AN:
Sorry for long AN.
Now that the initial 10 chapters I had pre-wrote are out, I'm going to cross post them on a few different sites, and I need to start actually writing new chapters again now that we are caught up.
This means we'll be going to 1-3 chapters a week, depending on how quickly the juices are flowing. It takes nearly as long to edit the things as it does to write them in the first place. Maybe a week before the next chapter is here to let me build up a small buffer for writing reasons.
Also, remember the AU tag. As we get farther into the story, I have to build off the lore interpretations I have decided on for the story. That means that characters will give info on things they may not have in canon. Some things that are barely even touched at all are elaborated on.
So it might feel like I am making up a lot of fanfic-canon from nowhere, but basically everything I write in the story will be derived directly from the lore. With one big exception because we are told like one line about this one big thing, and that line doesn't actually give useful information, and there is nothing else tangential to that thing that I can use to make inferences.
If I write something that doesn't seem to make any sense at all (not something that you just disagree with), please tell me so I can better show you the 'evidence' for how I decided on that in the story.
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The next morning John woke bright and early, the sky still purple before the sun rose over the horizon. His body was sore, but a quick stretch loosened him up.
John joined the other men preparing a large breakfast. With them going into enemy territory, who knows when they would be able to eat again. As they prepared the meal, another twenty of men led by another fringefolk knight with a sword and shield, rather than a halberd like Carth, showed up. Carth met the knight and they began discussing something.
All three twenties of men ate their meals. An oat porridge, a small loaf of bread, and a strip of very tough jerky. The men of all three twenties mixed and traded some light ribbing and humor, but as the meal came to an end the levity faded and everyone's faces hardened.
Carth and the other knight that John learned was named Andren, called for their attention.
"Men! Our task is to fight our way to the enemy strongpoint and destroy whatever it holds. If we come across the dregs' red-haired leader, then we shall endeavor to destroy him!" Carth declared.
"Harden your hearts and firm your fists!" Andren added. "Do not show them mercy for they will not hesitate to bring you low!"
"Ahead we face battle and glory!" Carth finished.
"FOR CASTLE MORNE! FOR CASTLETOWN!" Andren and Carth yelled.
"FOR CASTLE MORNE! FOR CASTLETOWN!" The men roared back!
The knights began organizing them.
Carth as Knight Lieutenant was top of the chain of command and led the 1st twenty. His second was Andren as just a Knight with the 3nd twenty. And below Andren, as the lowest rank of their twentiers, was Carth's previous second, Sergeant Rickar, the twentier of Carth's 2nd twenty.
John had been placed in a five with four other men using polearms with Rickar as his twentier yesterday, and his fivier was a man named Ruban.
They would be marching through Clifftown in a reverse triangle formation, the point of the formation facing their rear. The formation would be 2 layers of men deep with Carth and his twenty at one front corner, Andren's twenty in the back at the rear corner, and Rickar's twenty at the other front corner.
A total of sixty men with their armor and shields, akin to a living wall of steel.
As they began their long march down Clifftown, John's five was on the left flank of the formation, and Carth was easy to spot to their right, towering over the rest of the men.
Thankfully John had gotten some practice yesterday because staying in sync with the other men was much harder than he would have expected. He almost couldn't match the movements of the rest of his five, but he was just barely good enough that he didn't break the formation.
Another blessing was that the first few levels were completely dead and devoid of anything except burnt or smashed possessions in empty stone buildings and the bloodstains and now-rotting corpses of townsfolk and misbegotten scattered about. The smell of decaying flesh, rotten eggs, and shit was quickly blown away by the ocean wind so it didn't build up, but it collected in the buildings.
But whenever they had to step over a corpse John got a noseful of the overpowering putrid smell.
Despite the bad smell, these initial levels filled with only the dead were a godsend for John, allowing him to better acclimate to moving in formation with the others.
But that haunting emptiness bought with the blood of the unfortunate who died on that chaotic first night did not last forever.
They started coming across misbegotten who would run as soon they spotted their formation marching down the streets. Lone individuals and small groups would scatter like roaches.
There were a few who threw rocks and other debris before running, but few of those reached the formation and none made it past both their shields and their mail and plate.
Some unfortunate inattentive misbegotten didn't notice as they marched down the street and were caught trapped in buildings they had begun squatting in. Men from Carth's twenty would enter.
Most of time, John heard shouts. Misbegotten begging for their lives, pleading for mercy, but those cries were always ignored and cut short. John suspected the ones they came across were not always combatants.
When the screams stopped and Carth's men would come out their weapons covered in hot blood steaming in the cool ocean air, the men of the formation would cheer and smile in bloodthirsty satisfaction, or spit on the ground to express their thoughts on dying misbegotten.
As terrible and wrong as it was, to John that was just the way the cookie crumbled when it came to pogroms. He had no power to stop these people, even if presumed to have the right to, even if they were taking their vengeance on the wrong people. Especially when the other side wouldn't show any mercy to John either, and those were now being made victims now would not have spoken up for John had their own killers came to him.
He wasn't very interested in moral finger pointing, even if one side or the other was more in the right. It was a tragedy all around, and it should never have been allowed to reach this point in the first place.
