97 - Rust
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
97 - Rust
Days had passed.
Taylor remembered some of them.
Everything had dissolved once peace was achieved. Once she was left alone to her own devices, nothing to do but move rubble, burn bodies, arrange pantries, and generally get this castle back in working order… she fell apart a little. Time certainly did. Everything became vignettes. Coherent narrative ceased, all that remained were snapshots of her existence in this salt-scarred castle. The… right, she knew about the end of the battle. It hadn't been difficult to clear out the soldiers - and without them, there was no-one here. Every servant was either dead or gone, and apparently being bled to death made resurrection slow, painful, and generally discomforting. Surprisingly few servants, though, for a castle of this size. Presumably a good number had escaped. So, for the time being, it was just them. Tisiphone and Irina had consented to stay for a while - mostly to help with the clean-up, but Taylor could read the look in Tisiphone's eyes. She didn't want to drag Irina to some fishing village where she could grow more and more hateful in isolation. Company helped. Company kept her from being too angry about Morne, kept her from dwelling too long on her father, her friends, her family, her entire world back in that huge castle. When she wasn't feeling spiteful, she was downright nice to be around.
Taylor could actually… no, no, causality was breaking down again. She was getting too far ahead of herself, a haze of domesticity was trying to drown out the rest - the aftermath. The stink of blood in the air, the pulsing of adrenaline through her veins, the feeling like she'd put herself on the edge and come out… somewhere. Not a victory, not a defeat, but the kind of event which existed between the two. The battle had ended, and she was drinking on a bench. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, but whenever she sipped at the bottle - cups were pointless - she found herself capable of ignoring the shaking, just for a second. There'd been no comments from the others, too busy dealing with the bodies. A few were still half-alive, struggling weakly - they were taken care of swiftly. People yawned when they were dying, their body gulping for air with every instinct it could muster. She was surrounded by yawning half-corpses, and as one of them wriggled unsettlingly, she took another deep draught. She was… no, not alone. Right, that was it. Crawa had come over, accompanied by Angharad and Roderika. The three looked guilty and relieved at the same time, and shuffled a little when she looked upon them.
"...hi."
Crawa broke down and rushed for Taylor, immediately enveloping her in a hug. Roderika wasn't far behind. Angharad joined them, and promptly started reaching for the bottle. Well, at least it wasn't hard drugs. That had to count for something. The four remained there - Taylor didn't quite know how to respond. Her first response had been to try and push them away, her mind still buzzing with combat, proximity making her think of the stinking, copper-scented breath of men she cut down one after another, the toothless maws of Tarnished, burnished with a few shattered enamel icebergs, that roared wordless battlecries into her face, while her allies were cut down one after another, one by one, always declining, always fading, thump, thump, thump, the same sound as her heartbeat, thump, thump… no. Couldn't let it win. In this position she couldn't drink again - calm down, calm down. Her breathing slowly came under control, her eyes stopped darting with a conscious effort. She tried to relax into the hug. Tried to. An awkward hand patted Crawa on her vast back, and that was all.
"...you guys got up to a lot without me, huh?"
She expected a deluge of horrible stories. The forest, where a wolfman dwelt and a well led to an underground city. The endless steppe, where the remnants of a Tarnished army could be waiting even now. The rising kingdom in Morne. The… nothing came. Crawa had no interest in complaining about her lot - she didn't even see fit to explain how she'd ended up in Haight when she could've, indeed should've remained outside. All she said was… well…
"Don't leave me again. Please."
…that was a feeling.
That was definitely a feeling.
There weren't any more words in that courtyard. No point. No need. Taylor would tell the story of how Godrick fell later. It wasn't a story that deserved to be told now - it deserved a dinner, wine, a roaring fire. He wouldn't want to be commemorated during someone else's victory, nor in the open air with only a single bottle of liquor to share around. Not that it felt much like a victory, of course. But still, she'd tell that story when the time came. For now, there was just… rest. For a brief moment. The pounding of her heart receded, and the gold seemed to be… the best comparison she could find was a spluttering old professor trying to get an unruly class back under control. It disliked disorder, both in the world and in the confines of her skull. It wanted her to be normal, to just… organise the information, parse it, move on towards better goals. She tried to ignore it - and it allowed itself to be ignored. It was good at existing quietly, and that was what really made it superior in her eyes to the Formless Mother or Destined Death. Observed or unobserved, it would work away, and it didn't demand spectators. It knew when to leave her alone. Good.
Her robe hung ragged around her skinny frame, torn and threadbare in some patches. Never designed for a long journey like this, always a luxurious thing. She felt… paltry, while wearing it. A tattered cloak on a lifeless stick, useless to everyone and everything (including itself) until it managed to get some air inside, something warm and stirring, something to inflate the fabric to life. Adrenaline, purpose… something.
Time skipped. She was inside. The robe was hung up on a hook, and she'd replaced it with more practical garb, scavenged from old wardrobes the soldiers had left alone. Mohg's robe stank of warfare, reminded her too much of Stormveil. Needed cleaning anyway. And she wasn't a… red and gold person. Dark greens seemed to be her colour. More accurately, someone with a taste for dark green had lived here once, and coincidentally was her size. Almost. It was a little embarrassing that she still couldn't tell if the clothes were meant for a man or a woman, but whoever they were, they were damn tall. Thank God that this world was full of abnormally tall people, or she'd be condemned to wandering around wearing shorts constantly. And there were certain limits she was still unwilling to cross, shorts being one of them. Gah. Haight was comfortable enough - didn't feel quite like a home yet, but that was probably due to all the corpses. Once they were burned, once the debris was cleared away, once everything approached a state of order… well, it'd feel less like home, but it'd also be more sanitary. She was willing to make that trade.
Another skip, another flash, another blur of memories that melded together into a solid mass, indistinct and hazy. Snatches of conversations she could barely remember, parted by oceans of forgetfulness. Crawa gathering flowers and putting them inside Taylor's emptied bottles, making a tiny shrine on the edge of the cliff, just in sight of the castle. She didn't know how to mourn, not exactly, had to invent things as she went. And she had denied any offers of company… but Taylor had watched from a distance as she set up the shrine, moving rocks to create a windbreak. There were no names carved, no symbols, no relics. Just a few delicate flowers she'd plucked from near the Mistwood, carefully arranged. She still went there every morning. Alone. Always to go and pray to the shrine, to replace the flowers which had wilted. Six bottles, filled to bursting. For Godrick. For her mother. For the sisters she'd lost. The first few times she'd come back with damp eyes and a silent manner… but over time she forced herself to be brighter. Mixed results.
Another memory. Holding Angharad still while she thrashed, eyes bulging, teeth set in a rictus of concentration. Withdrawal had been… unpleasant. And Crawa found her terrifying when she thrashed and howled. Telavis was strong enough, but… Angharad didn't know him particularly well. She trusted Taylor, just a little. Just enough to not scratch and bite when the shakes came on. She never spoke during her fits, never did anything but thrash and occasionally yell wordlessly at anything nearby. The nightmares were the worst, apparently - withdrawal could hurt, but she'd deprived herself of sleep for a long, long while. Too long. And as a side-effect, she had… disturbed dreams. Very disturbed. Taylor found a memory - Angharad shivering in a stone corridor, staring wild-eyed around herself, nightgown ragged and filthy. Red marks where she'd scratched clumsily at herself with a single arm, trying to remove… something she'd hallucinated. Ticks, fleas, leeches, whatever it was she had a wordless fear of it.
Time skipped… another memory from the last few days, a tiny piece of clarity amidst a meaningless fog. Roderika growing more inward, retreating to books, almost always having Aurelia summoned to keep her company and provide a little illumination during the later hours. She clearly liked Taylor, but wasn't comfortable with confiding much about her past, present, or future. But once, just once, Taylor had caught her glaring at one of her hands, forcing it to turn a page despite how much it shook. The two had silently shared a quick drink then. Unwilling to talk about Stormveil, about the roar of combat, the sheer terror that came with it. Unwilling to talk about much at all.
She remembered standing with Telavis on the edge of a low, grey stretch of beach, staring out into the ocean. They didn't talk, but that felt par for the course with the two of them. Silently, the knight had crouched down, plucked a single wide, flat stone from the damp sand, and threw it carefully across the waves. Skip… skip… skip… with a final 'plunk' it sank beneath the surface. He grumbled irritably, and reached for another. It met a similar fate to the first - three skips and a plunk. He continued to do this, carefully sizing up the stones, examining them for defects, sometimes casting half a dozen aside before he settled on one that he trusted to perform well. Taylor just watched, her eyes fixating on one random detail after another. The patterns of a gull in the sky, wings strained as it rode the winds, barely able to remain in place. The crash of the sea. The progress of the waves as the tide retreated from them, inch by inch. The patterns left by the foam as it washed across the sand, marking each rock claimed, each patch of sand smoothed into featureless plainness…
Telavis had handed her a stone in silence .
She weighed it up.
And she cast it into the waves.
The waves.
The waves.
Time passed.
The sound of waves erased everything else, just for a moment, and time advanced. Flitted forward, really. A few days were lost, and suddenly she was living in Haight, not just visiting. Always a turn, that. When the bed felt like something she owned, when the floor no longer felt cold and unfamiliar, when her hands were automatically moving to particular cupboards when she imagined a need for something, never scrabbling nervously for every possible storage area. The sound of waves had woken her up - a particularly loud crash, and the sound of a gull shrieking from on high. The bed was comfortable, and a nearby bottle caught the morning light that crept through the window. Dark glass refracted it over and over, casting the room into a dull green-tinted gloom. A mire split by the occasion patch of purest silver. She could've watched it for hours… sometimes she did, until the sun left and there was nothing but grey ceiling. Until her skin felt gritty, her eyes felt strained, and her lungs felt choked with dust. Until boredom drove her to remember other things. Two women in her house, one loving, the other cold, both driven to replace her. Impossible lights through the windows of her childhood home. Metal clashing. Her breath freezing in her throat as a foreign will supplanted her own. Memories, piling on top of each other, one, then another, then another, then another, then-
She got up quickly.
