.

-A noise carries in the wind, wafting over us. Nobody except Melina notices it-

"The trip has been rather lax, but I've appreciated the company."

-Melina floats above me, rising as high as my light will allow her. She's listening to something-

"Likewise." I say. "Bellard is only a couple of days away at this point, right?"

Lance.

"Give or take a day." Kalé says, only partly noticing me rising to my feet.

What? Something wrong?

"If we don't run into trouble, I bet we- … would…"

"…"

He tilts his head, listening to something. I can't quite hear it. The atmosphere has darkened, Kalé and I have drawn silent. There's a noise, a noise that saturates the air. It carries along with the winds; it's shrill echo deflecting off distant cliff faces and rolling over lofty hills.

Melina floats down next to me. She doesn't say anything. The low howl of the wind, the distant rolling of waves, and...

Screams.

Cries.

Sounds of anguish, terror, and pain carry in the wind, reaching my ears, bouncing off my eardrums; causing a chill to run down my spine.

Only the sound of crackling firewood sounds from our camp.

Somewhere within earshot, somewhere nearby; people are dying. Their voices stilling my feet, ceasing my muscles, until they're cut short.

An explosion rings out, it's shockwave punching me in the sternum. It sounds like a giant firework going off, the thunderous boom making Kalé and I flinch. Kalé's horse snorts in protest, rearing.

The blast echoes back once, twice, before going silent. With it, the screams are gone.

We are as loud as death itself.

No words are exchanged, but my eyes meet Kalé's. He looks spooked, upturned, with despair underlining it all. He looks at our fire; I follow his gaze. He bolts to his feet, running for his horse. I follow suit; there's only one thing those noises could have meant. I stamp out our campfire, covering the searing embers with dirt. The smoke billows as the flames die.

Those sounds, the sounds of people dying; a minute after they ceased, our campsite was devoid of life.

"This isn't good." Kale curses, peering through the pearl-white spyglass he's let me borrow. "Not good at all."

He's lying prone, at a height where the grass covers the bottom half of his obscured face. I've assumed a similar position beside him, straining my neck to see.

After that explosion, we abandoned camp.

We spent a good half of the day hiding in the nearby woods, waiting to see if anything come snooping. A campfire is hardly the most covert thing, and we unanimously decided that we'd rather hide than wait around under a beacon of rising smoke.

Nothing came for us in the end; no party or patrol came to seek us out.

It didn't take long for our curiosity to get the best of us, and that's how we got here, lying atop a hill, looking upon a structure that we were planning to cross today.

What I see is a bridge, with a handful of people on it. I can distinguish some things, but it's way too far away to make anything out.

What Kalé sees, and what has him on edge, is a remnant of soldiers infesting the bridge, standing guard.

"Is it bad?"

He hands me the spyglass, resting his head on his hands.

"Bad. Very bad."

To spare the details of what I see; I can clearly see that our path is blocked. Not by erosion or obstacles, but by blades, wooden battlements, and a menacing looking ballista.

12 soldiers, no, 14.

14 soldiers, with toys I'm not used to. Swords, shields, and spears; crossbows, warhammers, and daggers.

Some soldiers are shorter than the rest, with bell helmets and white tabards instead of the usual bronze skullcaps and the red and green surcoats.

It's obvious at first glance that they don't intend to go anywhere; they're standing guard.

I gulp, before taking a deep breath.

"Think they're here for us?" I ask.

Kalé hisses.

"No. No, if they wanted us, they'd set up an ambush." He shakes his head in either disbelief or distaste. "These fools are making a roadblock, without a doubt."

"Couldn't they just be trying to box us in?"

Kalé growls.

"Explain that then."

He gestures to our side of the bridge, I follow with the spyglass…

I nearly gag.

A scene of arrow-riddled carnage peppers the northern entrance to the bridge, the charred ground stained obsidian and crimson. Bodies, maybe six in total, lie motionless amongst a small crater.

I say maybe, because explosions aren't kind to the human body; I'd have an easier time counting arms than I would counting torsos.

We found our victims.

"Then what's their deal?"