But as they kept making their way down and passed the halfway point, a response from the misbegotten showed itself. On a level above them they could hear the movements of a large number of enemies and winged misbegotten were spotted on the edges of roofs on the level above following their formation's movements.
They listen to the ominous sounds of the misbegotten who were following them echoing down to them as they kept moving.
As the sounds of the misbegotten got closer, Carth guided the formation to a a chokepoint where the only way the misbegotten force could reach them was by coming up a short and wide twelve-step staircase that connected two large landings and was on the edge of the cliff. The steps could hold a single five of men standing abreast at once and a wooden rail as thick as a man's thigh prevented people from falling off the cliffside.
John actually recognized the staircase having walked up and down it to get to his meeting place with Sihlas.
"Polearms to the center-front! Choke the staircase! Everyone else, form a second line behind them." Carth ordered.
John's fivier led led his five to the staircase along with the other two fives of polearms. The three formed a line three layers deep a couple steps from the head of staircase with John five in the front. They brandished their weapons with one arm, the other arm holding up their shields. The points of the polearms from the other two layers of men stuck out between them John's five making a small phalanx formation, a porcupine of spears. Their spears shorter than the classical phalanx but still an intimidating thing to face.
John was positioned off-center with only one man between him and the guardrail.
They waited and soon the misbegotten approached.
It was a small horde that dwarfed them. Triple the size of the own force, but looking just as underequipped, unorganized, and untrained as every previous misbegotten they had encountered.
The leader barks orders was a large muscular misbegotten almost the size of Carth with scales everywhere a man would have had hair. He wielded a large axe and unlike his smaller fellows, when his eyes looked up at their sixty organized men didn't fill with trepidation.
The misbegotten came to a stop. The next two minutes, John and the rest of the men glared down at the misbegotten as both sides stood across from one another as the misbegotten calculated what he would do.
In the end the misbegotten leader simply pointed his axe forward.
"ATTACK!"
The horde of chimeric humans rushed forward. As they approached the staircase the landing narrowed, so the misbegotten were funneled as those in front were pushed forward by the crush of bodies behind them.
The tension in John quickly reached a breaking point as the misbegotten charged with their warbling screeches and cries of battle.
The men stood still and silent, sentinels against the chaos of the approaching misbegotten.
They came closer and closer, the first of them reaching the bottom of the staircase. As the misbegotten at the very front looked up and saw the layers of spearstips pointing at them, they hesitated. But the press of bodies behind them didn't slow, didn't stop. They were pushed forward up the steps.
Only right as the misbegotten were almost on top of them, climbing the last pair of steps, did John's five start thrusting as they unleashed warcries.
The misbegotten at the front of the charge screamed out in pain as the spears sunk into their chests. The force of the blows caused them to be lifted up and thrown into the horde charging up the steps, disrupting but not stopping them. The next misbegotten arrived and their hesitation cost them as well as they too were thrown back.
John made sure to keep a firm grip as his spear hit his opponents' bodies and sunk into them, his enemies' weight shoving back on the spear. As they fell back down the stairs rebuffed, the speartip John stuck into their flesh wanted to pull John's spear with him, but John held tight to his weapon pulling back. As soon as his spear was free, he immediately thrust it into the misbegotten who had been shoved forward to replace the last.
But this only lasted for a few moments as the misbegotten behind saw what happened to those who hesitated in front of them, when they reach the top of the stairs, they threw themselves forward in a desperate hope to strike and break the men.
The battle for the staircase devolved into a brawl.
John held his place beside his five as they all thrust into and out of the unrelenting horde that did not cease charging at them. Screams of pain and rage filled the air only thing piercing through the dull roar of battlecries from both sides.
All thought fled John's mind as he became totally consumed by thrusting his spear and holding his shield. As an ending stream of misbegotten came up the stairs. If he faltered now, he would die.
As the stream of misbegotten came up the steps faster than John's five could deal with them, those that tried to close were struck down by the deeper layer of the phalanx. And when one passed all three layers of spear, John braced himself and threw his all his weight behind his shield, smashing it into the misbegotten and tossing him back into the rest of the charging misbegotten.
As they fought and struggled to keep the stairs, some misbegotten threw their crude cleavers and scavenged weapons at them. Unable to move or dodge, John just had to ignore them and keep thrusting. Most crashed against his shield or deflected off his armor uselessly, doing little but making him lurch for a moment and leaving bruises and welts. John ignored them and kept fighting.
The minutes passed by as John stood his ground giving it his all sweat already climbing down his brow, when the man next to him cried out a gurgling scream of pain. John could barely spare a glance to see the man drop his weapons, going to his knees holding his throat. Instantly seeing the brake in their line, the misbegotten tried to push there.
But even as John thrust his spear to try and stop them, he saw a gauntleted hand reach out and pull the soldier back out of sight as another spearman stepped forward and took his place. Their line reestablished, the deadly tug of war teetering back and forth between their sides continued.
John was so focused on the enemies in front of him trying to kill him when he heard Carth scream other orders, he did not have the ability to check beyond knowing they weren't for him.
As John fought he realized the only reason someone with little training like himself could even keep up with their opponents is that the misbegotten they were fighting were weakened from a life of malnutrition and weaker than regular men and disadvantaged in many other ways.