Dressed quickly, too, and shambled to… well, acquire eggs. Breakfast demanded them, and it was her turn. Only her and Telavis were permitted to gather eggs. At first, Taylor had thought breakfast would just be a harmless adventure. She hadn't made breakfast for herself in… a while. Everything before Haight had either been prepared in Stormveil's vast kitchens by a fleet of half-comatose cooks who used far too much lard, or was dried food consumed on the road. Which hardly counted as edible. Haight had… chickens, by a given definition. And by given definition, she meant 'avian creatures descended from dinosaurs' before the page was torn asunder by things that suspiciously resembled enormous talons. Because they were large. Bigger than any bird had any right to be. No teeth, but that really wasn't saying much when they could probably disembowel her with a casual kick. She entered into the coop, the ceiling high enough for her to actually stand up straight. Huge black eyes stared out at her from the darkness, cold and calculating. Probably wondering how easy it was to to attack her, consume her, and conceal the body amidst a pile of loose feathers. Taylor reached behind her back, all sleepiness forgotten, and withdrew…
The steaks.
Bloody, raw, and startlingly high-quality. Of course, this was barely food. More of a… bribe. Yeah. Bribe, that was it. She talked quietly to them, trying to reassure herself more than anything else.
"...here you go, steaks. Your favourite. Please don't scratch my face off."
A chicken at the head of the brood stepped forward slowly, claws making deep marks in the wooden floor. It was impossible tell what colour it had originally been - the chickens were steadily digging their way downwards, one scratch at a time, and all that remained was raw, pale wood. The head chicken, that she'd nicknamed Elvis (the damn thing had a headcrest which looked eerily like a pompadour in the right light. If you ignored the inhuman black eyes, the enormous claws, and the loathing for all unfeathered life), stalked towards her, the others remaining back for the moment. It examined the steak from all angles. Taylor just tried to keep her eyes away from the slop bucket that previous tenants of Haight had used.
The knights in this castle had been exclusively feeding these chickens two things. Boiling blood. And chicken.
Truly, Mohg's servants had nefarious designs on the innocent folk of the Lands Between. Mutating innocent chickens into grotesque ostriches…
How chickenshit of them.
Oh no she was going delirious again. Didn't even have oxygen deprivation to blame this time. Just chickens.
"...uh, so, yeah. Steaks. Go on, eat them. They're fresh and everything."
Elvis finished his examinations - God, these things were weird. They had the strange mixture of rigid stiffness and constant jerkiness that characterised the humble chicken, but these beasts combined it with a beak stained with brown, crusted-on blood, and claws that were constantly itching for something living to tear at. Elvis stared at her impassively… and in a single, swift motion, attacked the steak with wild abandon. A few bites, and it was gone, his neck wobbling grotesquely as he gorged himself. Black eyes clouded over with something resembling satisfaction. A final clack of its beak, and it stalked away. Taylor could swear that she heard a low, snarling voice fill the cramped space of the coop, one that couldn't possibly be coming from Elvis, because that would be insane - and anyway, his beak wasn't moving. His eyes were glowing a little, though.
The bargain is concluded. Consume the young.
She really wished the damn chickens wouldn't talk about the eggs that way. Gah. At least the eggs were massive, it was like hanging around a domesticated ostrich. A domesticated ostrich which occasionally made unnatural noises and was basically a mutant abomination. She'd try and get rid of these things, but… she was honestly a little afraid of the consequences of releasing them into the wild. As long as they got their steaks on time, they left things well enough alone. Usually.
"Uh. Thanks. See you."
Skrawlk.
Now that sounded vaguely more chicken-like. Feeling marginally more reassured that the world was as it should be, all creatures making the noises they were meant to (memories of Earth Bet might be fading more and more each day, but she distinctly remembered being taught in kindergarten that chickens went 'cluck' or 'skrawlk', and most certainly didn't go 'the bargain is concluded, consume the young'), she departed. The kitchens of Haight were rather small, almost cosy, not designed for a huge staff - the castle was too compact for that. Food took a while to spoil in the Lands Between, so they had been able to live off leavings - the knights had been raiding nearby villages for supplies, and the pantry was fairly well-stocked. Eggs. Fried. Simple, filling, everything she needed. Though… the kitchen was marred by one of Irina's latest attempts at 'cooking'. How the girl managed to get so much sauce over the walls defied explanation - no, wait, she was blind. Alright, she got a pass. Vaguely. She stepped over a shredded cabbage to reach the door, shoving it open with her third arm.
"Oh, you're awake!"
Crawa was an excitable ball of limbs and wings, and was the single largest reason for why Taylor had decided to remove any and all delicate vases from the castle. She bustled into Taylor, draped in… well, it was hard to find clothes for Crawa. She needed a proper tailor. But in lieu of a tailor, she had Taylor. And Taylor was tall enough to cut down a few tapestries for her to wear like particularly exotic togas. Sometimes it worked out. Today was not one of those days - she looked like a particularly misshapen beanbag. Crawa scuttled over, beaming widely - she'd thrown herself into life here with gusto. Probably as a distraction. She didn't… really want to talk about Stormveil. Or her father. Or even her sisters. Trying to put it all behind her, move on with her life as best she could. Mourning was confined to the morning, when she went to her shrine alone. Thus contained, she could… try and move on. This was probably why she was currently scuttling excitedly from place to place, chattering about everything and nothing, diving into any hobby which looked halfway enjoyable. At the moment - maybe a week after they'd conquered this place - that hobby so happened to be whittling.
"Taylor, Taylor, you must look at this - look!"
She presented something which had perhaps once been a piece of wood. The rest of it was currently deposited on her cloak, her feathers, and her hair in the form of small, pale shavings.
"...uh."
"It's Telavis! I'm making my way through all of us, and he seemed the easiest."
That was fair. If she peered… hm. Well, in the faint gloom of the hall, with the light behind it, it kinda resembled the knight. She'd definitely captured the stoicism, and a certain amount of the sleepiness. But the beard was more of a shapeless tumour, and the armour only faintly discernible. Still, for her first experiment with the human form, it was pretty good.
"...tell you what, let's put it here. Then Telavis can see it when he comes in."
"Do you like it?"
"...sure, I like it. It's very… uh. Like him."
Crawa paused… and started to glow, quivering in excitement. Taylor took advantage of the distraction to find a seat. Roderika was poring over a huge book at a side-table, the remnants of a breakfast long-forgotten. Aurelia was, as per usual, clinging to her like a limpet. She glanced up at Taylor and nodded a small 'good morning' to her, but was otherwise disinclined to conversation. As Crawa scuttled around to find the best possible spot, Taylor was able to survey the room a little more. It was just her, Crawa, Roderika and… ah. Angharad. Telavis didn't sleep, spent most of his time looking moodily over the sea, before turning around at random intervals to drink and train with anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.
Or he'd regale them with stories about his old glories - Stormveil had really woken him up, it was hard to imagine him being as… taciturn as he'd once been. He was quiet by habit, but he was becoming more and more active. Irina and Tisiphone were elsewhere. Taylor wasn't going to pry. Angharad was… recovering from her experiments with certain substances. Her lips remained faintly blue-stained, and her eyes had a certain wildness about them, but otherwise… ah, who was she kidding. The two of them had just become drinking buddies. Healthier than the alternatives of extensive medieval drug use or moping around the castle twitching at any noise which came her way. Certainly better than the withdrawal and the constant night terrors on Angharad' part. Haight had a good cellar, she'd say that much. The previous residents hadn't been much interested in alcohol, blood being both more plentiful and more intoxicating.
She couldn't be quite sure when it properly started - the drinking, that is. She'd downed half a bottle in the courtyard after the battle, then things had faded into obscurity, and before she knew it, she was having just a few cups a night. Didn't entirely matter what, so long as it brought a certain numbness with it. Just to keep herself going, that was it. Like… decompression. Right. She was finding it difficult to relax in peaceful conditions, and alcohol forced her to relax a little. A leg-up - showing her how to act, how to behave. Easing her into a world where she wasn't constantly fearing for her life, where she was actually in charge of her own fate - mostly. She certainly wasn't beholden to a tyrannical overlord anymore. Angharad glanced up blearily as she sat down, her eyes faintly overcast.
"...oh, morning."
Taylor glanced at the bottle in front of her.
"We'll run out if we keep going at this pace."
See, she was being responsible - no blaming, she acknowledged her own guilt. If she was acknowledging her own guilt, that was practically as good as absolving herself. Right? Guilt worked that way, she was fairly sure. Angharad grunted.
"...when I drink alone I get miserable. So I drink more to be less miserable. Self-sustaining reaction, see."
She was grasping for it out of instinct, drawing the half-full bottle closer, closer… Taylor intercepted. It was too early for a drink. She might drink a greater amount than was healthy, but she still had standards. Some, at least. Even if the perfumer was basically just inviting her to drink with her, alcoholism being better in company. Angharad whined disconsolately, and Taylor tried to change the subject.
"How's the laboratory coming?"
"...tolerably. This place doesn't have much in the way of equipment, but I can certainly try to improvise. Stormveil had a few bits of kit left, some spares, and a few stores of more common reagents. Here… I'm lucky to scavenge a few scraps from old barrels."
"But it's still going tolerably?"
"Tolerably enough. But I'm still setting things up. Give me time, and I'll have more results. But… we'll need to get more supplies soon. There's a definite ceiling to what I can achieve."
What she could achieve… they'd talked a little about that. Angharad was trying to lose herself in work. Healing tinctures, some aromatics designed for the enhancement of the physical form, more exotic experiments she was interested in pursuing. Taylor remembered the sticky fire that had drowned so many Tarnished, the smell of burning meat filling the air - her knife clicked against a plate as she speared an egg a little too hard. Crawa glanced over from the mantlepiece where she was carefully placing her latest carving, next to a few which resembled birds from a certain angle. Taylor chewed quietly, and… thought. She stared into the middle distance, trying to get herself in order. Some days were easy - she woke up, she staggered around a little, and soon enough she could collapse once more with a glass or two of something. Enough to get her to sleep quickly and with minimal fuss. And some days were like… this. A damp, drizzly November of the soul, cursed by lucidity. She'd stare ahead and realise that, for once, her premeditated murder of hours was going to be a little complicated.