Kalé's aggravation is starting to rub off on me, I'm feeling frustrated. If they were waiting for us, they wouldn't kill indiscriminately.

This is something else.

"First things first, those are Godrick's soldiers; Roard's lot."

"And?"

I'd assume that soldiers would be guarding such an important structure to begin with. The only way to cross kingdoms? It's the perfect bottleneck. Is there a difference in who's guarding it?

The plan stays the same.

Wrap my face in cloth after stowing my weapons, say I have a terrible disease, and go on our way. That was the plan, what's changed?

…

The bodies. The bodies are what changed.

"Look mate, you don't understand. Edgar's men should be frequenting this bridge. They have black and white surcoats, with steel skullcaps and a straight sword ornament. The fools down there are dressed up like Rowa Bushes."

The usual guards aren't here; soldiers of another kingdom have taken their place.

That means… what exactly?

"They took over the bridge?"

Kalé sighs.

"Think bigger. They took the bridge, armed it to the teeth, will kill any on sight, and now they won't leave. What does that sound like to you?"

I hesitate.

…

oh.

"They're trying to isolate the Peninsula?"

Kalé snaps his fingers.

"Hit the mark, mate."

"So, they're invading? Why? Why now?"

"Wish I knew the answer too."

I scoff.

"Taking an entire peninsula sounds costly, did Roard even have that many men?"

What's more, I killed their leader myself. Whose orders are they following?

"The bastard had damn near 800." Kalé says. "But Bellard has Castle Morne's soldiers, nearly four times that amount; and Edgar would surely have nipped this in the bud when he caught word."

Based off the weathering on the spike battlements and the pitched tents, this rouge group has been here for a while. Two days at the least, maybe longer. Traveling to Bellard is certainly faster on horseback, news of the bridge would surely have gotten there by now with time to spare. Which can only mean bad things.

"Something happened at Castle Morne then."

Kalé slowly nods his head.

"I hate that I need to agree with ya on that one."

If a force hasn't yet come to root out this blockade, then a subjugation force probably isn't coming.

So, where's that leave us?

I give the bridge another scan, looking over each soldier and footsoldier.

"Got a plan?"

The merchant shakes his head.

"I'd sooner learn the secret to infinite wealth."

I find myself watching a soldier yelling something at a footsoldier, pointing to our side of the bridge.

The merchant looks my way, but I'm not returning the glance.

"Was hoping you had one, to be honest."

The footsoldier slumps, begrudgingly going to where the soldier points. He grabs a shovel, tossing it into a wooden wheelbarrow, before carting it all toward the site of the desecrated bodies.

"I've got nothing." I say, slowly realizing what the footsoldier's up to.

My free hand grips the grass beneath it hard enough to tear a clump away.

The footsoldier goes about a dirty deed, scooping up bloody remains and tossing them by the shovelful into the wheelbarrow. When he's done, he carts it to the edge of the bridge, where he dumps six bodies worth of flesh down into the unseen ocean below.

I nearly surge to my feet; I keep myself planted.

"Bastards." I growl.

That footsoldier… if Kalé's words from last night are anything to go off of, then that footsoldier just damned those innocent people to an eternity of misery. They'll revive and die, over and over, at the bottom of the ocean. Whatever it may be, drowning in the deep, crushed by the depth. Maybe even devoured by monsters from the black; it doesn't matter. What matters is that he just left those people to continuously die in horrible ways, and he looks unfazed, maybe just a little annoyed about the mess.

Insolent.

Heartless.

Terrible.

Kalé must have made out what happened, because he claps a hand on my shoulder. Maybe it's to try and comfort me, though it's probably to make sure I don't just storm over there.

"Nothing we can do about it now. Come on, let's go get things figured out."

He shuffles away, standing when he's out of view of the bridge. I linger a moment longer, memorizing the face of the footsoldier, remembering the face of the soldier who ordered him to do so too for good measure.

I drop the clump of grass I didn't know I was clenching, wiping the green residue off on my pants.

Somehow, I can feel it.

Either by my own actions, or by another force; my hand will be staining red, very soon.