No matter what happened in the chaos around him as the battle raged, John kept his shield up and kept thrusting. He did not stop for anything. Not when cleavers rattled his helm inches away from hitting his face. Not when rocks pelted him. Not even when his arms started burning from strain. He thrust and thrust over and over again. Misbegotten would charge up and be struck down, only for more to keep coming.
The only thing that John could use to distinguish that time wasn't repeating was the start and stop of
runes filling him as he fought and the misbegotten in front of him died.
John gave it his all as he held his place beside his fellow men, then he saw the misbegotten leader with his axe at the foot of the staircase.
He pushed through his men, his large straight-backed form towering over their hunched figures, a giant among men.
"Polearms! Fallback, five steps! 1st twenty, advance, surround the stairs!" John heard Carth shout from behind him.
Recognizing the order from his training yesterday, John did his best to move with the other men as they stepped back step by step. John's movements weren't nearly as smooth, but their phalanx held as other men spread out to their sides to form a concave around the stair entrance.
The wind picked up as Knight Lieutenant Carth stepped forward taking up place at the center of line almost next to John but a single step forward in front of the rest of them. Storm wreathed Carth's halberd as Carth planted himself in front of the line like a stone to break the rushing rapids of misbegotten coming up the stairs.
The misbegotten kept streaming over the top of the steps only to be met with spears from the front and blades from the sides. Carth himself was death incarnate right at their head. He struck rapid blows with his storm wreathed halberd, and each strike he landed ended in a small explosion of blood from the enemy, the storm shearing their flesh as they were picked up and tossed backwards through the air or over the rail to fall down the cliff.
That was when the misbegotten leader then ascended the steps himself. In one hand he held his axe, but in the other he held up the corpse of a misbegotten by its neck almost as a shield.
The leader stood at the threshold watching as his misbegotten streamed around him to keep charging at the formation but were struck down by Carth and the men all around them. Then the leader moved.
As Carth struck down a misbegotten, the leader screamed "DOWN WITH THE ORDER OF SIN!" and threw the corpse at Carth, charging right behind it raising his axe with both hands.
Unfortunately for the misbegotten leader, Carth was prepared and did a spinning strike. The body crashed off his plate armored back mid-spin and was tossed to the side as Carth came around with and landed the blade of his halberd right into the neck of the charging misbegotten leader. Like an executioner's blade.
In an explosive gust of wind that made everyone on the landing falter, all the storm Carth had gathered crashed into the leader and blasted back. His head exploded into mist and his large heavy body was launched into the thick wooden guardrail, smashing it into splinters, and sending the leader's corpse straight over the cliffside.
Seeing their leader die, immediately nearly half the misbegotten streaming up over the steps faltered and started to stop before turning around to run screaming about the leader's death. The other half futilely kept charged right into their spears.
But this futile charge only lasted for a few moments as the rest of the misbegotten heard the news of their commanders death and their resolve broke. More and more turned and ran.
As John wrenched his spear blade out of the neck of one of the last misbegotten to charge and his corpse fell to the ground, the all misbegotten started to run. As the men in the line stepped forward to start to chase the routed misbegotten, Carth screamed an order!
"Let them go men! Do not chase! Killing them all isn't our objective. We will not break formation!"
The men stopped and watched the misbegotten run away. As the tension started to bleed out of everyone, their arms soon drooped in exhaustion.
As John felt his blood stop thrumming in his ears, he realized his heart was beating a mile a minute, and he was bringing in huge gulps of air. His entire gambeson under his armor was absolutely soaked in sweat.
The moment he let his arms fall they felt like noodles, barely able to hold his spear and shield. He felt a deep throbbing pain from repeated impacts shaking his bones, and his hands involuntarily shook from all the adrenaline.
John looked around him and saw the men in the line begin to raise their arms and shout and cheer their victory. He saw a few men begin pulling out golden flasks and pressing them to their lips.
Behind the lines he saw three men laying on the ground. John recognized one of the downed men was the man in his five who had been hit in the throat. He had a large crude bandage around his neck, and his rising and falling chest showed he was clearly breathing. The lack of blood on the bandage meant he must have been given crimson tears.
Next to him were two other men equally as injured, but they looked to have been patched up as well. He had been so focused he hadn't even realized others had been hurt.
A short distance from the three was another pair. One whose face was wrecked with a giant gash between his eyes. This man was not breathing, obviously dead. And the other had a similar injury.
With how abused his body felt John debated on whether he should pull out his golden flask. Realizing that there was no way he'd be able to keep up for the rest of the day with how weak and bruised he felt now if there was another battle, he took a very small sip. What had been minor soreness faded completely, and the deepest of the pain and weakness faded into more minor aches. And he got a taste of that spicy caramel apple flavor once again.
Ruban, John's fivier, started looking over John and the others in the five and asked them a few questions. He said they were fit to continue and then moved to report to Rickar that their five had one casualty, the man who'd had his neck sliced open.
After taking account of everything, Carth remade the reverse triangle formation and ordered them all to rotate their positions so the fresh took the front and the injured or those tired from fighting were in less critical positions. Any casualties were carried by men assigned and were on the inside so they could be protected.
Everything organized, they continued their way down the destroyed cliffside town. As they exited down the stairs John saw that there had to be close to a hundred corpses. They'd cut down nearly half the enemy force.