The hours were fighting back, after all.
And in moments like this… she got to thinking. The sea air would rush through the halls of Fort Haight, chilling everything, coating any exposed surface in a faint layer of salt, and she'd stare quietly out at the ocean. Across it lay… something. The Lands Beyond, where Roderika came from. Sometimes she wondered what the world was like out there - was it quieter? Or was the same drama being repeated over and over - the Shattering taking its toll no matter how far from the Erdtree you were? With some effort, she dismissed the thoughts - pointless, unproductive. But… what was there to be productive about? Haight was hidden, and she didn't have an army to defend it. She helped clear it up, get the gates in working order, do everything she could… but they hadn't had a single visitor. Barely anyone even knew this place existed, and getting here involved going through the Mistwood - not the nicest spot in the world, to be honest. A small, windswept fortress was hardly an appealing target for any bandit, any Tarnished. Morne remained a concern, but… no sign of them. The wolfman hadn't done anything, no demihumans or Misbegotten had shown up. Even her more outlandish fears - Mohg rising from a pool of blood to extract revenge, Onager sneaking in to assassinate them all in the night, maybe some random Tarnished coming to ruin things… nothing. None came to realisation.
Until today, evidently.
A bell clanged. Someone was at the front door. Roderika squeaked in alarm, Angharad became a tangle of half-drunk limbs, and Crawa scuttled in a circle before coming to her senses. Taylor's heart immediately raced, and her brain buzzed. Oh, she was ready. Eggs were forgotten in a second as she rushed outwards, pounding through the courtyard, hauling herself up a narrow flight of stone stairs, up to the highest vantage point she could find. Someone was at the door, someone was at the door. Trader? Tarnished? Enemy, friend, neutral? Just… someone? Something to respond to, something to plan around, something to inject a little uncertainty into things? Come on, come on. She stared downwards at the ground below - no armies, no parties she could see. She could vaguely hear the others coming to join her - come to stare at the visitor. People, people… just a horse, tied to a post beyond the gates. And stepping away from the gate itself, waving upwards…
Oh hell.
"Morning, strategess!"
How the hell had Nepheli found this place.
"...uh. Hi?"
Her voice was small, uncertain. She hadn't quite anticipated this.
"You remember me? It's Nepheli - we've wrestled a few times!"
Her face was indiscernible at this distance, but she certainly seemed to be smiling. Mostly. Two giant axes were at her side - but they hung loosely from straps on her belt. No sign of hostile intent. If anything, she looked… cheerful. Mostly, at least. Even this far away, Taylor could catch a hint of something else. A hint of reticence, caution… maybe even nervousness. Odd.
"...yeah, I remember. Why are you here? And how did you find us?"
"Wolfman in the forest told me you came this way!"
Fucking Blaidd.
"Sorry, strategess, would you mind letting me in? Voice is getting tired. And it's important - I promise."
"...why exactly did you come?"
Nepheli gave her a look, visible even from the ground. Oh. Oh shit. Taylor had mentioned a willingness to wrestle her in future. Wait - she was tougher now, right? She might even stand a chance? Maybe? Possibly? She considered just turning her away - she was one Tarnished, what could she do against a whole castle, against all of them bunched together? Crawa poked her head over the battlements and squeaked in alarm. She ducked back down, and pointed frantically while spluttering various half-words and distressed noises.
"Tarn- it's her- we stab- bleh?"
That could be read as an exasperated exclamation, or maybe an earnest suggestion. Tarn. It's her. We stab. She misspoke on 'Tarnished', but the message was fairly clear. She could be stabbed, and this entire situation would go aw- no, she could resurrect. Really, Taylor was just doing the reasonable thing by letting her in, wrestling her properly, getting this over and done with.
Fuck her, she needed to hit something.
"Sure. I'll be down in a second."
Nepheli looked a little surprised, but nodded enthusiastically regardless. Taylor turned to leave, and was stopped by Angharad and Crawa. Roderika was poking her head out of the stairwell, unable to get out to join the huddle. But she was glaring up a storm. Angharad was clearly on the verge of saying something regrettable, a few deep breaths giving her one or two steps away from that precipitous drop into mad vulgarity.
"Taylor, would you mind explaining why you're doing this?"
Because she needed to fight someone. Because she was getting the itches from a lack of conflict. Because she kept having dreams about that last day in Stormveil, about dying quietly in an isolated tower, about being surrounded by whirling blades and howled battlecries. And living in peace wasn't helping one little bit. It just made the dreams worse, really. In her own way, she was… envying the state of mind she'd been in. Half-mad, completely paranoid, but still… focused. She'd always been able to shunt things off into the future, every issue was something that could be reckoned with at a later date. And now she'd reached that later date, and she didn't know what to do with herself. She woke up, she shambled, she fell asleep, she dreamed of fighting. And when her chest felt too tight, when her muscles burned, when she felt like she was locking up again, returning to that final day… she almost wondered if she was enjoying it. Just a little. If she was relishing the change, the feeling that something was clicking, that she was returning to a state where she'd been… doing something. As opposed to waiting around for the appropriate time to drink, asking people what they were doing because she wasn't doing anything of value herself…
She needed to fight.
"She's one Tarnished. And she's been pretty honest so far - she told me about Hodir heading your way. If we kill her, she might just come back with friends."
Crawa spluttered.
"But we stabbed her!"
"I stabbed her. You held her down."
"Glargh?!"
Crawa appeared to have lost control over the English language. Unfortunate. Angharad was becoming more adamant, though.
"Look, I can take living with a Tarnished - you're alright, Roderika. I can take living in a castle with no functional laboratory. I can take the nightmares, and the drinking, and the withdrawal. But I… I don't think I can take inviting hostile Tarnished inside for some recreational activities."
"And I get that. But… let's just see what she wants. If she tries to kill any of us, go ahead. Fight her. Finish her off. She's one Tarnished. Roderika, you've got Aurelia. Angharad, I assume you have something lying around. Crawa, you could flail angrily and you'd be a threat. Telavis should be coming soon, and… alright, Tisphone's out, but she should be back in a bit. We'll be fine."
The three exchanged glances. Roderika made a worried sound.
"...Taylor, if there's something happening, we can talk…"
Taylor snapped. Just a little.
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm going to go let her in. Follow if you want."
She felt bad the moment her mouth closed, the moment Roderika shrank back from her sharp tone. She was… on edge. Tenterhooks - everything ached for a release of some kind, something to tighten her back up. She felt like she was falling apart, like an old fruit left out in the sun. It'd only been a week, and she was itching to do something - more strategy, more fighting, more adrenaline, more anything that could help her sleep, snap her muscles back into position like elastic bands. Medieval botox, freezing her in a perfect, perfect position, where she was a creature of non-stop purpose, dedicated to one goal after another, not just… vague inclinations suppressed by time. She had to find Marika or Radagon… but that was far-off. She needed to recover first, needed to get a home base, needed to get situated… and that process was making her feel like she was coming apart at the seams, a book in the rain, pages swollen with ink, all the words running together, nothing but pulp and leather and matter stewing into a half-dead, half-alive soup. Even the gold couldn't help - she didn't want it to help.
The others got out of her way.
The stairwell was steep and narrow, a death trap that her dad would've sued somebody for if one of the dockworkers had to climb up or down it at any time.
The door to the castle was thick, old. Studded with arrowheads from old sieges, marred by little scars that the dead wood couldn't heal. But even so, it continued. Age had made it gnarled and tough - like a body left up in the mountains. No blood in its veins, no life in its body, but it endured, a wizened husk that clung to structure despite all evidence to the contrary. Nepheli lay beyond. Taylor hesitated… then pulled it free, undoing every latch, every lock - and they had plenty. The woman beyond was shorter than she remembered. Tough as nails, well-muscled, axes at her waist… but now she was looking up at Taylor. Her skin wasn't flush with Runes, she'd lost them at Stormveil. Her armour - such as it was - had a ragged edge to it which it hadn't possessed before. Up close… there was something about her smile. Something invisible from the top of the castle. She smiled, and there wasn't much happiness behind it. It was an excitation of muscle and muscle alone, the mind had little relevance to its emergence or its continuation. And without the mind giving it feeling, emotion, it just looked… present. Fibres had contracted, skin had shifted, teeth were exposed. A miracle of biology occurring with no rhyme or reason.
Her eyes were like burned-out pilot lights.
"...oh, hello. It's… been a while."
Taylor felt a little paralysed.
"...yeah. A few weeks."
"We didn't really talk in the last battle. Mind if I come in?"
She noticed Taylor's three current companions peeking around the edge, suspicion in their eyes.
"...I don't mean any trouble. Not looking to get into the habit of sneaking around - had enough of that already. Just looking for a drink and some talk."
No, Taylor wanted a fight, come on, couldn't she just get to the point? Wrestle her, fight her, make her draw out her dearest emotions, do something! For a second she considered just challenging her here and now… but a certain amount of sanity lingered in her boredom-laden skull. Somewhere around the ennui dwelt enough common sense to keep from picking a fight, not when she could still probably get one later. Nepheli didn't seem like the type to back down on a promise of wrestling. She shrugged, and swung the door wider. The Tarnished gladly entered, casting off a travelling cloak made heavy with dew. Her armour was, indeed, half-unmade - weatherbeaten as Fort Haights walls. She didn't say much, just strode into the courtyard, glancing around in search of… something. Taylor went to join her, feeling her own cloak snapping about her feet like a hungry dog.
"Hall's that way."
"Got yourself a cellar?"
"...technically, yes."
"Wouldn't mind if I had a little… liquid warmth?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Telavis had stumped his way over the walls, beard salt-flecked and damp, eyes curious. Nepheli paused for a second at the sight of his armour, but was otherwise calm. Wasn't sure if that was a case of simply having nerves of steel… or simply not caring. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, illuminating Crawa's numerous attempts at whittling - Taylor felt a moment of embarrassment. The hall only had a few long tables in it, and most of them were covered in detritus from a dozen projects. A whetstone for sharpening knives and swords lay in one corner, Crawa had an assemblage of small knives next to heaping piles of wood shavings, Roderika had a small mound of books, Angharad had some empty bottles pinning sheets of paper in place, covered in spider-like diagrams… and Taylor hadn't cleaned up her breakfast. Nepheli didn't mind any of it, simply plonking herself down with a grunt of relief, putting her feet up on the table, and resting herself for just a moment. Taylor silently found a bottle of something or other - wait, she knew this one. Similar to gin, but… off. Not that she really understood how it was off, she'd never had gin before coming here. But a mention of juniper in one of Angharad's rambles had stirred a few memories of pointless trivia, and thus this alien liquor became 'weird gin', regardless of any accuracy or lack thereof.
Nepheli took her cup, sniffed delicately… then pounded it back with a shiver of delight. Oh, great, another alcoholic. Taylor couldn't judge, she finished her own cup just a second after Nepheli. The woman rubbed her hands together, enjoying the feeling of the fire within and without. For a second there was a silence… and then she spoke. Her voice was quiet, fortified with a little gin-based confidence, but otherwise uncharacteristically sombre.
"...you were there when we were cursed, weren't you?"
Cursed? Did she mean… ah. Godrick.
"I was."
She leaned forward, her eyes burning with eagerness.
"I don't want to beg, and I won't. But one warrior to another… I was wondering if you knew how he made that curse. How it was done, how it was put together."
Her voice fell a little.
"How it might be broken."
What did she mean, broken? Godrick had just cursed them - a final oath that they would be ruined at the end, that they would have no loyalty, no victory, nothing. But that had been it - an attempt at intimidation. She'd been the one to give them the Great Rune, not… oh. She could see how a narrative might emerge. They had torn each other apart, after all. No wonder the woman looked shaken.
"...I'm sorry about the army, but-"
Nepheli interrupted.
"Pox on the army. With Calvert running circles around us, we were going to rip each other apart anyhow. Like bulls goring each other when confined. I want to know how the curse got to father."
Her father… right. Gideon. She vaguely recalled Nepheli mentioning that - Christ, now that must've been a childhood worth writing a few biographies about, agents would lap up that kind of dysfunction. What did she mean by him being cursed, though? Her curiosity must have shone through on her owl-like face, because Nepheli snapped a little, her voice becoming harsher, rougher, more desperate.
"Surely you must've seen it - one moment my lord father is helping us, the next he's betrayed everyone. The tunnel's come crashing down, and he tells us that the Great Rune goes to the strongest - I died in there, several times over, and I still have no notion of who has the blasted Rune. I had it for a moment, felt the power rush through me, then… nothing. It could be anyone's by now. And there's no way Calvert killed Vyke, he was always too weak. Father must've had a hand in that, somehow - Calvert and Vyke walk in, and then father shows up on the balcony with Calvert's half-dead body? Too convenient for a coincidence.. And then… then I get back to the Roundtable, I burst into his study, and father says: 'it was all necessary for our plans, if you can't stomach that, we have nothing left to say to one another'."
She growled.
"Scarlet Rot, sneaking around, assassinating the weak, starving a castle, using every dishonourable tactic we could find, and then… and then he just lets us slaughter each other. No, there's no chance. I don't care for my own death, I've died enough. But to make this curse afflict father - he promised me that he'd never allow the downtrodden to be cheated again, if he became Elden Lord. I can stand for the death of an army, I can stand for the destruction of our cause at the hands of corrupt commanders, but to erode father's morals - please, tell me about this curse. I have sworn to break it, if I must journey for a hundred years. Upon my name as Nepheli Loux, Warrior, I will bring father back to his senses."
Her tone grew stronger, bolder - another cup of gin was knocked back, and her eyes burned with inner fire, the pilot lights reigniting. Taylor could feel something inside herself, as well. A… feeling. Hot. Warm. Life, burning upwards, giving everything some greater meaning. Her hands felt rich with blood, her breath was warm, quick, manual. Nothing was just automatic, for just a second, she felt like she had absolute command over her own body. Life was infectious.
"So tell me, strategess - tell me about this curse, and tell me how it may be broken."
"...well…"
"I will gladly do anything. Ask me to join your service, and I'll do it, and happily. Ask me to fight some vile foe, and I will go forth with gusto. Just tell me."
Her tone was inching towards pleading once more.
"I don't know anything about a curse."
"...what?"
Her voice was small.
"I just… heard the same things you did. And Gideon didn't help kill Vyke, Calvert did all that."
"But how, how could he…"
"One second."
She dashed away, running back to her room - hidden in a box, underneath layers of clothes and random objects. There - the remnants of Calvert's gun. Less stained, more well-maintained, but adamantly non-functional. Well, she assumed. She wasn't going to waste a vital bullet on a test fire which might go nowhere, or might break the gun even more. She'd never even fired a gun before in her life, she wasn't going to start experimenting wildly with technology that might as well be completely unique in this world. It'd be like throwing a priceless antique vase to the ground, nodding as it shattered while saying wisely 'yep, that's fine Ming-dynasty china, that is. You can tell by the splintering pattern'. Still - it should prove a point. Nepheli was waiting eagerly for her, but her eyes had a wary quality to them. She had downed another cup of liquid courage, and was desperate for anything - but pessimism was starting to outweigh things. Bravado was being undermined by cold, hard reality.
"This is the weapon - from my home."
Angharad had re-entered at this point, standing cautiously near the entrance… but she lunged forward when the gun emerged, eyes bright with curiosity. Crawa was remaining outside for the moment, despite the drizzle. Too nervous. Roderika was keeping her company, as was Aurelia.
"...what is it, exactly?"
"A gun. Look, it doesn't work at the moment - but it's… like a crossbow. Imagine a crossbow, but instead of a bolt, it's a tiny piece of metal which is thrown out by an explosion."
Nepheli blinked.
"...I follow."
"Now imagine that pressed against the back of Vyke's head."
Nepheli glanced sharply at the bullets arranged neatly next to the cold, black mass of metal and other, more exotic materials.
"Calvert shot him twice. No recovering from that."
"And then…"
"I was hidden - remember that thing I used on you, the headband? I used that to hide, then jumped out when Calvert had his guard down."
She paused.
"...then Gideon showed up. Said that he'd planned most of this. He wanted the army to fail."
Nepheli froze.
"...did he."
"That's what he said. He wants the status quo to keep going - if people run around collecting all the Great Runes successfully, then he'll need to abandon his own research. Apparently there's things he still needs to figure out, and he can't do that if someone else becomes Elden Lord before him."
She paused. Nepheli looked horrified - but she was listening. Seemed to believe her. Naive, trusting, or just a good judge of character?
"...the siege was meant to make Tarnished not want to gather into an army ever again. Vyke would be discredited, Calvert would be loathed, and… any Tarnished involved would be prevented from fighting Radahn. The Redmanes wouldn't allow anyone who worked with the Scarlet Rot to get close."
And now the woman flipped her shit.
"He did what? He… father… Gideon, he did… gah!"
She stood up and punched a wall. It looked like it hurt - so she downed a cup of gin and punched the wall again harder. Again, again - her knuckles looked red. Taylor would've let it go on, but she was starting to cause some permanent damage.
"Please stop denting my walls."
"That prick, he tricked us, all of us, and now… now none of us have a chance, all because of his research?! Gideon's wise, so why would he leave me out of this plan, why would he force me to go to Stormveil with the rest?!"
Probably because the presence of his daughter would reassure any doubters among the Tarnished. She wasn't going to say that, of course. Her walls were dented enough. The gun was safely stowed away, just in case she felt like testing the thing, or simply felt like smashing something delicate and irreplaceable. Taylor could understand the sensation… and she could feel something in the air. Something that fizzed. Nepheli growled again, downing some gin straight from the bottle - Taylor was a few cups deep at this point, and was feeling a real damn buzz.
"No curse?! Of course there's a curse, of course… gah!"
"If there is, I'm not aware of it."
"Of course, that would be too easy! Curses can be broken, but this… this is… I can't fix this!"
She almost punched the wall, relented, then kicked the table, sending splinters flying. Angharad quietly backed away, trying to become invisible. Crawa poked her head inside and saw a mad barbarian smashing a chair against the stone walls. Taylor would stop her, but… she needed to get some of this out of her system. Crawa politely backed away. Good move. Nepheli probably wouldn't be the best around grafted people. Not at the moment. Taylor very quietly stood, and removed her cloak, shaking it off to clear away some of the dew. Nepheli turned at the movement, her eyes bloodshot, her teeth bared in a savage rictus.
"And… and I helped him, I believed in him, I…"
Taylor interrupted.
"...you look like you need some stress relief."
"I do, fetch another bottl… wait. Are you… suggesting something?"
Her eyes were bright.
"...maybe."
"I… did ask for a wrestling match in future, didn't I?"
"I seem to remember that."
Nepheli grinned.
"Alright then."
"Outside?"
"Outside."
Taylor's day had just improved dramatically.
Days had passed.
Taylor remembered some of them.
Everything had dissolved once peace was achieved. Once she was left alone to her own devices, nothing to do but move rubble, burn bodies, arrange pantries, and generally get this castle back in working order… she fell apart a little. Time certainly did. Everything became vignettes. Coherent narrative ceased, all that remained were snapshots of her existence in this salt-scarred castle. The… right, she knew about the end of the battle. It hadn't been difficult to clear out the soldiers - and without them, there was no-one here. Every servant was either dead or gone, and apparently being bled to death made resurrection slow, painful, and generally discomforting. Surprisingly few servants, though, for a castle of this size. Presumably a good number had escaped. So, for the time being, it was just them. Tisiphone and Irina had consented to stay for a while - mostly to help with the clean-up, but Taylor could read the look in Tisiphone's eyes. She didn't want to drag Irina to some fishing village where she could grow more and more hateful in isolation. Company helped. Company kept her from being too angry about Morne, kept her from dwelling too long on her father, her friends, her family, her entire world back in that huge castle. When she wasn't feeling spiteful, she was downright nice to be around.