They continued down Clifftown, occasionally coming across more misbegotten small numbers running or caught hiding in the buildings as they marched past.
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They meet a couple more large groups of armed misbegotten, but those clashes are short with the misbegotten numbers matching their own or being lesser. The misbegotten charged and suffered heavy losses, before quickly routing.
During these skirmishes a few men would be lightly injured, but sips from a golden flask would fix them. Besides one unlucky man who had taken a scavenged hammer to the head and never stood up again even after being given a sip of tears.
They got to the bowels of Clifftown and finally they approached their target.
It was located only a handful of levels above the beach below, close enough that John could see some of the features, the individual eyes of clusters of unarmed misbegotten looking up at them from below when their path took them next to the cliff.
It was a tightly clustered 'neighborhood' of rooms cut out of the cliffside and a few larger stone buildings that were starting to crumble from lack of maintenance. Many of the buildings cut into the cliff were protected from the ocean wind by the placement of the large crumbling buildings. The street of this area was wider than was typical of Clifftown, able to hold nearly 20 men side-by-side.
After thoroughly checking the route behind them to make sure no misbegotten were going to come from behind, they had rearranged the formation to have two line formations staggered from each other. The upper half of the most capable men in terms or skill or condition were in the first line and the others, the wounded or less skilled were the second line ten paces behind the first.
This second line was where John's five had been placed, on the left flank, with most of the first line being made of Andren's men. Carth and Andren themselves stood in the space between the two lines, and the few casualties were safely tucked into a nearby building safely behind the lines.
As they approached from down the street the misbegotten guarding the area began gathering. At first it was a few, but the numbers grew and grew until the misbegotten outnumbered them two-to-one.
Unlike the last time, there were at least a dozen of the larger misbegotten, some with large tails, armed with a variety of weapons. Greatswords, axes, huge clubs, and more. John spotted a small handful of misbegotten with wings flying up onto the ledges of buildings to leap down on them at opportune times.
As they gathered and arranged themselves, John noticed that there was something different about these misbegotten from the rest.
The way they moved, the way they held their weapons, the way their body looked. The hard look in their eyes.
These misbegotten weren't like the ones they had fought till this point.
John glanced at the other men, but they were unmoved. Did they not see what he did? Or did it not unsettle them?
As their two lines marched closer and closer and closer the misbegotten this time did not wildly charge them. They waited.
When the lines got within charging distance, one of the large misbegotten holding two cleavers stepped forward and opened its too-wide mouth. Its voice, a deep, screechy, and garbling like what John imagined an angler fish would sound like if it could speak, brought their march to a halt.
"Tyrants of Morne. Head back the way you came. The only thing that awaits you here is death."
"HA!" Carth mocked. "Without the advantage of surprise against your betters your kind's cowardice emerges. Not satisfied with just betraying us despite our kindness to you, you even have to betray yourselves with your fear!"
John wasn't so sure that the misbegotten in front of them looked scared, but Carth continued his scathing assessment.
"It appears you lot can only fight true men under the cover of dark with a knife to their back. Biting the hand of your masters who gave you everything you have ever had, even your own life. Well, we shall put you down like the rotten treacherous snakes you are.
"Enough talk. MEN! Advance!"
Their two lines advanced orderly one behind the other.
They resolutely marched forward with the misbegotten holding their ground. When their front line was under ten paces from the enemy, the misbegotten abruptly charged. All at once, in unison.
Living walls of meat and steel crashed against each other with a ring of metal as the misbegotten's cleavers met their brass shields.
As the battle raged it quickly became apparent that these misbegotten were different from the ones they had fought before. They were less skittish, less hesitant, and much more aggressive. They were climbing over each other to try and get strikes with their cleavers on the men. They would look out for themselves and their fellows, blocking strikes and creating openings rather than just wildly throwing themselves weapons first at the line.
Any time a soldier struck down at a misbegotten who had exposed themselves, another misbegotten's cleaver would take advantage of the opening and strike at the soldier with impunity. They could do this because the misbegotten were actually using their hunched forms to their own advantage. Able to easily climb over each other and attack simultaneously. Despite the misbegotten's line mirroring their own, the misbegotten had twice as many fighters in the same space. Each of their own men was fighting two misbegotten at once.
And just seeing how they blocked the strikes from the soldiers, these misbegotten were not nearly as weak as the ones they had fought in the previous horde, matching the soldier's own strength. This combined with the misbegotten's ability to put twice as many against their line, gave the misbegotten an overwhelming offense that almost made up for having no armor at all.
Unlike their previous battles where they rapidly dispatched the enemy, this battle started off to a grueling melee, but one they seemed to be winning.
Then the dozen large misbegotten made their presence known. Their massive size, huge weight, and great strength forced men to their knees when they struck their shields. They were large enough to prevent other misbegotten from clambering about them, but even when the men struck back, their flesh was tougher than a bear's and strikes would leave inconsequential wounds.
That is when John saw the first of their men fall as a cleaver finally broke through his greaves and bit deeply into his leg. John feared the line would break, but he was quickly pulled back and another stepped forward. Another man on the back line stepped forward and ripped the cleaver out of the injured man as the man lifted his golden flask to his lips.