Taylor could actually… no, no, causality was breaking down again. She was getting too far ahead of herself, a haze of domesticity was trying to drown out the rest - the aftermath. The stink of blood in the air, the pulsing of adrenaline through her veins, the feeling like she'd put herself on the edge and come out… somewhere. Not a victory, not a defeat, but the kind of event which existed between the two. The battle had ended, and she was drinking on a bench. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, but whenever she sipped at the bottle - cups were pointless - she found herself capable of ignoring the shaking, just for a second. There'd been no comments from the others, too busy dealing with the bodies. A few were still half-alive, struggling weakly - they were taken care of swiftly. People yawned when they were dying, their body gulping for air with every instinct it could muster. She was surrounded by yawning half-corpses, and as one of them wriggled unsettlingly, she took another deep draught. She was… no, not alone. Right, that was it. Crawa had come over, accompanied by Angharad and Roderika. The three looked guilty and relieved at the same time, and shuffled a little when she looked upon them.
"...hi."
Crawa broke down and rushed for Taylor, immediately enveloping her in a hug. Roderika wasn't far behind. Angharad joined them, and promptly started reaching for the bottle. Well, at least it wasn't hard drugs. That had to count for something. The four remained there - Taylor didn't quite know how to respond. Her first response had been to try and push them away, her mind still buzzing with combat, proximity making her think of the stinking, copper-scented breath of men she cut down one after another, the toothless maws of Tarnished, burnished with a few shattered enamel icebergs, that roared wordless battlecries into her face, while her allies were cut down one after another, one by one, always declining, always fading, thump, thump, thump, the same sound as her heartbeat, thump, thump… no. Couldn't let it win. In this position she couldn't drink again - calm down, calm down. Her breathing slowly came under control, her eyes stopped darting with a conscious effort. She tried to relax into the hug. Tried to. An awkward hand patted Crawa on her vast back, and that was all.
"...you guys got up to a lot without me, huh?"
She expected a deluge of horrible stories. The forest, where a wolfman dwelt and a well led to an underground city. The endless steppe, where the remnants of a Tarnished army could be waiting even now. The rising kingdom in Morne. The… nothing came. Crawa had no interest in complaining about her lot - she didn't even see fit to explain how she'd ended up in Haight when she could've, indeed should've remained outside. All she said was… well…
"Don't leave me again. Please."
…that was a feeling.
That was definitely a feeling.
There weren't any more words in that courtyard. No point. No need. Taylor would tell the story of how Godrick fell later. It wasn't a story that deserved to be told now - it deserved a dinner, wine, a roaring fire. He wouldn't want to be commemorated during someone else's victory, nor in the open air with only a single bottle of liquor to share around. Not that it felt much like a victory, of course. But still, she'd tell that story when the time came. For now, there was just… rest. For a brief moment. The pounding of her heart receded, and the gold seemed to be… the best comparison she could find was a spluttering old professor trying to get an unruly class back under control. It disliked disorder, both in the world and in the confines of her skull. It wanted her to be normal, to just… organise the information, parse it, move on towards better goals. She tried to ignore it - and it allowed itself to be ignored. It was good at existing quietly, and that was what really made it superior in her eyes to the Formless Mother or Destined Death. Observed or unobserved, it would work away, and it didn't demand spectators. It knew when to leave her alone. Good.
Her robe hung ragged around her skinny frame, torn and threadbare in some patches. Never designed for a long journey like this, always a luxurious thing. She felt… paltry, while wearing it. A tattered cloak on a lifeless stick, useless to everyone and everything (including itself) until it managed to get some air inside, something warm and stirring, something to inflate the fabric to life. Adrenaline, purpose… something.
Time skipped. She was inside. The robe was hung up on a hook, and she'd replaced it with more practical garb, scavenged from old wardrobes the soldiers had left alone. Mohg's robe stank of warfare, reminded her too much of Stormveil. Needed cleaning anyway. And she wasn't a… red and gold person. Dark greens seemed to be her colour. More accurately, someone with a taste for dark green had lived here once, and coincidentally was her size. Almost. It was a little embarrassing that she still couldn't tell if the clothes were meant for a man or a woman, but whoever they were, they were damn tall. Thank God that this world was full of abnormally tall people, or she'd be condemned to wandering around wearing shorts constantly. And there were certain limits she was still unwilling to cross, shorts being one of them. Gah. Haight was comfortable enough - didn't feel quite like a home yet, but that was probably due to all the corpses. Once they were burned, once the debris was cleared away, once everything approached a state of order… well, it'd feel less like home, but it'd also be more sanitary. She was willing to make that trade.
Another skip, another flash, another blur of memories that melded together into a solid mass, indistinct and hazy. Snatches of conversations she could barely remember, parted by oceans of forgetfulness. Crawa gathering flowers and putting them inside Taylor's emptied bottles, making a tiny shrine on the edge of the cliff, just in sight of the castle. She didn't know how to mourn, not exactly, had to invent things as she went. And she had denied any offers of company… but Taylor had watched from a distance as she set up the shrine, moving rocks to create a windbreak. There were no names carved, no symbols, no relics. Just a few delicate flowers she'd plucked from near the Mistwood, carefully arranged. She still went there every morning. Alone. Always to go and pray to the shrine, to replace the flowers which had wilted. Six bottles, filled to bursting. For Godrick. For her mother. For the sisters she'd lost. The first few times she'd come back with damp eyes and a silent manner… but over time she forced herself to be brighter. Mixed results.
Another memory. Holding Angharad still while she thrashed, eyes bulging, teeth set in a rictus of concentration. Withdrawal had been… unpleasant. And Crawa found her terrifying when she thrashed and howled. Telavis was strong enough, but… Angharad didn't know him particularly well. She trusted Taylor, just a little. Just enough to not scratch and bite when the shakes came on. She never spoke during her fits, never did anything but thrash and occasionally yell wordlessly at anything nearby. The nightmares were the worst, apparently - withdrawal could hurt, but she'd deprived herself of sleep for a long, long while. Too long. And as a side-effect, she had… disturbed dreams. Very disturbed. Taylor found a memory - Angharad shivering in a stone corridor, staring wild-eyed around herself, nightgown ragged and filthy. Red marks where she'd scratched clumsily at herself with a single arm, trying to remove… something she'd hallucinated. Ticks, fleas, leeches, whatever it was she had a wordless fear of it.
Time skipped… another memory from the last few days, a tiny piece of clarity amidst a meaningless fog. Roderika growing more inward, retreating to books, almost always having Aurelia summoned to keep her company and provide a little illumination during the later hours. She clearly liked Taylor, but wasn't comfortable with confiding much about her past, present, or future. But once, just once, Taylor had caught her glaring at one of her hands, forcing it to turn a page despite how much it shook. The two had silently shared a quick drink then. Unwilling to talk about Stormveil, about the roar of combat, the sheer terror that came with it. Unwilling to talk about much at all.
She remembered standing with Telavis on the edge of a low, grey stretch of beach, staring out into the ocean. They didn't talk, but that felt par for the course with the two of them. Silently, the knight had crouched down, plucked a single wide, flat stone from the damp sand, and threw it carefully across the waves. Skip… skip… skip… with a final 'plunk' it sank beneath the surface. He grumbled irritably, and reached for another. It met a similar fate to the first - three skips and a plunk. He continued to do this, carefully sizing up the stones, examining them for defects, sometimes casting half a dozen aside before he settled on one that he trusted to perform well. Taylor just watched, her eyes fixating on one random detail after another. The patterns of a gull in the sky, wings strained as it rode the winds, barely able to remain in place. The crash of the sea. The progress of the waves as the tide retreated from them, inch by inch. The patterns left by the foam as it washed across the sand, marking each rock claimed, each patch of sand smoothed into featureless plainness…
Telavis had handed her a stone in silence .
She weighed it up.
And she cast it into the waves.
The waves.
The waves.
Time passed.
* * *
The sound of waves erased everything else, just for a moment, and time advanced. Flitted forward, really. A few days were lost, and suddenly she was living in Haight, not just visiting. Always a turn, that. When the bed felt like something she owned, when the floor no longer felt cold and unfamiliar, when her hands were automatically moving to particular cupboards when she imagined a need for something, never scrabbling nervously for every possible storage area. The sound of waves had woken her up - a particularly loud crash, and the sound of a gull shrieking from on high. The bed was comfortable, and a nearby bottle caught the morning light that crept through the window. Dark glass refracted it over and over, casting the room into a dull green-tinted gloom. A mire split by the occasion patch of purest silver. She could've watched it for hours… sometimes she did, until the sun left and there was nothing but grey ceiling. Until her skin felt gritty, her eyes felt strained, and her lungs felt choked with dust. Until boredom drove her to remember other things. Two women in her house, one loving, the other cold, both driven to replace her. Impossible lights through the windows of her childhood home. Metal clashing. Her breath freezing in her throat as a foreign will supplanted her own. Memories, piling on top of each other, one, then another, then another, then another, then-
She got up quickly.
Dressed quickly, too, and shambled to… well, acquire eggs. Breakfast demanded them, and it was her turn. Only her and Telavis were permitted to gather eggs. At first, Taylor had thought breakfast would just be a harmless adventure. She hadn't made breakfast for herself in… a while. Everything before Haight had either been prepared in Stormveil's vast kitchens by a fleet of half-comatose cooks who used far too much lard, or was dried food consumed on the road. Which hardly counted as edible. Haight had… chickens, by a given definition. And by given definition, she meant 'avian creatures descended from dinosaurs' before the page was torn asunder by things that suspiciously resembled enormous talons. Because they were large. Bigger than any bird had any right to be. No teeth, but that really wasn't saying much when they could probably disembowel her with a casual kick. She entered into the coop, the ceiling high enough for her to actually stand up straight. Huge black eyes stared out at her from the darkness, cold and calculating. Probably wondering how easy it was to to attack her, consume her, and conceal the body amidst a pile of loose feathers. Taylor reached behind her back, all sleepiness forgotten, and withdrew…
The steaks.
Bloody, raw, and startlingly high-quality. Of course, this was barely food. More of a… bribe. Yeah. Bribe, that was it. She talked quietly to them, trying to reassure herself more than anything else.
"...here you go, steaks. Your favourite. Please don't scratch my face off."
A chicken at the head of the brood stepped forward slowly, claws making deep marks in the wooden floor. It was impossible tell what colour it had originally been - the chickens were steadily digging their way downwards, one scratch at a time, and all that remained was raw, pale wood. The head chicken, that she'd nicknamed Elvis (the damn thing had a headcrest which looked eerily like a pompadour in the right light. If you ignored the inhuman black eyes, the enormous claws, and the loathing for all unfeathered life), stalked towards her, the others remaining back for the moment. It examined the steak from all angles. Taylor just tried to keep her eyes away from the slop bucket that previous tenants of Haight had used.
The knights in this castle had been exclusively feeding these chickens two things. Boiling blood. And chicken.
Truly, Mohg's servants had nefarious designs on the innocent folk of the Lands Between. Mutating innocent chickens into grotesque ostriches…
How chickenshit of them.
Oh no she was going delirious again. Didn't even have oxygen deprivation to blame this time. Just chickens.
"...uh, so, yeah. Steaks. Go on, eat them. They're fresh and everything."
Elvis finished his examinations - God, these things were weird. They had the strange mixture of rigid stiffness and constant jerkiness that characterised the humble chicken, but these beasts combined it with a beak stained with brown, crusted-on blood, and claws that were constantly itching for something living to tear at. Elvis stared at her impassively… and in a single, swift motion, attacked the steak with wild abandon. A few bites, and it was gone, his neck wobbling grotesquely as he gorged himself. Black eyes clouded over with something resembling satisfaction. A final clack of its beak, and it stalked away. Taylor could swear that she heard a low, snarling voice fill the cramped space of the coop, one that couldn't possibly be coming from Elvis, because that would be insane - and anyway, his beak wasn't moving. His eyes were glowing a little, though.
The bargain is concluded. Consume the young.
She really wished the damn chickens wouldn't talk about the eggs that way. Gah. At least the eggs were massive, it was like hanging around a domesticated ostrich. A domesticated ostrich which occasionally made unnatural noises and was basically a mutant abomination. She'd try and get rid of these things, but… she was honestly a little afraid of the consequences of releasing them into the wild. As long as they got their steaks on time, they left things well enough alone. Usually.
"Uh. Thanks. See you."
Skrawlk.
Now that sounded vaguely more chicken-like. Feeling marginally more reassured that the world was as it should be, all creatures making the noises they were meant to (memories of Earth Bet might be fading more and more each day, but she distinctly remembered being taught in kindergarten that chickens went 'cluck' or 'skrawlk', and most certainly didn't go 'the bargain is concluded, consume the young'), she departed. The kitchens of Haight were rather small, almost cosy, not designed for a huge staff - the castle was too compact for that. Food took a while to spoil in the Lands Between, so they had been able to live off leavings - the knights had been raiding nearby villages for supplies, and the pantry was fairly well-stocked. Eggs. Fried. Simple, filling, everything she needed. Though… the kitchen was marred by one of Irina's latest attempts at 'cooking'. How the girl managed to get so much sauce over the walls defied explanation - no, wait, she was blind. Alright, she got a pass. Vaguely. She stepped over a shredded cabbage to reach the door, shoving it open with her third arm.
"Oh, you're awake!"
Crawa was an excitable ball of limbs and wings, and was the single largest reason for why Taylor had decided to remove any and all delicate vases from the castle. She bustled into Taylor, draped in… well, it was hard to find clothes for Crawa. She needed a proper tailor. But in lieu of a tailor, she had Taylor. And Taylor was tall enough to cut down a few tapestries for her to wear like particularly exotic togas. Sometimes it worked out. Today was not one of those days - she looked like a particularly misshapen beanbag. Crawa scuttled over, beaming widely - she'd thrown herself into life here with gusto. Probably as a distraction. She didn't… really want to talk about Stormveil. Or her father. Or even her sisters. Trying to put it all behind her, move on with her life as best she could. Mourning was confined to the morning, when she went to her shrine alone. Thus contained, she could… try and move on. This was probably why she was currently scuttling excitedly from place to place, chattering about everything and nothing, diving into any hobby which looked halfway enjoyable. At the moment - maybe a week after they'd conquered this place - that hobby so happened to be whittling.
"Taylor, Taylor, you must look at this - look!"
She presented something which had perhaps once been a piece of wood. The rest of it was currently deposited on her cloak, her feathers, and her hair in the form of small, pale shavings.
"...uh."
"It's Telavis! I'm making my way through all of us, and he seemed the easiest."
That was fair. If she peered… hm. Well, in the faint gloom of the hall, with the light behind it, it kinda resembled the knight. She'd definitely captured the stoicism, and a certain amount of the sleepiness. But the beard was more of a shapeless tumour, and the armour only faintly discernible. Still, for her first experiment with the human form, it was pretty good.
"...tell you what, let's put it here. Then Telavis can see it when he comes in."
"Do you like it?"
"...sure, I like it. It's very… uh. Like him."
Crawa paused… and started to glow, quivering in excitement. Taylor took advantage of the distraction to find a seat. Roderika was poring over a huge book at a side-table, the remnants of a breakfast long-forgotten. Aurelia was, as per usual, clinging to her like a limpet. She glanced up at Taylor and nodded a small 'good morning' to her, but was otherwise disinclined to conversation. As Crawa scuttled around to find the best possible spot, Taylor was able to survey the room a little more. It was just her, Crawa, Roderika and… ah. Angharad. Telavis didn't sleep, spent most of his time looking moodily over the sea, before turning around at random intervals to drink and train with anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.
Or he'd regale them with stories about his old glories - Stormveil had really woken him up, it was hard to imagine him being as… taciturn as he'd once been. He was quiet by habit, but he was becoming more and more active. Irina and Tisiphone were elsewhere. Taylor wasn't going to pry. Angharad was… recovering from her experiments with certain substances. Her lips remained faintly blue-stained, and her eyes had a certain wildness about them, but otherwise… ah, who was she kidding. The two of them had just become drinking buddies. Healthier than the alternatives of extensive medieval drug use or moping around the castle twitching at any noise which came her way. Certainly better than the withdrawal and the constant night terrors on Angharad' part. Haight had a good cellar, she'd say that much. The previous residents hadn't been much interested in alcohol, blood being both more plentiful and more intoxicating.
She couldn't be quite sure when it properly started - the drinking, that is. She'd downed half a bottle in the courtyard after the battle, then things had faded into obscurity, and before she knew it, she was having just a few cups a night. Didn't entirely matter what, so long as it brought a certain numbness with it. Just to keep herself going, that was it. Like… decompression. Right. She was finding it difficult to relax in peaceful conditions, and alcohol forced her to relax a little. A leg-up - showing her how to act, how to behave. Easing her into a world where she wasn't constantly fearing for her life, where she was actually in charge of her own fate - mostly. She certainly wasn't beholden to a tyrannical overlord anymore. Angharad glanced up blearily as she sat down, her eyes faintly overcast.
"...oh, morning."
Taylor glanced at the bottle in front of her.
"We'll run out if we keep going at this pace."
See, she was being responsible - no blaming, she acknowledged her own guilt. If she was acknowledging her own guilt, that was practically as good as absolving herself. Right? Guilt worked that way, she was fairly sure. Angharad grunted.
"...when I drink alone I get miserable. So I drink more to be less miserable. Self-sustaining reaction, see."
She was grasping for it out of instinct, drawing the half-full bottle closer, closer… Taylor intercepted. It was too early for a drink. She might drink a greater amount than was healthy, but she still had standards. Some, at least. Even if the perfumer was basically just inviting her to drink with her, alcoholism being better in company. Angharad whined disconsolately, and Taylor tried to change the subject.
"How's the laboratory coming?"
"...tolerably. This place doesn't have much in the way of equipment, but I can certainly try to improvise. Stormveil had a few bits of kit left, some spares, and a few stores of more common reagents. Here… I'm lucky to scavenge a few scraps from old barrels."
"But it's still going tolerably?"
"Tolerably enough. But I'm still setting things up. Give me time, and I'll have more results. But… we'll need to get more supplies soon. There's a definite ceiling to what I can achieve."
What she could achieve… they'd talked a little about that. Angharad was trying to lose herself in work. Healing tinctures, some aromatics designed for the enhancement of the physical form, more exotic experiments she was interested in pursuing. Taylor remembered the sticky fire that had drowned so many Tarnished, the smell of burning meat filling the air - her knife clicked against a plate as she speared an egg a little too hard. Crawa glanced over from the mantlepiece where she was carefully placing her latest carving, next to a few which resembled birds from a certain angle. Taylor chewed quietly, and… thought. She stared into the middle distance, trying to get herself in order. Some days were easy - she woke up, she staggered around a little, and soon enough she could collapse once more with a glass or two of something. Enough to get her to sleep quickly and with minimal fuss. And some days were like… this. A damp, drizzly November of the soul, cursed by lucidity. She'd stare ahead and realise that, for once, her premeditated murder of hours was going to be a little complicated.
The hours were fighting back, after all.