Seeing the large misbegotten nearly breaking their line, Carth summoned the storm to his halberd once again, but this time he swung above the men's head, sending storm blades above their heads at the large misbegotten. The misbegotten would raise their weapons to defend, and the men would get a few strikes in before they once again turned defensive as Carth moved on to the next misbegotten. Andren joined Carth, his own sword and shield becoming cloaked with storm as well.
Casualties started to build up on both sides as the misbegotten were killed one by one and their soldiers were brought down and stayed down, or were lucky enough to be able to be pulled away to drink from their flask.
One man was hit by a large misbegotten with an axe and tossed backwards. He landed right in front of John, a giant gash across his chest, his breastplate a ruin.
The man was so injured John could see him struggling to move and grab his flask. John crouched down and pulled out the man's flask for him, but it was empty. He had drunk the entire thing already.
John hurriedly pulled out his own flask and stuck it into the man's mouth as he struggled to drink it. John felt and saw the tell tale red surge from the man that signaled that he had drunk the tears, but his chest wound barely healed. It kept gushing with blood pouring down onto the stone street below even as he brought his hands up to John's flask and kept drinking.
John felt a hand on his shoulder that pulled him back up, ripping his own hand from his golden flask, leaving the man holding it alone as he struggled to gulp it down. Looking back he saw his twentier Rickar.
"He's already had as much as someone can take! More tears won't help him!"
Understanding instantly, John turned back and tried to pull the flask away. But the man wouldn't let go as he desperately tried to keep drinking from it trying to keep himself alive. John had to pry it from his grasp, and when he did, the flask was half empty. The man, one of the greys, had drunk two entire mouthfuls for nothing. Left with no flask, the man incoherently and blindly flailed his arms around and gurgled as he coughed up more and more blood.
John put his flask away and rejoined his spot at the front of the second line, even as the man in front of him spasmed and coughed, futilely trying to find his empty flask where John had left it on the ground.
A few moments after John rejoined the second line, John saw the misbegotten break through their line on the opposite flank of the formation. They swarmed out into the space between the two lines and began attacking the front of the second line and the back of the first line.
As Andren paused, sending storm blades to push back the large misbegotten and stepped forward to deal with the breach. The middle of the second line advanced to cut off the misbegotten from swarming the back of the left half of the first line. The cause of this break in the line revealed itself as it stood up from ripping a pair of cleavers from the heads of two men who had succumbed to him.
It was their leader, the large, dual-cleaver misbegotten who had spoken before the battle had started. He was covered in a litany of cuts that oozed little pebbles of blood. They looked like cat scratches on his large frame. He stepped forward and exchanged blows with Arden, preventing him from slaughtering the misbegotten that had gotten between the lines, leaving the men on their own.
At that moment, the two handfuls of winged misbegotten who had been laying in wait on top of the nearby building pounced. They flew the air and divebombed towards Carth like missiles at the same time.
Carth, still dealing with the other large misbegotten, was blindsided by the flying misbegotten. Just their weight alone as they crashed into him pushed him to the ground.
Carth began struggling to match his own strength against that of ten misbegotten as they held him down and began swinging their cleavers into him as some of the misbegotten between the lines attacked the downed knight as well.
Meanwhile, Andren found his match in the misbegotten leader, as even with the storm and his clear skill with the blade, the misbegotten was just a far more skilled with his two cleavers and deflecting strikes and getting hits in past Andren's shield that heavily damaged his arm.
As their champions were tied up and could not assist them against the bigger misbegotten, the first line began suffering heavily. Being attacked from the front and from the back, men from the right half of the first line began dropping.
Seeing the other two commanders tied up, Rickar acted.
"Second line, left flank, reinforce the right flank!"
John stepped forward in lockstep with the other as they turned and charged, falling upon the misbegotten swarming Carth.
As he battled the misbegotten swarming Carth, John saw the misbegotten leader's large and misshapen but powerful body flow through coordinated strikes with his two weapons.
It seemed almost unnatural for something that seemed so awkward to be so skilled. He attacked constantly with ferocity ignoring any attacks that hit him from regular men, his exceptionally tough hide preventing any of their strikes from doing more than scratch him and striking them back devastatingly with his tail; meanwhile any dangerous strikes from Andren's storm covered sword would be deflected, sending the power of the storm blasting away from him and into any unfortunate nearby, friend or foe.
John and the men of the left wing battled the misbegotten standing over Carth, their assistance allowing Carth to begin to struggle free.
Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted Rickard charging the misbegotten leader and striking him with the spike of his warpick. The leader roared in pain and fury before he struck him with a cleaver sending him flying back, but this allowed Andren to get a solid strike on the leader's head, the wind shredding one his eyes to.
The battle to free Carth turned when the knight managed to free one of his arms and used his gauntleted first to pulp the head of one of the other misbegotten holding him, freeing himself enough to throw the rest off of him and stand. Though he did not have his halberd, stuck below the feet of the misbegotten nearby, Carth picked up a warpick from a fallen soldier and swung it around as if it weighed as much as one of those hollow plastic bats for children.
With the assistance of Carth, they pushed the misbegotten back a few paces, saving what little was left of the right wind of the first line. Leaving only the second line of men, who impressively hadn't broken yet despite themselves being diminished and heavily hammered.
Meanwhile Andren managed to press his advantage with the misbegotten leader having lost an eye, and struck a killing blow to his head. Their two champions now again free, this time they began hunting down the half a dozen large misbegotten still left.
Despite the other side having lost half of their elites, their champions, the regular misbegotten still had great numbers, and the vicious battle continued.
John found himself in what became the center of the zigzag shape their line had become. John fought until a cleaver he hadn't seen made it past his shield and broke through the chest of his armor, biting inches deeply and cutting through at least one rib.
John fell to one knee dropping his spear to bring his hand to his chest as pain flooded him. The next moment another cleaver came at his head, and he threw his shield. Blocking the hit but nearly falling to the ground, despite the blinding pain, John had the presence of mind to throw himself backwards out of the fighting before his head was taken off.
He took out his golden flask, thankful for the non-spill magic as his hand shook from pain. He brought it to his lips and drank three entire mouthfuls, until the pain in his chest faded. Pulling the flask away from his face, he saw it was down to less than a fifth. He had maybe three more drinks from it then he'd be out.
John staggered to his feet, feeling mental whiplash from the sudden shift from one moment having a sore body and massive pain in his chest to a moment later feeling as if he had never been hurt in the first place.
But John ignored how much his confused mind was shouting at him to slow down for a moment and stabilize. He picked up his spear and stepped back up to the back of line.
He placed his spear in the gap between the two men in front of him and began thrusting at the enemies once again. He heard more fighting at the line far off to his sides, but John didn't have time to worry about others as he focused on the enemies in front of him.
The next few minutes of fighting were a gritty struggle between their two sides as each tried to simply bluntly grind away and killed the men of the other.
But slowly the tides began to change.
The misbegotten were starting to thin. The overwhelming offensive pressure from their superior numbers and unique stature was letting off as their numbers lessened from twice as many, to half again as many and lower, and champions died.
But their own side paid dearly for it. One after another, men would fall.
Slowly John felt the now combined line start to rotate. His place at the center of the line became a fulcrum as the left flank stayed where it was and the right flank, aided by Andren and Carth who had retrieved his halberd, began slowly moving forward and swinging around towards the back of the misbegotten's own line like a mouse trap snapping closed.
By the time the misbegotten realized what was happening, it was too late. They were trapped inside the now v-formation the line had transformed into, and were stuck with their backs against the unguarded cliffside off the side of the street.
Despite seeing the hopelessness of their situation the misbegotten didn't try to surrender in an attempt to save their lives. They kept on fighting, not faltering or breaking despite the end they by now knew was coming, trying to take as many of them with them as they could.
Due to this, the trapped remaining thirty or so misbegotten managed to kill another handful of soldiers before they were cut down to the last few remaining.
As they were slaying the last handful of enemies fighting valiantly, one of them dropped their weapon and fell to their knees. It was the last of their champions, the large misbegotten with the oversized club.
She began hideously laughing. A deranged full belly laugh, even as the last of her fellows dropped to the ground to not rise again.
Carth stepped forward and raised his halberd high. Its perfectly clean blade gleaming in the sun, the power of the storm that had cloaked it for much of the battle having blown any blood from it.
The misbegotten looked up at her executioner and his blade and somehow laughed even harder.
"You are all fools! You think you have won!? Your de-"
With a thud, Carth's halberd cleanly split her head from her body.
Everyone paused for a moment as the last of the enemy was dead.
Then Carth turned towards them.
"Men! Reform and address any injuries! Be ready for more enemies to come out at any moment!" Carth's orders rang out.
John hadn't been injured again in the battle, so he started helping the men near him. As he did, he looked over the remaining men. They had lost nearly thirty in that battle. Almost half of their entire force, leaving less than half after the losses of the other battles. It was absolutely devastating.
As he helped gather and treat the casualties, John could no longer see even one bloodthirsty smile of victory like many had sported before any time they had clashed with misbegotten on their way down here.
All that was left were grim frowns as the men who weren't helping with the injured began gathering valuable resources from the dead like golden flasks or weapons and moving the corpses of fallen men and misbegotten out of the center of the street.
Even John wasn't left unmoved. These were not his people, his friends, or even people he liked. In fact he found them to be morally repugnant on one level, noting the ground covered in the corpses of rebelling slaves, even if they had other admirable traits. Yet seeing so many of the men he had fought beside dead did make John feel a smidgen of melancholy.
A little under thirty men left out of their original sixty something. There was only one other man from John's own five still alive, and it wasn't his fivier.
How had they lost so many of their men?
That is when it hit John. Those misbegotten. He hadn't just been seeing things. The way they had used their weapons and their tactics. They had been trained. And not for just a couple of days like John had been. It was nothing at all like how the other gangs of misbegotten had been.
As everyone finished with the immediate after battle regrouping, John wasn't given time to think on it further as Carth gave out new orders.
"It appears we have defeated the last of the enemy. Andren himself will be the tip of the spear as we investigate what they were defending here house by house. Remember, if you see the enemy leader, a red-maned misbegotten, killing him is our main priority above anything else."
So they arranged themselves into a formation behind Andren as they approached the closest building, which also happened to be the biggest. When they got close, Andren held his hand up.
"Hold here."
They stopped as Andren entered the building by himself. A sound of scuffling and a cry, and moments later Andren came out dragging by the arm what was clearly a misbegotten child. A little girl covered in filth, maybe 6 or 7 by John's estimation of her size. Her misshapen face combined with her childish features made her exact expression hard to tell, but John could see the deathly fear in her eyes.
" I saw some as young as this, some younger, and some nearly adults. This isn't an armory or where they keep their food. This is where they are keeping the younglings!" Andren announced. He turned his armored head to Carth at an ominously deliberate speed.
"Orders, Knight Lieutenant Carth." Andren asked, his voice full of malice.
"Our orders were clear." Carth began matter-of-factly with a vicious undertone.
John could hear the malicious smile on his face behind the helmet. He knew what was going to be said, even as his mind had trouble comprehending what was about to occur. John turned his own helmet to look directly into the misbegotten child's eyes, who looked back at him, even as Carth finished what he was saying.
"We are to destroy whatever they are guarding here."
The little girl's face scrunched up, tears pooling in her eyes at his pronouncement. She opened her too-wide mouth, a sob about to escape. The instant noise began to leave her mouth Andren moved-
____________________________________
John stood at the end of the street alone as high pitched screams of fear and pain sounded across the cliffside, yet he was completely silent and utterly still. He was staring up at the sky as the uncaring sun crawled across the sky, his face completely covered in the grime of the battle. Dust, dirt and blood.
The only spot on his face that was clean were two thin lines going down his face from the corners of his eyes.
John's guts roiled, his fist on his spear so tight it was hurting his palm. His chest was so tight he felt like he could barely breathe. John hated. John hated himself. For... for so many things. Being weak. Knowing too much. For not being able to stop what was happening. For the events since that night. For having come to Morne in the first place
For not knowing.
Weren't the misbegotten winning in the game's timeline? Had this happened there? Had it not? Had his actions somehow set this in motion, or was his timing bad?
As John stood there, violent emotions swirling in him, his thoughts raced trying to make sense of everything. Of how something like this could have happened.
But John only had a small amount of control over what had been happening. Slowly, the hate he was feeling for himself was turned to something else. And as his surging emotions slowed and his thought steadied, the tightness in his chest gathered and coalesced into a small diamond-hard pit of emotion in his heart.
A pit of hate, so cold that even touching it would give you frostbite. Hatred of what had caused this evil in front of himself that he refused to trick his mind into justifying. A hatred, not for himself with whatever his hand in this had been. Not for the soldiers of Morne or the Golden Order, pursuing this end. Not even for the misbegotten for provoking it in some way.
But rather a hatred of what John thought had truly led to this outcome. The quest for purity. Purity of an ideal, perfection of it. And the zealotry that always came from it, destroying everything in its pursuit. Rationalizing why one particular arbitrary thing in their head was more valuable than anything else, even the lives of innumerable children.
The world was more complex and nuanced than any man could conceive of. And reduce it all down to purity being the answer was folly. Purity of the Erdtree. Purity of freedom. Purity of anything.
It was a lie from someone who tricked themselves with their own rationality to favor the abstract over the real. To ignore reality and sacrifice everything in pursuit of a fantasy land that doesn't and could never exist. A totality of arrogance and pride, often unknowing, and refusal to humble oneself and admit their favored idea's imperfection because they believe it would show their own imperfection.
The ultimate form of the refusal to admit one was, or could be, wrong.
As the screams echoed through the air, they fed this small pit in John's heart. Becoming colder and harder.
He didn't know how long exactly, but some time later the screams and sobs went quiet. It left the area filled only with the newfound malicious joy of the remaining men as they came back from their 'victory' and stood a short distance away from John talking about it.
They did it knowingly, to twist the knife. John's outburst and pleading for mercy to Carth had not been well received by anyone. It had been useless, only able to buy himself the role of a 'lookout' while the rest of the men carried out their orders.
But as they spoke, John's ears perked up. He heard something, a fragment of conversation that lit up a lightbulb in his brain. John ran his thick gloves that were covered in dried blood and dirt and grime, and drug them down his face from the corner of his eyes, once again making his face uniformly smeared.
He shoved everything he was feeling in a little box inside his head for later, and turned around with a thoughtlessly neutral expression fixed on his face.
Spotting the group whose conversation had tickled his ear in their spite of him, John approached. He saw one of the men holding a familiar small wooden box, now speckled with blood.
As John approached the men's conversation died and they frowned at him. This was not unexpected; John had known there would be repercussions for what he had done even before he had opened his mouth.
"I overheard you talking about that box there. Where did you find it?" John asked, ignoring their unwelcoming looks.
"One of 'he little monsters was holding onto it when I gutted 'em," The man holding the box said derisively with an obnoxiously thick accent.
"Oh really? What's inside it?" John kept his tone casually curious.
"It ain't none of 'ur business what. It's me box now," the man denied.
"No reason to be that way. I'm interested to know to see if I wanna trade for it."
"Ye wanna know what's in'er? Trade fer it."
John kept his building frustration from his face.
After some back and forth, they struck a deal for a price a little over three times what was reasonable. John transferred the man his
runes and stuck out his hand.
"There you go. Now the box?"
The man looked down at John's hand for a moment, then looked right into John's eyes as he snorted and spit right down onto the box. He gave John an ugly, knowing smirk and put the box in his hands.
"There ye go. Yer box." The man and the guys around them started laughing.
John's blood was on fire. He wanted to take out his knife and gut the man where he stood. But instead he just raised his eyebrow before he calmly bent down and wiped his glove and the box off on a nearby corpse from the battle.
Without another word he walked away from the men back to his nearby lookout position, discretely keeping an eye out to make sure they didn't do anything else. They didn't do more than badmouth him under their breath but still loud enough so he could hear it.
Opening taking off one his dirty gloves and opening the box, inside he found three familiar drawings, pristine. The waterproof box had kept any of the blood from ruining them.
At that moment, John was just done. He could understand why some sought the Frenzied Frame. It was the entire reason he had even come here in the first place, and here he was tempted by an impulse to feed it instead.
But it was just a momentary impulse that John rejected. Irina had to be saved or everything that had happened would have been for nothing.
John did get some dark amusement from the fact that even if he hadn't rejected that impulse though, there wasn't anything Frenzy related that he could do at the moment anyways. Too incapable for even the Frenzied Flame.
Folding the drawings and putting them securely back into their box, John tucked the box behind his chainmail, behind his gambeson, against his breast.
John kept watch in his position until about ten minutes later Carth called all the men to assemble.
As everyone gathered, John looked around memorizing the faces of everyone here. At this point no one was untouched. They were all covered in scuffs and scratches, with many having bloody clothes and makeshift bandages from their battle injuries that had been addressed with crimson tears.
He didn't spot Rickar in the group. He must have fallen sometime after John had seen him attack that misbegotten leader.
After they gathered in front of their own leader, Carth began speaking.
"We have done it, men! We have destroyed what our Lord ordered us to! We have brought our vengeance upon the vile dregs! They will now know the same pain we have felt at their treacherous burning of Castletown. I have no doubt that the other units that Lord Edgar had sally out have been equally successful, and their leader has been destroyed.
"I already have given you a few minutes to celebrate. We are deep into enemy territory, and we should leave before more enemy forces arrive and pick us off in our weakened state. Due to our losses, Knight Ardren and I shall reorganize you into fives and one over-strength twenty. Then we will return to Castle Morne."
And they did so. Carth shifted them around trying to keep what was left of the original fives together as often as he could, as most fives had lost at least a couple men. He also reassigned how the formation was going to be. No more triangle, just a simple line with those transporting casualties at the back.
John was one of those removed from his five assigned to a completely new one, separating him from his last remaining teammate. Not that they had been at all close.
The five he had been put into was the one that was to carry the wounded they had from their last battle. Three men had already reached their limit on being healed by crimson tears but still had wounds that prevented them from being able to move by themselves.
These three men were put into makeshift cloth harnesses made of cloth that one could put on and off like a backpack. Of course, John was one of the men from his five that was to do the labor of carrying someone. John didn't mind doing so, but he knew that what was happening to him wasn't coincidence. As the man's weight settled on him, John suspected his new assignment was a punishment by Carth.
Everyone properly reorganized, Carth began leading them back up through Clifftown towards Castle Morne.
____________________________________________
AN:
I swear this isn't meant to be a grimdark story on purpose. The world was made by GRRM and Miyazaki. Good things will happen as well at some point.
I should probably also mention how I try to interpret lore. This isn't the 'correct' way, but it is how I do things to the best of my limited ability.
I try and make as few possible
unfounded jumps as I can. I try not to make anything novel. I make a lot of jumps, but not jumps that we haven't seen before directly in the lore, and not jumps that aren't indirectly evidenced by something directly in the lore.
That means that I try and not give people abilities, capabilities, etc. that they are not shown to have.
For example, I don't assume that Marika ever had more people than Radagon merged into her as a full person (i.e. no 3rd 'personality', and there are reasonable theories where she has up to 5+).
Why? Because we have no evidence that that ever happened to anyone, ever. We have jar saints, but none of them look like Marika, and it seems like the jar saints weren't trying to be used to make a Rebis but rather something else (no spoilers). It could be true that Marika had other people inside her as a Rebis via jar sainthood, but we have to take a couple steps, and say some things we have never actually seen before (3-in-1 Rebis, jar saints making a Rebis, etc.) are possible.
All we know is that Miquella was born buy-2-for-1, so I decide to interpret things in that vein and say Marika was born 2-in-1 like Miquella was. Now, that could be totally wrong, and she could be a jar saint, or any number of other things, but that isn't how I go about interpreting lore. And I do make a jump, that Marika was born like that, but that jump actually has tangible evidence that this is how things work and isn't an assumption, even a reasonable one.
Another example: I assume that anyone that we haven't seen be able to access the Land of Shadow, is not able to access the LoS. So only Miquella, his followers, the Tarnished, Death Knights, maybe Marika, maybe Mogh, and maybe Children of Rot have ever went in or out. This interpretation has heavy implications on the timeline. And so on.
![Covenant of Fire [Elden Ring SI-OC]](/data/threadmark-index-icons/l/79/79532.jpg?1732329396){kind=icon}