And in moments like this… she got to thinking. The sea air would rush through the halls of Fort Haight, chilling everything, coating any exposed surface in a faint layer of salt, and she'd stare quietly out at the ocean. Across it lay… something. The Lands Beyond, where Roderika came from. Sometimes she wondered what the world was like out there - was it quieter? Or was the same drama being repeated over and over - the Shattering taking its toll no matter how far from the Erdtree you were? With some effort, she dismissed the thoughts - pointless, unproductive. But… what was there to be productive about? Haight was hidden, and she didn't have an army to defend it. She helped clear it up, get the gates in working order, do everything she could… but they hadn't had a single visitor. Barely anyone even knew this place existed, and getting here involved going through the Mistwood - not the nicest spot in the world, to be honest. A small, windswept fortress was hardly an appealing target for any bandit, any Tarnished. Morne remained a concern, but… no sign of them. The wolfman hadn't done anything, no demihumans or Misbegotten had shown up. Even her more outlandish fears - Mohg rising from a pool of blood to extract revenge, Onager sneaking in to assassinate them all in the night, maybe some random Tarnished coming to ruin things… nothing. None came to realisation.
Until today, evidently.
A bell clanged. Someone was at the front door. Roderika squeaked in alarm, Angharad became a tangle of half-drunk limbs, and Crawa scuttled in a circle before coming to her senses. Taylor's heart immediately raced, and her brain buzzed. Oh, she was ready. Eggs were forgotten in a second as she rushed outwards, pounding through the courtyard, hauling herself up a narrow flight of stone stairs, up to the highest vantage point she could find. Someone was at the door, someone was at the door. Trader? Tarnished? Enemy, friend, neutral? Just… someone? Something to respond to, something to plan around, something to inject a little uncertainty into things? Come on, come on. She stared downwards at the ground below - no armies, no parties she could see. She could vaguely hear the others coming to join her - come to stare at the visitor. People, people… just a horse, tied to a post beyond the gates. And stepping away from the gate itself, waving upwards…
Oh hell.
"Morning, strategess!"
How the hell had Nepheli found this place.
"...uh. Hi?"
Her voice was small, uncertain. She hadn't quite anticipated this.
"You remember me? It's Nepheli - we've wrestled a few times!"
Her face was indiscernible at this distance, but she certainly seemed to be smiling. Mostly. Two giant axes were at her side - but they hung loosely from straps on her belt. No sign of hostile intent. If anything, she looked… cheerful. Mostly, at least. Even this far away, Taylor could catch a hint of something else. A hint of reticence, caution… maybe even nervousness. Odd.
"...yeah, I remember. Why are you here? And how did you find us?"
"Wolfman in the forest told me you came this way!"
Fucking Blaidd.
"Sorry, strategess, would you mind letting me in? Voice is getting tired. And it's important - I promise."
"...why exactly did you come?"
Nepheli gave her a look, visible even from the ground. Oh. Oh shit. Taylor had mentioned a willingness to wrestle her in future. Wait - she was tougher now, right? She might even stand a chance? Maybe? Possibly? She considered just turning her away - she was one Tarnished, what could she do against a whole castle, against all of them bunched together? Crawa poked her head over the battlements and squeaked in alarm. She ducked back down, and pointed frantically while spluttering various half-words and distressed noises.
"Tarn- it's her- we stab- bleh?"
That could be read as an exasperated exclamation, or maybe an earnest suggestion. Tarn. It's her. We stab. She misspoke on 'Tarnished', but the message was fairly clear. She could be stabbed, and this entire situation would go aw- no, she could resurrect. Really, Taylor was just doing the reasonable thing by letting her in, wrestling her properly, getting this over and done with.
Fuck her, she needed to hit something.
"Sure. I'll be down in a second."
Nepheli looked a little surprised, but nodded enthusiastically regardless. Taylor turned to leave, and was stopped by Angharad and Crawa. Roderika was poking her head out of the stairwell, unable to get out to join the huddle. But she was glaring up a storm. Angharad was clearly on the verge of saying something regrettable, a few deep breaths giving her one or two steps away from that precipitous drop into mad vulgarity.
"Taylor, would you mind explaining why you're doing this?"
Because she needed to fight someone. Because she was getting the itches from a lack of conflict. Because she kept having dreams about that last day in Stormveil, about dying quietly in an isolated tower, about being surrounded by whirling blades and howled battlecries. And living in peace wasn't helping one little bit. It just made the dreams worse, really. In her own way, she was… envying the state of mind she'd been in. Half-mad, completely paranoid, but still… focused. She'd always been able to shunt things off into the future, every issue was something that could be reckoned with at a later date. And now she'd reached that later date, and she didn't know what to do with herself. She woke up, she shambled, she fell asleep, she dreamed of fighting. And when her chest felt too tight, when her muscles burned, when she felt like she was locking up again, returning to that final day… she almost wondered if she was enjoying it. Just a little. If she was relishing the change, the feeling that something was clicking, that she was returning to a state where she'd been… doing something. As opposed to waiting around for the appropriate time to drink, asking people what they were doing because she wasn't doing anything of value herself…
She needed to fight.
"She's one Tarnished. And she's been pretty honest so far - she told me about Hodir heading your way. If we kill her, she might just come back with friends."
Crawa spluttered.
"But we stabbed her!"
"I stabbed her. You held her down."
"Glargh?!"
Crawa appeared to have lost control over the English language. Unfortunate. Angharad was becoming more adamant, though.
"Look, I can take living with a Tarnished - you're alright, Roderika. I can take living in a castle with no functional laboratory. I can take the nightmares, and the drinking, and the withdrawal. But I… I don't think I can take inviting hostile Tarnished inside for some recreational activities."
"And I get that. But… let's just see what she wants. If she tries to kill any of us, go ahead. Fight her. Finish her off. She's one Tarnished. Roderika, you've got Aurelia. Angharad, I assume you have something lying around. Crawa, you could flail angrily and you'd be a threat. Telavis should be coming soon, and… alright, Tisphone's out, but she should be back in a bit. We'll be fine."
The three exchanged glances. Roderika made a worried sound.
"...Taylor, if there's something happening, we can talk…"
Taylor snapped. Just a little.
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm going to go let her in. Follow if you want."
She felt bad the moment her mouth closed, the moment Roderika shrank back from her sharp tone. She was… on edge. Tenterhooks - everything ached for a release of some kind, something to tighten her back up. She felt like she was falling apart, like an old fruit left out in the sun. It'd only been a week, and she was itching to do something - more strategy, more fighting, more adrenaline, more anything that could help her sleep, snap her muscles back into position like elastic bands. Medieval botox, freezing her in a perfect, perfect position, where she was a creature of non-stop purpose, dedicated to one goal after another, not just… vague inclinations suppressed by time. She had to find Marika or Radagon… but that was far-off. She needed to recover first, needed to get a home base, needed to get situated… and that process was making her feel like she was coming apart at the seams, a book in the rain, pages swollen with ink, all the words running together, nothing but pulp and leather and matter stewing into a half-dead, half-alive soup. Even the gold couldn't help - she didn't want it to help.
The others got out of her way.
The stairwell was steep and narrow, a death trap that her dad would've sued somebody for if one of the dockworkers had to climb up or down it at any time.
The door to the castle was thick, old. Studded with arrowheads from old sieges, marred by little scars that the dead wood couldn't heal. But even so, it continued. Age had made it gnarled and tough - like a body left up in the mountains. No blood in its veins, no life in its body, but it endured, a wizened husk that clung to structure despite all evidence to the contrary. Nepheli lay beyond. Taylor hesitated… then pulled it free, undoing every latch, every lock - and they had plenty. The woman beyond was shorter than she remembered. Tough as nails, well-muscled, axes at her waist… but now she was looking up at Taylor. Her skin wasn't flush with Runes, she'd lost them at Stormveil. Her armour - such as it was - had a ragged edge to it which it hadn't possessed before. Up close… there was something about her smile. Something invisible from the top of the castle. She smiled, and there wasn't much happiness behind it. It was an excitation of muscle and muscle alone, the mind had little relevance to its emergence or its continuation. And without the mind giving it feeling, emotion, it just looked… present. Fibres had contracted, skin had shifted, teeth were exposed. A miracle of biology occurring with no rhyme or reason.
Her eyes were like burned-out pilot lights.
"...oh, hello. It's… been a while."
Taylor felt a little paralysed.
"...yeah. A few weeks."
"We didn't really talk in the last battle. Mind if I come in?"
She noticed Taylor's three current companions peeking around the edge, suspicion in their eyes.
"...I don't mean any trouble. Not looking to get into the habit of sneaking around - had enough of that already. Just looking for a drink and some talk."
No, Taylor wanted a fight, come on, couldn't she just get to the point? Wrestle her, fight her, make her draw out her dearest emotions, do something! For a second she considered just challenging her here and now… but a certain amount of sanity lingered in her boredom-laden skull. Somewhere around the ennui dwelt enough common sense to keep from picking a fight, not when she could still probably get one later. Nepheli didn't seem like the type to back down on a promise of wrestling. She shrugged, and swung the door wider. The Tarnished gladly entered, casting off a travelling cloak made heavy with dew. Her armour was, indeed, half-unmade - weatherbeaten as Fort Haights walls. She didn't say much, just strode into the courtyard, glancing around in search of… something. Taylor went to join her, feeling her own cloak snapping about her feet like a hungry dog.
"Hall's that way."
"Got yourself a cellar?"
"...technically, yes."
"Wouldn't mind if I had a little… liquid warmth?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Telavis had stumped his way over the walls, beard salt-flecked and damp, eyes curious. Nepheli paused for a second at the sight of his armour, but was otherwise calm. Wasn't sure if that was a case of simply having nerves of steel… or simply not caring. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, illuminating Crawa's numerous attempts at whittling - Taylor felt a moment of embarrassment. The hall only had a few long tables in it, and most of them were covered in detritus from a dozen projects. A whetstone for sharpening knives and swords lay in one corner, Crawa had an assemblage of small knives next to heaping piles of wood shavings, Roderika had a small mound of books, Angharad had some empty bottles pinning sheets of paper in place, covered in spider-like diagrams… and Taylor hadn't cleaned up her breakfast. Nepheli didn't mind any of it, simply plonking herself down with a grunt of relief, putting her feet up on the table, and resting herself for just a moment. Taylor silently found a bottle of something or other - wait, she knew this one. Similar to gin, but… off. Not that she really understood how it was off, she'd never had gin before coming here. But a mention of juniper in one of Angharad's rambles had stirred a few memories of pointless trivia, and thus this alien liquor became 'weird gin', regardless of any accuracy or lack thereof.
Nepheli took her cup, sniffed delicately… then pounded it back with a shiver of delight. Oh, great, another alcoholic. Taylor couldn't judge, she finished her own cup just a second after Nepheli. The woman rubbed her hands together, enjoying the feeling of the fire within and without. For a second there was a silence… and then she spoke. Her voice was quiet, fortified with a little gin-based confidence, but otherwise uncharacteristically sombre.
"...you were there when we were cursed, weren't you?"
Cursed? Did she mean… ah. Godrick.
"I was."
She leaned forward, her eyes burning with eagerness.
"I don't want to beg, and I won't. But one warrior to another… I was wondering if you knew how he made that curse. How it was done, how it was put together."
Her voice fell a little.
"How it might be broken."
What did she mean, broken? Godrick had just cursed them - a final oath that they would be ruined at the end, that they would have no loyalty, no victory, nothing. But that had been it - an attempt at intimidation. She'd been the one to give them the Great Rune, not… oh. She could see how a narrative might emerge. They had torn each other apart, after all. No wonder the woman looked shaken.
"...I'm sorry about the army, but-"
Nepheli interrupted.
"Pox on the army. With Calvert running circles around us, we were going to rip each other apart anyhow. Like bulls goring each other when confined. I want to know how the curse got to father."
Her father… right. Gideon. She vaguely recalled Nepheli mentioning that - Christ, now that must've been a childhood worth writing a few biographies about, agents would lap up that kind of dysfunction. What did she mean by him being cursed, though? Her curiosity must have shone through on her owl-like face, because Nepheli snapped a little, her voice becoming harsher, rougher, more desperate.
"Surely you must've seen it - one moment my lord father is helping us, the next he's betrayed everyone. The tunnel's come crashing down, and he tells us that the Great Rune goes to the strongest - I died in there, several times over, and I still have no notion of who has the blasted Rune. I had it for a moment, felt the power rush through me, then… nothing. It could be anyone's by now. And there's no way Calvert killed Vyke, he was always too weak. Father must've had a hand in that, somehow - Calvert and Vyke walk in, and then father shows up on the balcony with Calvert's half-dead body? Too convenient for a coincidence.. And then… then I get back to the Roundtable, I burst into his study, and father says: 'it was all necessary for our plans, if you can't stomach that, we have nothing left to say to one another'."
She growled.
"Scarlet Rot, sneaking around, assassinating the weak, starving a castle, using every dishonourable tactic we could find, and then… and then he just lets us slaughter each other. No, there's no chance. I don't care for my own death, I've died enough. But to make this curse afflict father - he promised me that he'd never allow the downtrodden to be cheated again, if he became Elden Lord. I can stand for the death of an army, I can stand for the destruction of our cause at the hands of corrupt commanders, but to erode father's morals - please, tell me about this curse. I have sworn to break it, if I must journey for a hundred years. Upon my name as Nepheli Loux, Warrior, I will bring father back to his senses."
Her tone grew stronger, bolder - another cup of gin was knocked back, and her eyes burned with inner fire, the pilot lights reigniting. Taylor could feel something inside herself, as well. A… feeling. Hot. Warm. Life, burning upwards, giving everything some greater meaning. Her hands felt rich with blood, her breath was warm, quick, manual. Nothing was just automatic, for just a second, she felt like she had absolute command over her own body. Life was infectious.
"So tell me, strategess - tell me about this curse, and tell me how it may be broken."
"...well…"
"I will gladly do anything. Ask me to join your service, and I'll do it, and happily. Ask me to fight some vile foe, and I will go forth with gusto. Just tell me."
Her tone was inching towards pleading once more.
"I don't know anything about a curse."
"...what?"
Her voice was small.
"I just… heard the same things you did. And Gideon didn't help kill Vyke, Calvert did all that."
"But how, how could he…"
"One second."
She dashed away, running back to her room - hidden in a box, underneath layers of clothes and random objects. There - the remnants of Calvert's gun. Less stained, more well-maintained, but adamantly non-functional. Well, she assumed. She wasn't going to waste a vital bullet on a test fire which might go nowhere, or might break the gun even more. She'd never even fired a gun before in her life, she wasn't going to start experimenting wildly with technology that might as well be completely unique in this world. It'd be like throwing a priceless antique vase to the ground, nodding as it shattered while saying wisely 'yep, that's fine Ming-dynasty china, that is. You can tell by the splintering pattern'. Still - it should prove a point. Nepheli was waiting eagerly for her, but her eyes had a wary quality to them. She had downed another cup of liquid courage, and was desperate for anything - but pessimism was starting to outweigh things. Bravado was being undermined by cold, hard reality.
"This is the weapon - from my home."
Angharad had re-entered at this point, standing cautiously near the entrance… but she lunged forward when the gun emerged, eyes bright with curiosity. Crawa was remaining outside for the moment, despite the drizzle. Too nervous. Roderika was keeping her company, as was Aurelia.
"...what is it, exactly?"
"A gun. Look, it doesn't work at the moment - but it's… like a crossbow. Imagine a crossbow, but instead of a bolt, it's a tiny piece of metal which is thrown out by an explosion."
Nepheli blinked.
"...I follow."
"Now imagine that pressed against the back of Vyke's head."
Nepheli glanced sharply at the bullets arranged neatly next to the cold, black mass of metal and other, more exotic materials.
"Calvert shot him twice. No recovering from that."
"And then…"
"I was hidden - remember that thing I used on you, the headband? I used that to hide, then jumped out when Calvert had his guard down."
She paused.
"...then Gideon showed up. Said that he'd planned most of this. He wanted the army to fail."
Nepheli froze.
"...did he."
"That's what he said. He wants the status quo to keep going - if people run around collecting all the Great Runes successfully, then he'll need to abandon his own research. Apparently there's things he still needs to figure out, and he can't do that if someone else becomes Elden Lord before him."
She paused. Nepheli looked horrified - but she was listening. Seemed to believe her. Naive, trusting, or just a good judge of character?
"...the siege was meant to make Tarnished not want to gather into an army ever again. Vyke would be discredited, Calvert would be loathed, and… any Tarnished involved would be prevented from fighting Radahn. The Redmanes wouldn't allow anyone who worked with the Scarlet Rot to get close."
And now the woman flipped her shit.
"He did what? He… father… Gideon, he did… gah!"
She stood up and punched a wall. It looked like it hurt - so she downed a cup of gin and punched the wall again harder. Again, again - her knuckles looked red. Taylor would've let it go on, but she was starting to cause some permanent damage.
"Please stop denting my walls."
"That prick, he tricked us, all of us, and now… now none of us have a chance, all because of his research?! Gideon's wise, so why would he leave me out of this plan, why would he force me to go to Stormveil with the rest?!"
Probably because the presence of his daughter would reassure any doubters among the Tarnished. She wasn't going to say that, of course. Her walls were dented enough. The gun was safely stowed away, just in case she felt like testing the thing, or simply felt like smashing something delicate and irreplaceable. Taylor could understand the sensation… and she could feel something in the air. Something that fizzed. Nepheli growled again, downing some gin straight from the bottle - Taylor was a few cups deep at this point, and was feeling a real damn buzz.
"No curse?! Of course there's a curse, of course… gah!"
"If there is, I'm not aware of it."
"Of course, that would be too easy! Curses can be broken, but this… this is… I can't fix this!"
She almost punched the wall, relented, then kicked the table, sending splinters flying. Angharad quietly backed away, trying to become invisible. Crawa poked her head inside and saw a mad barbarian smashing a chair against the stone walls. Taylor would stop her, but… she needed to get some of this out of her system. Crawa politely backed away. Good move. Nepheli probably wouldn't be the best around grafted people. Not at the moment. Taylor very quietly stood, and removed her cloak, shaking it off to clear away some of the dew. Nepheli turned at the movement, her eyes bloodshot, her teeth bared in a savage rictus.
"And… and I helped him, I believed in him, I…"
Taylor interrupted.
"...you look like you need some stress relief."
"I do, fetch another bottl… wait. Are you… suggesting something?"
Her eyes were bright.
"...maybe."
"I… did ask for a wrestling match in future, didn't I?"
"I seem to remember that."
Nepheli grinned.
"Alright then."
"Outside?"
"Outside."
Taylor's day had just improved dramatically.
AN: Important 'un this time. So, I'm writing and a-writing, and I'm having a grand old time... but to be perfectly blunt, this fic was partially a chance for me to do something a little lighter while I came up with more ideas for my main fic, Russian Caravan. And boy-oh-boy do I have some ideas for that now - still planning some elements, but otherwise it's coming closer to a proper continuation.
Now, for the time being I'll keep going with Brocktonite Yankee. Still got some ideas I want to get onto paper. But worth keeping in mind - if you're interested in Russian Caravan, I'd recommend getting into it... now. Got some stuff brewing on that front, comin' very very soon. I can promise shenanigans involving mountain men, Parian, and very strange seashells.
And if you're disappointed at the lack of Flame of Frenzy content in this fic, it's because I very much did that stuff in Russian Caravan.
Now, for the time being I'll keep going with Brocktonite Yankee. Still got some ideas I want to get onto paper. But worth keeping in mind - if you're interested in Russian Caravan, I'd recommend getting into it... now. Got some stuff brewing on that front, comin' very very soon. I can promise shenanigans involving mountain men, Parian, and very strange seashells.
And if you're disappointed at the lack of Flame of Frenzy content in this fic, it's because I very much did that stuff in Russian Caravan.
Last edited:
