Empyrean [Elden Ring/Destiny]

[Riero]

Really overthinking it.

Triple Tap, the weapon perk, reloads a round into your magazine from reserves when landing rapid precision hits. It's not so obvious in Destiny 2, but back in Destiny 1, when you first got a gun, it couldn't do anything. You had to use it, attune it, to tease out special abilities. That's not tech. That's the paracausal power of a guardian's light. In the hands of a mortal, a guardian's gun is just that; a gun.

This is the nature of Light when channeled through a Guardian and their chosen weapons.

"Give a power to a Guardian and they shall know that power as a weapon, for when a Guardian chooses to alter the world, they do so with the bullet and the blade. Grant a Guardian godly power, and that Guardian shall fashion it into a perfect rifle. The demiurge of the Guardian is the gun."

 

[RandomOTP]

A lovely update ^.^

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

The Omen

-x-x-x-​

"Oh, Cousin Rykard! Welcome home!"

"Hello, little one. How has my favorite half-sister fared in this golden city these past years?"

"Well enough. Is all well in your realm at the Mountain?"

"Mm. Let us say that whatever is wrong is not something a precocious young demigod need concern herself with. All will be well, in time."

-x-x-x-​

The road up to Stormveil from the shack is about as heavily guarded as the Gate of Storms was. And, unfortunately, there's no cover that can hide Melina while she's riding on Torrent. So we barely make it a hundred yards from the Site of Grace before we have to stop, looking over the patrolling guards.

"This is where I must part from you for a time," Melina says quietly. "I will remain beside you, only incorporeal. Unable to assist or speak." I can hear the bitterness in her voice. Whatever happened to leave her like this, she hates it.

"No worries," I say. "We'll check in again once I find a Site of Grace. Won't be long."

"I pray you are right," Melina says with a stiff nod. "Good luck, Barrett. Be wary. Within Castle Stormveil are creatures far more terrible than those you have encountered thus far. The Grafted are not to be trifled with."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She lets out a breath, and then she and Torrent fade away into glittering blue smoke, which dissipates in the breeze after barely a second.

"They're a lot like those Runes," Winchester says, scanning me. "When they're incorporeal like that, I mean. Paracausal trace tied to you."

"They aware of what's going on?"

"Yeah. Might not catch every detail, but they're still conscious. In fact, I might be able to jury-rig a comms protocol if I had Glimmer. "

I shoot him a look. "Wait, really?"

"Sure. It's paracausal tech, but I'm good with paracausal tech." He rotates his flaps and shoots me a look. "Remember, bud, I was part of the team that designed the H.E.L.M.'s ansible. Paracausal comms ain't new to me."

I had forgotten. Chester likes to keep himself a little low-key. He prefers that people know about me, rather than him. Partly it's humility, but partly it's… well, Sundance was only the last of way, way too many friends who got shot out of the sky because they drew the attention of their Risen's enemies. So Winchester doesn't like drawing attention to the fact that he's a damn good paracausal technician—one of the best. But it's been damn helpful a few times in the past.

Unfortunately, "Well, it's a shame we don't have an engram decoder."

"Yep," Winchester says grumpily. "Not exactly the kind of vacation I was hoping for when we left Sol, bud. I feel like we went camping without a tent."

"We've been camping without a tent. Remember the Red War? We didn't even have the Light."

"But you know what we did have? A damn Cryptarch with a damn engram decoder."

I snort. "You'd rather have a decoder than the Light?"

"You bet your ass. Now quit stalling."

I sigh, pop a smoke bomb, and start jogging. A couple dozen soldiers completely miss me running past them. One of them's stationed just outside the entrance on a ballista. I ignore him as I step inside. But I've only taken a few steps past the doorway when I hear a commotion outside. One of the soldiers blows a trumpet. The ballista fires.

My invisibility isn't gonna last much longer, but I turn around and go back, looking past the ballista. I see where the previous bolt is embedded in the ground, and there's a guy standing up beside it. Looks like he just rolled out of the way. The man's dressed like a stereotypical wizard, complete with a big, pointy hat. His clothes are green and yellow, and look quite a bit nicer than most I've seen—excluding that red velvet cloak Roderika was wearing, obviously. In his right hand is a thin sword, and in his left is a straight-up wizard's staff. I'm not even surprised when he waves it and sends a blast of blue energy at one of the soldiers near him. The guy staggers back, then crumples when the wizard follows up with a thrust of his rapier.

But the rest of the soldiers are converging on him now. One guy against about a dozen. I don't like those odds, even if the guy has paracausal abilities. He might be fine. I'd be fine. But I'm not gonna sit on my thumb and wait to find out. My invisibility breaks as I pull a weighted Solar knife out of the air. I throw it, and it thuds into the back of the ballista operator's head. The man slumps forward onto the weapon. Before any of the soldiers can even notice that they've lost their metaphorical big gun, I pull out DMT and start firing.

It's all over in less than three minutes. Once the last soldier is dead, the wizard sheathes his sword and starts walking towards me, using his staff like a short walkingstick. "Hello, sir!" he calls.

I give him a wave. "Hey. You all right?"

"Well enough, all told." The man stops several paces away, both hands on the crystal at the head of his staff. "I must say, I've never seen a creature such as you."

"I'm an Exo. A person in an artificial body. Here to try and get the Great Rune off of Godrick."

"Oh?" The wizard looks intrigued. "Tarnished, then, are you?"

"No." Why would that be the assumption? "Just made a promise, and I need to get to the foot of the Erdtree to fulfill it."

"Hm. Then you are not seeking the throne of Elden Lord?"

"Don't think I'd make a very good lord."

"I see." He considers me for a moment. "Well, I am Tarnished, but I have not pursued the Elden Ring for some time. I am seeking something else. Perhaps we can help each other?"

"Don't see why not." I hold out a hand. "I'm Barrett-12. Call me Barrett."

"Rogier. Sorcerer." He shakes. His grip is firmer than I expect from a guy using a delicate rapier and wearing relatively fine clothes.

"If you're not here for the Great Rune, what are you here for?" I ask him.

"I've heard tell of something beneath Stormveil. Some relic of the Shattering." He considers me, visibly debating with himself. "I would rather not say more until I have at least some confirmation."

"Fair enough," I say. "I'll help you search."

"Any assistance would be appreciated," says Rogier. "But we will need to get into the castle first."

The doorway opens into a long corridor, curving to the right as it ascends the hill. We pass a Site of Grace in an alcove on our left, and pause for a moment so Rogier can touch it. It flashes under his fingers, sparkling gold. Gotta admit, I'm a little jealous that he doesn't have to deal with a Crypt vision.

Only a few paces later, the tunnel opens out onto a windswept spit of land. It was probably once ornately decorated, if the crumbling remains of tiles and statues are any indication. A lot of those statues seemingly got replaced by gravestones more recently, but in the wind and rain that seems pretty constant up here even those gravestones are hardly legible anymore. Up ahead is an arched gate between two tall towers, and past that looms Castle Stormveil. The mountains and trees have obscured my view until now, so this is the first clear view I've gotten of it. Gotta say, it's impressive. Reminds me a little of Felwinter Peak, though with extra gold trim and masonry instead of concrete fortifications.

There's a Site of Grace right in the middle of the land bridge, between us and the archway. Something about seeing that, barely a hundred yards from the last Site we passed, makes me nervous.

I'm right.

We've barely taken two steps out into the wind when a voice booms from above us, somehow echoing around us, even though it should be getting stripped away by the gale. "Foul Tarnished!"

Beside me, Rogier mutters what sounds like a particularly blasphemous curse.

We both look up at one of the towers overlooking the narrow plateau. There's a figure there. Some kind of neohuman, at first glance. He looks mostly like an old man with greying hair, wearing a shapeless brown robe and carrying a heavy walkingstick. But he's got a tangled mess of horns growing out of his head, mostly out of the right side. It looks like he had some on the left, too, growing out from above his eye, but they were cut only an inch or so from the skin, leaving bone-white patches behind.

Oh, he's also almost twenty feet tall. That's also worth noting.

"Another of thine accursed kind comes to Castle Stormveil," says the massive figure in a deep, resonant voice. Despite the ragged robe, unkempt hair, and half-trimmed horns, something about his voice and bearing screams nobility. Reminds me a little of Mara Sov, actually. Just a little. "Emboldened by the flame of ambition."

He jumps, and in a single motion sails damn near a hundred feet in the air. A tail, tipped with a stinger like a scorpion, whips behind him like the trail of a comet. He lands on the plateau in front of us, sending dust and cracked masonry scattering. His amber eyes are fixed on Rogier. Doesn't even seem to notice me.

"Someone," he says grimly, "must extinguish thy flame. Let it be Margit the Fell."

I clear my throat. "Can we…" But before I can finish saying talk about this, both Margit and Rogier have leapt into action. Margit opens by summoning a golden dagger—dagger for him, which means it's about the size of Crown-Splitter—and throwing it towards Rogier. The sorcerer rolls out of the way, then waves his staff, creating three similar blades of blue light hovering around his head.

"Damn it," I say, pulling out First In, Last Out. "Here we go, then."

I charge in, fingers tight around the shotgun. Unfortunately, for such a big guy, Margit is deceptively fast. And deceptively is the important part of that sentence. His style is like nothing I've ever seen before. He jumps around the arena like a Threadrunner in the Crucible, but when he attacks, he plants himself down to make incredibly heavy blows with his massive staff. The first time he does one, I try to dodge out of the way, only to misjudge the timing and get smashed into the ground while I'm trying to get back to my feet. And, uh, damn the guy has a mean swing. I've taken explosives to the face that didn't have as much stopping power.

But I've got some stopping power too. Once I pick myself up, I dump a FILO slug into his chest, not totally confident I can hit his head while he's moving so erratically. The blow definitely lands—I see the Arc-charged slug tear a hole in his robe and thud into his body. He flinches, but turns right back around and swings that stick again. This time he moves it a little faster, albeit with less raw force behind it, but I manage to duck under the attack. While he's focused on me, I see Rogier fling a bolt of blue light at him from the side.

We fall into a rhythm. I stay in close, doing my best to dodge Margit's swings and tanking those I can't, dumping slugs into him whenever I get the chance. Rogier hangs back, slinging spells at him whenever I give him an opening. It's working, although it's doing a number on me. I can see Margit flagging. After I hit him with a slug to the knee, he leaps back, staggering slightly. "Well," he growls, still looking at Rogier. "Thou art of passing skill, I see. It shall avail thee nought, Tarnished."

"Think I'm the one who hit you there, actually," I say.

Margit rolls his eyes at Rogier. "Speak not through this Carian puppetry," he says. "I am not so easily distracted."

"Oh, fuck off," I growl. This asshole is attacking me, not because he thinks I'm Tarnished, but because he assumes I'm a Tarnished's puppet? A toy soldier? A damn—

For a second, I'm back in the blizzards outside Eventide, listening to Clovis Bray's inflated head say something as inane as it is pompous. When I return to myself, there are two crystalline shurikens between my fingers.

That's how Stasis has always been, for me. I never want to use it. Don't get me wrong, I'm no fanatic like Shayura used to be. I've got nothing but respect for Eris Morn and Elsie Bray, two of the three pioneers when it comes to using Stasis without joining the Witness' side. Blackwall's one of my best friends, and he's probably the most accomplished Behemoth in the universe.

But Blackwall's… he's done things he's not proud of, sure. Everyone has. But he's never been someone he's not proud of. He's always known who he is. From the moment he was first resurrected to now, he's been who he is. All the changes of the past decade—House Light, the Coalition, Savathûn—haven't shaken his confidence, even though he used to kill Eliksni, Cabal, and Hive just as much as the rest of us. So Stasis has no fear for him.

See, Stasis is about… stillness. Stagnation. Rigidity. That's why it was so terrible for Eramis, why the Europan pyramid was able to twist her bitterness about the Whirlwind into a murderous hatred of the Traveler, a hatred so strong that she was willing to enter into the service of the incarnation of the apocalypse. That's why she was willing to join such illustrious company as Xivu Arath—who, lest we forget, was Oryx's second in command when the Taken King led the armies that actually carried out the attack on Riis. It's why the Witness' whispers through Clarity were so effective in preying on Clovis Bray's god complex. Eris Morn once suspected that Stasis was based on obsession, but that's not it, not exactly. Stasis is about stasis. Being unchanging. And if your unchanging state has a singular motivation, it's almost inevitable that it'll become an obsession. An all-consuming one, given time.

That's why I don't like using Stasis. Because once I was everything the Witness tried to use it to turn people into. And Stasis likes to pop into my hands whenever I'm angry, or hurt, or afraid—as if to remind me that I could always go back to that.

But just using Stasis doesn't actually promote that. It's drawing on it, delving deep inside yourself to try and pull more power out of that well of Darkness deep inside, that twists a person up. So I don't throw away those Withering Blades. Instead, I fling them both at Margit, holster FILO, and close my fists. Two crystalline kamas form between my fingers. Because as much as I don't like Stasis, I was the one who first figured out Silence and Squall, the two kamas that have become a standard part of the Revenant toolkit in the Crucible.

But while I'm drawing on the Super, Margit has charged Rogier. He summons a massive hammer of solid, golden light over his head. Rogier tries to dodge, but he mistimes it just like I did.

Silence strikes Margit in the back, but not before Margit's hammer rushes Rogier into the rock. Margit freezes, encased in pale blue crystal. He looks like an ice sculpture, only I know from experience that he's not cold to the touch, and it'd take more heat than any Sun in the galaxy can generate to melt Stasis crystals. They break because Guardians don't focus on maintaining them, not because the physical crystal itself is weak. It's one of the strongest substances in the universe.

Squall hits the crystal. It shatters, and so does the crystal, surrounding the stumbling and bleeding Margit in a storm of razor-sharp shards, whipping around him like a localized hurricane. I approach, pumping the action on FILO.

"Ah!" he cries out, shielding his face from the shards, glaring at me in shock and anger between his fingers. "What? Still thou takest arms against me, though thy puppeteer is fallen?"

"I am not a fucking puppet," I snap, raising FILO. The slug hits him in the palm where his hand is raised to protect his face. He flails that hand, taking a step away from me.

"What… are you?" he demands.

There are dozens of pithy one-liners I could give to that one. I'd love to say that the reason I don't is because I'm better than that, but really I just can't pick. The next slug buries itself in his eye. He staggers, and then his body starts to come apart into sparkling golden smoke. It's… almost exactly like what happens when Torrent and Melina vanish, actually, only gold instead of blue.

He falls to his hands and knees, body dissipating, and then vanishes entirely, leaving neither his walkingstick nor his cloak behind. Now that I know what to look for, I feel the Runes attach themselves to me, twelve thousand tiny paracausal reminders of this fight.

But I know what I saw. I narrow my eyes. "You're still here," I growl, pumping my shotgun. "I know what it looks like when someone discorporeates. I'm right, aren't I? You're not dead."

There's silence for a long moment. I notice that Rogier's corpse has dissolved too, into inert gray dust. Then Margit's voice echoes around me again.

"Thou art no puppet," he says quietly. "I see this now. Why dost thou travel with the accursed Tarnished?"

"I met the guy literally right on the other side of the tunnel," I snap. "But he sure seemed more decent than you."

"Seekest thou the Great Rune carried by the traitor Godrick, then?" asks Margit.

"Yes," I say. "That a problem?"

There's a very, very long pause. More than a minute. Then… "Perhaps not," says Margit slowly. "Perhaps we have no quarrel after all. So long as thou dost not intend to give the Great Rune up to any of the Graceless Tarnished."

"I made a promise to get someone to the base of the Erdtree," I say. "Can't do that without Great Runes, or so I've been told. So, no, I'm not planning on giving them to someone else. Not until I've done that, at least."

There's what sounds like a sigh. "And this Tarnished that fought with thee. He does not seek the Great Rune?"

"He said he didn't. Not that I had the chance to know him for more than five minutes."

"Then perhaps I have acted in haste," says Margit. "The hands of the Fell Omen will be watching thee, Unstrung One. If thou hast spoken true, then perhaps we shall have no quarrel when next we meet."

Unstrung One? "My name's Barrett," I say.

There's no response.

I sigh and sit down beside the Site of Grace, turning my back on the scattering dust that's all that's left of poor Rogier. It's not the first time someone's died on my watch, not even close. But it always hurts, and I welcome that pain. It's better than what rushes in to fill the void without it. Joy and sorrow, to the adherent of the sword-logic, are the same thing.

After a moment, Melina appears beside me in a puff of sparkling blue. "Impressively fought," she says.

"Thanks," I say, definitely not sounding even a little sincere. "You have any idea who that was?"

She studies me for a long moment. "An idea, yes. But no certainty. And if I am right, it is not my secret to reveal."

"Damn it. Fine." I rub my face. "What was he?"

"An Omen," she says. "An old and powerful one."

"What's an Omen?"

"In the days of Queen Marika's reign, occasionally a child would be born malformed, with horns or bestial traits. These were Omens, and they were deemed accursed by the adherents of the Golden Order." Melina's voice is softly unhappy. "It was traditional to have their horns and bestial parts severed as infants. Many did not survive the procedure. Those which did were shunned all their lives."

"That's horrible." Margit might've killed Rogier, but… well, I pitied Eramis, too, before the end. The worst enemies are always the ones that might have been friends, if things were different.

"It is," she agrees simply. "Far too many such atrocities were allowed, and even encouraged, under the Golden Order. The brutality of the crucifixions you saw on the roads of Limgrave did not begin with the Shattering. They only grew more common."

"I don't think I like your Golden Order very much," I tell her.

She's silent for a long time. "Someone I loved dearly," she whispers finally, "told me that it was not my Order. That there was no place for me within it. And then he did his best to remove me from it."

I stare at her. She's looking down at her burned hands, clutching one another in her lap. But before I can ask, I hear footsteps on stone behind us. I look up.

Rogier steps out of the tunnel onto the plateau. His clothes are as immaculate as they were before he got crushed like a grape. "You finished the Omen off, then?" he asks.

 

[Caiuz]

And so Barrett has his first contact with Tarnished immortality.

Also I hope Rogiers canon fate is averted.

 

[ALLCAPSNOSPACE]

Deja Vu! I've just been in this place before!

Seriously though I can't wait for Barrett's reaction to another group of light wielding warriors that have resurrection powers.

 

[Aliya]

It always really funny to me the only reason given to a lot of enemies being aggro on you in Elden Ring is racism.

 

[RandomOTP]

A lovely update! I didn't catch some of the Destiny stuff, but context clues made it apparent! ^.^

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

Tarnished

-x-x-x-​

"Startin' to worry about you, Sara."

"Worry? What's to worry about?"

"You want an itemized list? That gun's got history, sweetheart. Dark history."

"It's just a gun. A damn good one. Come on, come out to the Ravine with me tomorrow. You can give it a spin."

-x-x-x-​

I can't help but blink a couple times while Rogier approaches and sits at the Site of Grace beside us. Sure, Melina told me that death wasn't as permanent here as it is elsewhere in the universe, and I've seen evidence of that in the crucified corpses on the roads. But this is… something else.

"You recover quickly, Sorcerer," says Melina softly.

"You must have noticed the Site of Grace only a few paces from us," says Rogier. "Kind of the Omen to prepare his ambush so close to one, I must say. Though perhaps he did not know. I've not had the opportunity to ask an Omen whether they can see the guidance of Grace."

"Is this a thing all Tarnished can do, then?" I ask, looking between Rogier and Melina. "Come back from death?"

"Indeed," Rogier says. "I have long since lost sight of the guiding arcs of Grace that emerge from the Sites, but the Sites themselves remain visible."

"But ordinary people can't do that."

"Not as a rule," Melina says. "There were rumors, during the reign of Queen Marika, of miraculous resurrections at places where the Grace of Gold pooled, but they were just that—rumors and miracles. It is only the Tarnished, since their return from beyond the Fog, who can reliably be so reborn."

"A gift to our kind, perhaps, after our long exile. I cannot say," Rogier says with a rueful grin. His wide-brimmed hat throws his face in shadow, hiding his pointed chin and wide mouth from the Erdtree's light. "And we cannot always return so. From rumors and speculation I gather that a Tarnished killed by another Tarnished remains dead forever. But it is difficult to be certain of such a thing, as it is impossible to test safely. It's frustrating, at times, to walk in the wreckage of a golden age I cannot remember, where every sight begs a dozen questions and every answer begs a dozen more."

I'm reminded of how I felt, more than four centuries ago, waking up coughing and spluttering on the shores of the New Orleans Basin. No memories, but knowing that my metal skin wasn't natural, that the rusting husks of cars all around me should be carrying people down much less dilapidated roads, but never quite knowing why I was so sure. "Is that what you're looking for, under the castle?" I ask him. "Answers?"

"Always, my friend," says Rogier. "But specifically, I have been tracking Deathroot outbreaks in Limgrave and Liurnia. I have a suspicion about how the root splits and spreads beneath the ground, and if I am correct, there will be a large growth beneath the castle. If it is so, I may be able to trace the growth all across the Lands Between to find where the network as a whole is rooted. Where the original Deathroot grows still, spreading through the earth like the branches of a subterranean Erdtree."

"Have a care," says Melina softly. "In seeking answers about Those Who Live In Death, you may find yourself opening graves best left buried."

"A friend of mine told me much the same thing," says Rogier. "And he may be right. He yet sees the Guidance of Grace, while I do not. Perhaps that is because his faith holds firm, and mine does not. But…" He sighs. "Is it any wonder my faith has faltered? Godrick is a direct descendant of the Golden Lineage, descended from Godwyn the Golden himself, and yet look at the depravity he has wrought here in Limgrave. Caelid was once said to be a beauteous place, but is now a rotting, pestilent waste—all due to the actions of the Empyrean Malenia. Pastor Miriel teaches of the love that tied the Golden Order to the lineage of the Full Moon, but that love ended in betrayal, and was followed by yet more betrayal as the Knights of the Cuckoo turned upon House Caria and imprisoned Queen Rennala in her own academy. With every secret I uncover, I find more reasons to question the justice of the Golden Order."

"I cannot fault you this," Melina says.

Rogier looks surprised. "Can you not?" he asks. "I would have thought a Finger Maiden would find such speech blasphemous."

"I am no Finger Maiden," says Melina. "Merely a lonely traveler, seeking to return to her roots. A difficult task, as I have no legs of my own to carry me back."

"Ah. Then you are the one to whom Barrett made his promise?" He looks at me. "To return the lady to Leyndell?"

"That's right," I say.

"I am Morna," says Melina. "And though you did not see me, I was present for your introduction to Barrett, Sorcerer Rogier."

That's the second time she's introduced herself by that name to a Tarnished. I don't think I'm the one she's lying to. But why would her name matter to them?

"A pleasure, Morna," says Rogier, though there's a curious look in his eye. "Morna. Hm. A name with much history."

"Is it?" I ask.

"It is, I assume, derived from Castle Morne, at the southernmost point in the Lands Between," says Rogier. "A grim place, with a sad history."

"A history tormented," whispers Melina, "by vengeance, betrayal, and violence."

"Just so," says Rogier.

I stare at Melina for a long moment. She avoids my gaze.

"In any case," Rogier says, pulling my attention. "I find myself curious about you, Barrett. That is twice that you have shown yourself a more than capable warrior. You did far more than your share of the work in battle against the Omen. And I've not seen weapons like yours before."

"You wouldn't have," I say. "I'm from… well, I guess I'm from the stars."

Rogier leans back, like he's staggering while sitting down. "Truly?" he asks. "Like the Fallingstar Beasts?"

"The what?"

"Denizens of the Stars who fell to the Lands Between in great numbers many years before the Shattering," Melina says. "It was this invasion that motivated General Radahn to halt the stars in their motion in the first place."

"Huh." I consider that. "Chester, you didn't see anything alive in that debris field, did you?"

Winchester pops out of my hammerspace. "I didn't exactly have a lot of time to do sightseeing, bud," he grunts. "What with hitting an asteroid, you dying, and dropping faster than a civilian in surgery."

"Fair enough."

"And what sort of creature are you?" Rogier asks, looking fascinated at Winchester.

"I'm a Ghost," Winchester says. "My job is to keep this idiot alive."

"I resemble that remark," I quip. "Anyway, I ain't seen one of these Fallingstar Beasts since we got here. What do they look like?"

"A bit like bulls," Rogier says. "Only rather than horns, they have pincers like those of an insect, their long tails are barbed with metal spikes, and their hides are plated with black stone."

"Never heard of anything like that," I say. "Universe is a big place. They must have come from somewhere I haven't come across yet."

"Are you an explorer then?" Rogier asks.

"Yep. Founding member of the Foreguard, the Last City's extrasolar exploration force. Our job is to make sure that the next time someone comes around to threaten the people of Sol, we know they're coming before they get close enough to throw rocks."

"Fascinating," says Rogier. "And, once again, I am forced to question. All of the Golden Order's records indicate that the war on the stars was a just one, that the Fallingstar Beasts were ravenous monsters who sought the destruction of all the world. Yet here you are, an entirely different creature from the stars who seems entirely reasonable."

"Don't think the Golden Order encountered anyone like me before the Shattering," I say. "Take it from me, Rogier, space is a really dangerous place. Most of the things out there probably would try to kill us. It's gotten safer lately, but it's still a mess up there. Just be glad you got those Fallingstar Beasts rather than the Hive or the Taken."

"From the story you told me, I suspect we are lucky," Melina says.

"Ah!" Rogier exclaims, standing up and dusting himself off. "I beg of you, enough! If you continue tempting me with the promise of stories and secrets I could never have encountered before, I will never stand up again. But, alas, I still do have an investigation to complete."

I grin, following him to my feet. "And I have a Great Rune to find," I say. "You wanna split up, or should we do this as a team?"

"Two heads are better than one, as they say." He shrugs. "We should at least approach a fork in the path before we discuss parting ways."

"Fair enough," I say, as Melina stands and fades away into glittering blue smoke.

We hit that first fork in the road sooner than I expect.

"O-oh, Tarnished, aren't you?" A man who looks half-rotted away is standing in the dilapidated gatehouse just beside the heavy portcullis blocking our way into the castle proper. He's looking at Rogier, which I'm starting to get the feeling is something I'm just gonna have to get used to.

"Yes," says Rogier. "Will that be an issue?"

"Oh, n-no, not at all, sir," says the man, with an ingratiating insincerity that puts my nickel-alloy teeth on edge. "Only, if you don't mind s-some advice, I'd advise against taking the main gate into the castle. It's under heavy guard." He gestures at a giant hole in the wall of the building. At first glance it looks like it just opens onto a sheer drop down the mountainside, but when I look again I see that there's a narrow ledge along the castle wall that we can walk across. "Try the opening here. The guards don't know about it."

I frown at him. The man's flesh is graying, the same as the other soldiers I've been encountering. His hair has almost all fallen out, and what's left dangles greasily from his scalp in tattered curtains around his sunken face. Around his neck is what looks like a pretty heavy metal collar, and hanging from that is some kind of wooden stockade, with two holes for his wrists. His left hand is missing from the wrist down, and I have a sneaking suspicion that it was in that stockade when it was removed.

But despite all of that, his eyes are still… well, not gold, not like the liquid sunlight in Melina's face, but at least yellow. It's closer to gold than the coal-black eyes of those groaning soldiers I fought at the Gate of Storms. I'm starting to gather that eye color is a hint as to how much of a person is left in their skull, in these parts.

I don't trust him. Not by a long shot. But I can believe that he doesn't like Godrick or his soldiers any more than I do.

"I must say, it is tempting," Rogier says, looking speculatively out at the ledge before turning to me. "What do you think, Barrett?"

"I can make it through the main gate," I say. I can always go invisible if I need to, after all. "But you're the one who needs to search the castle for a way underground. Seems to me like the main gate is going to lead straight to the throne room once we get past the guards, so maybe it makes more sense to try a side path first."

"Only if you're willing to accept the delay," Rogier says."

"Sure. I have time."

Rogier nods at me, then turns to the man. Now that he's heard me talk, the man's eyes are fixed on me, uncertainty and dread written in the heavy lines of his face. "We'll try the side path then, Sir…" Rogier says, trailing off.

"Oh, I'm Gostoc," says the man, still looking at me. "But don't mind me. I just want to keep my head down. Coming between the Tarnished and Lord Godrick doesn't seem like a good way to survive long."

"Wise, I suppose," says Rogier. "Well, I'm Rogier, and this is Barrett. Thank you for your assistance, Gostoc."

Rogier takes the lead as we start down the narrow path. We cross the ledge, then drop into a small valley. There's a path leading up along the wall, going around the base of a tower. We get ambushed on the way up—by giant hawks with swords in place of feet, because that's just the kind of day we're having. Two of them come at us, but I throw my knife at one while Rogier blasts the other with his magic, and that's that.

"These are new," I say, nudging one of the feathery corpses with my foot.

"Indeed," says Rogier. "I'd heard tell of the stormhawks that were said to roost on the mountain, but this…" He leans down and examines the point where the sword has been bolted into a hawk's leg. "The foot was removed, and the sword affixed in its place. Has Godrick run so low on human flesh for his grafting that he has lowered himself to the limbs of beasts?"

"Couldn't say. So, this grafting. Any idea how it works?"

Rogier shoots me a look. "Not in any detail. I've not had any desire to become one of Godrick's heretical surgeons. My understanding is that incantation is involved, and as a sorcerer that is far outside my expertise."

"Is it? Me—Morna mentioned incantations and sorceries, but I wasn't aware that they were so different."

"They are entirely different skillsets," Rogier says as we ascend the hill, passing a Site of Grace in a small hollow. "Sorceries are technical, formal things, generally requiring that the sorcerer retain the spell's formulation entirely within their mind while casting. A well-trained intellect is imperative. Incantations, conversely, draw upon powers other than those of the spellcaster. The incantations of the Erdtree draw on the Golden Order itself, for instance. There are some exceptions to this sharp delineation, of course. The incantations of draconic communion blur the line. They require an openness to connection like other incantations, but the connection is to the flesh of dragons that the cantor has consumed."

"Consumed?"

"The greatest cantors of dragon communion would hunt great drakes in the wild places of the world," says Rogier. "Or so it is said—I have never known an accomplished draconic cantor myself. Supposedly they would harvest and eat the hearts of dragons to strengthen their communion."

I hesitate for a second as we start onto a narrow wooden ramp, leading up to an opening in one of the castle's towers. "…Are dragons intelligent?"

"The ancient dragons certainly were. It is said that the dragonlord Fortissax was a dear friend of Godwyn the Golden. Their lesser descendents are likely still somewhat intelligent, but I suspect they are far nearer to beasts than the dragonlords of the days before the Golden Order."

Nearer to beasts does not mean non-sapient animals, though. So, great, there's a whole school of magic based on slaughtering and eating the hearts of intelligent beings. Fun, fun. I think I hate this place. Before I can say anything, though, I see a figure step outside of the tower. He starts as he sees us, and I see him reach for his belt—and the trumpet there. Before he can blow it, I whip out the Dead Man's Tale and fire a shot straight into his skull. The first pings off his helmet, the second sends him staggering, and the third drops him, sending his body tumbling off the cliff into the mist below.

…Unfortunately, the gunfire was almost as loud as the trumpet would have been.

"Not the must subtle of weapons, is it?" Rogier asks as several other soldiers rush out of the tower and start sprinting down towards us, drawing swords and spears as they go.

"…I'll see if I've got something with a suppressor," I say, taking aim at the next man.

There are enough of them that they get to us before we kill them all, but there aren't enough to survive much past that. After they're dead, we ascend into the tower. There's an opening from there into a larger building. A wooden staircase leads up to a second floor, and I can see at least one more floor above that through the rotting holes in the boards.

"Hope I don't fall through the floors," I say. That's happened a couple times while I was out ranging. Most recently I fell through a half-rotted floor in Trostland during the Red War. Thermidor damn near died laughing.

"I advise you to tread carefully," Rogier says, grinning.

I do. It's slow going, getting up the building, not just because I have to avoid falling through the floorboards. There's a locked door between us and the ladder up to the next level with a floor made of actual rock that I won't fall through, and we have to brave the wooden deathtrap of a landing to find the key, which turns out to be in a side room. There's a few… servants, probably? Scattered around the mouldering floors, but all of them have clearly lost their minds as bad as any of the soldiers, charging us with dull knives and limbs like twigs. They go down easily—I've pulled out the Edge of Concurrence for now while Winchester tries to rig a suppressor to one of my more conventional weapons, but these guys don't even need ammo. I just let 'em get close, then stab them with the glaive.

We do eventually get the door open, make it up the ladder, then follow the path out to another narrow ledge outside the castle. That leads us to a staircase—and seriously, whoever designed this castle with so much exterior scaffolding, with these winds? I want a word with them. It's nothing I can't deal with, after scaling the interior walls of the sunken pyramid, but still, it's bad architecture.

Once we get back inside we're met with a big guy in armor. I hit him with the Edge and he falls backwards into… is that an elevator shaft?

"Oh," Rogier says, looking down. "That's promising."

"If we're trying to get under the castle, yeah," I agree. "I can get down there, take a look?"

He blinks at me. "You… how? Do you have a way to call the elevator?"

"Nah, I'll just jump. Let you know if I see anything." Before he can react, I jump down. I catch myself at the bottom with a double jump and hit the elevator lightly.

There's a button in the middle of the platform, I notice. Which just begs the question. I mean, the button implies an automated trigger, and for an automated trigger to run an elevator safely between two levels… doesn't that imply an electrical motor? I dunno, I'm not a mechanical engineer. It's probably magic. The room has only one exit besides the elevator. I step outside…

…And come face to face with an eight-foot-tall fuck in heavy red plate.

We look at each other for a long moment.

"Well," he says. "What manner of creature art thou?"

 

[Engineer455]

…And come face to face with an eight-foot-tall fuck in heavy red plate.

We look at each other for a long moment.

"Well," he says. "What manner of creature art thou?"

Click to shrink...

oh shit a Crucible Knight.
also
lol, he called one an eight-foot-tall fuck.

 

[Haikeu]

A yes, Telavis the crucible knight...

 

[RandomOTP]

A lovely update ^.^

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

Loyalty

-x-x-x-​

"Well, now, I see thou hast kept my gift."

"Oh, Cousin Ranni! Of course I have kept her. Little Renna is a great comfort, on days when duty taketh Miquella away from the citadel."

"Only Miquella? Hast thou not two other siblings here in Leyndell?"

"Malenia remaineth cloistered while she is within the city, meditating to control her curse. And Godwyn…"

"What of Godwyn?"

"…Methinks he careth not for me."

-x-x-x-​

"Uh, hi," I say, my eyes darting from the guy's heavy longsword, to the wickedly curved spike on his shield, to the flanges, like the blades of an axe, adorning the sides of his helmet. "I'm Barrett-12. Exomind. Call me Barrett."

"Barrett." The man sounds amicable, even though his voice echoes ominously in his helm. "I am Trinovar, Knight of the Crucible."

Knight of the Crucible? I don't remember anyone mentioning that organization. An oversight, or are there just not enough of these guys for it to be relevant? "Pleasure," I say. "Nice not to be attacked on sight, gotta say."

Trinovar hums. "I fear that the soldiers sworn to Lord Godrick, as well as the former Mistwood Knights, have not adapted well to the strife of these latter days. Their minds fracture beneath the strain. There is shame in that, 'tis true, but it is a shame borne even by the most noble." He sounds sad, as if remembering someone specific.

"Are you not sworn to Godrick, then?" I ask.

"Lord Godrick," he corrects me, though his tone is more a gentle reminder than a sharp rebuke. Then he shrugs, his heavy pauldrons clinking. "Nay, I am. In name, at least. We swore ourselves to uphold and defend the honor of the Golden Lineage after Lord Godfrey was banished."

"And yet you're down here," I point out. "Not even really in the castle."

"Alas, the trust the Golden Lineage once held in we of the Crucible hath been eroding for millennia." Trinovar sounds wry, as if he sees a joke and knows he's the punchline. "By now, it is so thin that methinks Lord Godrick suffereth my presence only for fear that I would resist were he to order mine eviction. He is mistaken, of course, but no oath compelleth me to enlighten him."

"But you serve him anyway? Even though he doesn't want you here?" That's confusing, briefly, but after a minute I get it. I remember the early days of the Coalition, back before Misraaks and House Light won the City's hearts and minds. At the beginning, I'd had some reservations. Me, Parvati, and Lex had all had a little trouble getting used to having Eliksni in the walls. Or, well, Fallen, as we'd still called them at the time. But with Thermidor and Blackwall pushing us, inspiring us to be our best selves, we'd manned the walls around the Botza district anyway.

I still remember the looks we got from the refugees, cowering in the shade of the half-destroyed buildings. They hadn't wanted us there. They'd thought we were looking for an excuse to turn our guns and our Light in at them. Deep down, in my case, they might even have been right.

But in the end, it wasn't House Light that brought the Vex into the Last City for the first time ever. And something about standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the few real warriors of House Light, while their civilians and hatchlings evacuated, made it hard not to accept them afterward. Knowing that the Eliksni beside me wouldn't get back up from a torch hammer blast, and that they were standing there anyway? It was humbling.

I try not to tell him too often, but Thermidor is right most of the time, and he definitely was that day.

"I am sworn to the Golden Lineage," says Trinovar. "That they do not trust me changeth this not. I am sworn to those descendants of Lord Godfrey who remain blessed by Grace, and specifically to Lord Godrick, unless he chooseth to release me from service."

Lord Godfrey. Wasn't that the First Elden Lord? The first Tarnished? "Remain blessed by Grace?" I ask. "I'm guessing those who got it back more recently don't count."

"Thou speakest of the Tarnished," says Trinovar. "Were it my choice, I would sit with the Tarnished and discuss their journeys back from beyond the Fog. I would ask if they brought word of Lord Godfrey, who led us into battle all those centuries ago. But, alas, it is not. Lord Godrick hath decreed that all Tarnished are to be destroyed on sight."

"Even if a Tarnished wasn't looking to fight him?"

"Lord Godrick's orders were not discerning."

Hm. Well, I can't bring Rogier down here, then. Not unless I want him and Trinovar to duke it out, and I don't. Trinovar seems decent, even if he does work for an asshole.

But then again… No oath compelleth me to enlighten him, he said. And ain't that interesting? Sounds like the big guy's at the end of his rope when it comes to tolerating his boss. Somehow I doubt he's all that happy about the grafting and the crucifixions and whatever the hell else Godrick's been getting up to, even if he feels like he can't turn on his liege.

Maybe he doesn't have to.

"I've only been in Limgrave a few days," I say. "But I've already seen some of the stuff Godrick's been getting up to."

"Lord Godrick." Trinovar's tone is wooden, now. Which might be a bad sign… but it also might not.

In for a bullet… "Lord Godrick, then," I say. "You seem like an honorable fella, Sir Trinovar. You want to uphold your oaths. But it doesn't seem like Lord Godrick really reflects those ideals all that well."

"It is not for me to question my Lord," says Trinovar in a monotone that would make even a combat frame jealous.

"Well, you said that you were sworn to uphold the honor of the Golden Lineage," I say. "What if a particular member of it is a stain on that honor?"

"It is not for me to question my Lord," says Trinovar again.

…In for a mag. "What would happen," I begin slowly, hoping I'm not making a mistake, "if, hypothetically, Godrick were to die while you were down here?" Be a shame to have to fight the guy just when I'm starting to like him.

"I am sworn to obey the commands of my Lord Godrick," says Trinovar. I can't see his face under his helmet, but I can tell he's watching me closely. "He hath commanded that I am to be stationed here, upon this ledge, out of sight and out of mind. But while I remain here, I cannot defend His Lordship from any who may attempt to approach him from the main gate. Should he die, the Golden Lineage would be ended, and I would be without a liegelord—though I might seek to serve other descendants of Queen Marika."

"And his order to kill Tarnished on sight?"

"Would bear no further weight. Such is not the doctrine of the Golden Order, but a tactical decision made by Lord Godrick himself. If he were to die, his war would be lost and his tactics would be ended."

…I'm starting to get the feeling that Trinovar is smarter than I assumed. "Gotcha," I say. "Crystal clear. But how would you even know Godrick was dead?"

"I likely would not, at least immediately," he says. "I would need to be told, or to see some sign."

"All right," I say. "Good to know. Trying to understand the people of the Lands Between, you know? Your perspective is enlightening. But for now, I should get back up the elevator."

"Indeed," says Trinovar. "I suspect that I shall see thee again ere long, Sir Barrett."

"Can't imagine where you might get that impression," I say mildly. "I'll send the elevator back down, in case you need it."

"Thou hast mine appreciation. There is a mechanism to summon it, but it hath been known to fail."

"Last question," I say. "Is there any way to get under the castle from here?"

"None that I have found," says Trinovar. "I have been stationed here for several months now. There are no caves, wells, or drainages that might allow such passage. One seeking it would be forced to dig."

"Good to know. Thanks." I turn around and hop onto the pressure plate in the center of the elevator. It starts moving. It's a long chute, but for a rickety construction of wood and chain the elevator moves fast. I'm back to Rogier in well under a minute.

"Well?" Rogier asks. "Is there a way into the mountain?"

"Not down there," I say. "But I did run into someone you'll want to talk to. He certainly seemed to want to chat with a Tarnished. Unfortunately, that'll have to wait."

"Someone wishes to speak with a Tarnished? Here?" Rogier watches me step back onto the pressure plate, then jump off the elevator as it starts to descend.

"Yep," I tell him. "Name of Trinovar, says he's a Knight of the Crucible."

Rogier sucks in a sharp breath. "A Crucible Knight…? Incredible. Even at the height of their order's power and prestige, there were said to be only a small number of them. Fewer than two dozen; the precise count varies. And there is one here? In Castle Stormveil?"

"Sworn to Godrick," I say. "But he doesn't seem to like the guy. He's also been ordered to stay down there. So if I take out Godrick, we can go back down there with proof of the kill and Trinovar won't attack us."

"You are certain of this?"

"Just about. He couldn't straight-up tell me he wanted me to kill his boss, but the message got across."

"Incredible," Rogier says again. "A Crucible Knight in the flesh. I've not even seen one before. Well, we shall have to return after Godrick is defeated."

"Agreed," I say. "But for now, let's keep moving."

We climb the tower. There's a few more soldiers, and one more guy in heavy armor, a tattered cape streaming behind him. I don't kill him as quick as I did the last one we fought like him, and he starts throwing some kind of wind magic around. It's got enough force to knock me back, but he only tosses it out once.

We pass a Site of Grace in a side room overlooking the battlements, pausing for Rogier to touch the flickering gold and rest up a bit. I can see him healing in the golden light, bruises from getting thrown into the wall by that wind magic fading away before my eyes. That also gives Melina enough time to appear in a mist of sparkling blue.

"Hey." I give her a wave.

She waves back, a little hesitant, as if the gesture isn't one she's familiar with. To be fair, might not be. "You handled yourself well with the Crucible Knight."

"You were watching that?"

Her lips twitch. "You are my legs where Torrent cannot be, Barrett. I am afraid you will have little privacy until we are finished in the castle. My apologies."

"No harm done."

"What did you think of the Knight, Lady Morna?" Rogier asks. "Will he truly speak with me after Godrick is defeated?"

"I believe so," Melina says. "His order's story is a sad one, Sorcerer. I doubt it pleases him to meekly accept the scorn the Golden Order's most ardent adherents have flung upon them for tens of centuries. But he is a knight, and so feels he must keep at least to the letter of his oaths."

"So was the Order of the Cuckoo," Rogier points out. "And their oaths did little to protect House Caria."

Melina says nothing for a long moment, eye fixed on the flickering Grace between us. "Have you ever encountered a cuckoo, Sorcerer Rogier?" she asks finally.

"The bird itself? If I have, I did not recognize it as such."

Melina nods slowly. "The cuckoo plants its eggs in the nests of other birds," she says. "So that the nest's maker will be fooled into caring for the cuckoo's chicks as its own. Sometimes it goes so far as to discard the eggs already present to ensure that its children will control the affections of the surrogate parent." She turns her gaze up and fixes her golden eye on Rogier's face. "It makes one wonder why an order of knights would choose such a duplicitous creature for their heraldry, does it not?"

"So it does," says Rogier slowly, holding Melina's gaze. "Indeed, so it does."

Melina stands and brushes off the knees of her leather leggings. (Leggings which are usually pretty well hidden under her cloak, and which hug her thighs in a way I can't quite not notice.) "We should continue when you are prepared, Rogier," she says.

Rogier stands too. "Then let us do so now."

We do, stepping out onto the battlements. A stormhawk immediately shrieks and comes flying towards us, a massive barrel speared on the swords attached to its legs. It undulates in midair a few paces from us before I can get my gun up, flinging the barrel our way. Rogier rolls out of the way. I make the mistake of assuming that because the barrel isn't actually going to hit me, that I'm safe. When it explodes, I'm just inches away from ground zero. The blast sends me flying, breaking straight through my shields. My back impacts the low wall on the inner side of the battlements, and I almost get knocked straight over it and down onto the castle grounds way below. But I catch myself, and look up just in time to see the stormhawk coming for me, sword-feet outstretched.

I don't have time to think about whether it's even worth trying so hard to survive if I'm going to draw attention. I just react on instinct, reaching for the first thing that comes to me. Usually that's either the gun at my hip or my Solar Light. But for whatever reason, maybe because I've got cuckoos and Crucible Knights and loyalty on my mind, it's Strand that comes to me first.

Strand is Darkness, like Stasis. That's about where the similarities end.

Ikora once described the Darkness and the Light to me in terms of an old logic puzzle, the Prisoner's Dilemma. The idea is that you've got two convicts, each of which has the choice of whether to sell the other guy out, or cooperate. If they both cooperate, they both get a light sentence. If they both choose to betray each other, they both get a longer sentence. But if only one of them chooses to betray the other, and the other guy tries to cooperate, then the guy who betrays gets to go home free while the guy who tries to cooperate gets the longest sentence possible. In a more advanced version of the puzzle, this process iterates, where the same two prisoners are presented with the same choice, over and over again.

The Light, Ikora claims, is the ability to forgive and forget. It's the strength that lets us go back and choose to cooperate with someone who's betrayed us in the past, if we have reason to, if we think it's the right thing to do. The Darkness, on the other hand, is memory. When she originally talked about this it was before we had Strand, and she thought of Darkness—of Stasis—as the ability to remember that we were betrayed, and to refuse to expose ourselves to that pain again.

But Strand is the flip side, the mirror image. Strand is the memory that we weren't betrayed. It's the force that connects me to the other guy in my cell, both of us knowing that we chose to trust each other, and that because we chose to trust, even though we're in here now, we'll be out together soon.

Grant's always been the best of us with Strand. Privately, I think it's partly because he's so young. He doesn't have the caked-on calluses the rest of us have built up over the decades, years of pain compounding until it's hard to imagine opening ourselves up to it again. He wasn't even around to see Cayde die. Even Thermidor was here for that, and he's barely a decade old.

But me and Lex, the team's Hunters? Neither of us is really good with Strand. But we're bad at different things. Lex can't seem to get their threads to go where they want them to. They miss their grapples, their rope dart hits the wrong things, the wrong enemy ends up suspended. But me? My problem is that I have so much trouble calling on Strand in the first place. I've never been good at the whole let it flow thing Osiris worked out during the initial skirmishes on Neptune.

But once I get it? Once Strand comes to me? Once I manage to call it, I become one hell of a Threadrunner.

My fingers close. In my left hand is the weighted end of a luminous green rope. Dangling from my right is the dart connected to the other end. The stormhawk barely has time to squawk before the dart hits it in the throat. Its body unravels into green threads, and in less than a second it's vanished entirely.

I'm a little reluctant to dismiss the rope dart as I stand. But I do, because I know if I don't the power will pull away from me harder, leaving me drained and weak for a while. As I release it, I feel the well of Strand deep inside me slip back out of my reach.

"Strange magic," Rogier comments. "Is that how you defeated the Omen?"

"Related power," I say, watching the shield indicator on my HUD fill back up.

"Is it sorcery or incantation? Or something entirely different?"

I'm about to tell him that it's totally different before I stop and think about it. From what I gathered of his explanation, there actually is at least some conceptual similarity between the sorcery/incantation duality and that of Light and Darkness.

"I… don't think it's exactly either," I say finally. Because the thing is… I'm not sure which is which.

Sorcery draws on physical powers, supposedly, like glintstone. That's like the Light abilities—Arc, Solar, and Void—which all represent some general grouping of forces and energies in the physical world. But the ability to use sorcery is something drawn from within. That's like the Darkness, pulling on powers inside myself.

Incantations draw on more metaphysical powers, like the connection to the Golden Order or the dragons. That's like Darkness, which tends to be esoteric. But it's used with faith and power drawn in from an outside source. That's like the Light, which I get from my connection to Winchester and the Traveler.

And that mixing of ideas, that dark mirror of the duality I'm used to? That unsettles me. That unsettles me a lot.

We climb down from the battlements and cross a narrow 'bridge'—really, it's the upper awning of an archway that passes over a walkway below us—to reach what looks like a small chapel. We duck inside an open archway that might once have held a stained-glass window, then carefully jump down to the ground floor of the building. From there we take that walkway, fighting another of those wind-magic knights, and enter a much larger building than any of the others around. It seems to be one of two proper keeps—the other is at the top of the mountain, though it looks like it's mostly built down into the hillside.

We come in at an upper floor, and it takes us a while to climb down all the way. As we descend, the stench gets gradually worse. It reminds me a little of the smell inside a Hive spawning nest, but the Hive don't usually let meat rot like this inside their broodholds. Hive nests smell like meat, mold, and ozone. This place smells like a Hive nest that's been abandoned for a few years, where the last clutch in the spawning pools was allowed to die and decay.

Near the bottom floor, we cross a landing overlooking—oh, yuck. I grimace as I lean over the railing. The stench is horrific. There's a heaping pile of body parts below us, with the strung-up corpse of a troll dangling over it. There's a couple of mangy-looking dogs rooting around among the bodies—mean-looking, terribly thin things. They look half-dead themselves, actually, almost blending in with the butchery around them. I wonder if they are half-dead, if they've been kept alive by the same weirdness that keeps corpses screaming in Limgrave.

Somethin' down there, says Winchester suddenly over our private channel.

I startle. You mean, besides the cannibal's charcuterie?

Yes. Something paracausal. Look, you can see it, right at the top of the pile.

I look. Sure enough, there's something there. It's not hard to see—it looks like a small bundle wrapped in bright red velvet. It stands out against the dark, clotting blood, the greying skin, the stained brown clothing.

"Is something wrong?" Rogier asks beside me, his voice a low whisper. I've been standing still for a while, and he can't hear me and Winchester subvocalizing.

"Yeah, talking to Chester," I reply. "One sec." You want me to grab it? I ask my Ghost.

It's a shiny new paracausal thing. Winchester sounds impatient. Why do I even have to ask you?

I grin. Fair enough. I turn to Rogier, who's watching me curiously. "Be back in a bit," I say, then leap over the railing. I land feet-first on the skull of the first, cracking it open. Then I throw a weighted knife at the second before it can so much as bark. Having avoided raising the alarm, I clamber up to the top of the pile and pick up the thing.

I unwrap it, and in the middle of the folded velvet there's a small broach. As it emerges, a thin mist puffs out, as though the velvet were refrigerating it. Wondering if it's cold to the touch, I reach out.

It isn't, and that mist isn't water vapor. As my fingers close on the broach, there's a flash of gold in my vision, and for an instant I see Roderika, the girl cowering in the shack on the slopes of the Stormhill, before blinking to see the world come back into focus.

You all right? Winchester asks sharply. Thing made some kind of momentary connection to you.

I'm fine, I say softly, wrapping the broach back up as I stare down at the pile of…

…Of chrysalids.

Some kind of paracausal trace lingering around this thing, Winchester says, popping out of hammerspace to start scanning the broach. Let me—

"It's people," I say. Aloud.

Winchester looks at me. "What?"

I hear movement inside the building beside me. I find I don't care. "The trace. It's people. They're not dead. They've been grafted. These are the dregs, but enough of them has been grafted that they're trapped like this. Trapped here. That's what this thing is. It's a way out for some of them. Something to inhabit besides their mutilated bodies."

"…Holy shit," murmurs Winchester, looking down at the chrysalids. "This is what the chick in the shack was talking about."

"Exactly," I say.

With a shriek, something bursts out of the building and into the dumping ground. It looks like a spider, if spiders were made of the ruined parts of a hundred corpses. It walks on a dozen arms and legs. It stares at me with a dozen hollow eyes. It charges at me with a pair of golden swords and a large shield, proudly emblazoned with the golden roots and branches of the Erdtree.

And, all of a sudden, the dislike, disgust, and general dissatisfaction I've been feeling for everything I've seen so far in Limgrave

sharpens

into

hate.

I leap skyward, Solar light superheating the air around me, cloaking me in flames that burn without fuel and consume no oxygen. I spin, and a flood of tiny blades of pure Solar Light surges out of me in a wave of heat and fury. They bury themselves in the pile of ruined chrysalids and in the spider.

Then they detonate.

I land in a field of flame, surrounded by smoke that stinks of burning flesh. The fire is up to my knees, but doesn't burn me. How could it?

Right now, I am incandescent.

I manage to hold onto my emotions for just long enough to look up at Rogier's wide, dark-green eyes, staring down from the landing. "Meet you inside," I say, my synthetic voice riddled with static, as though I were speaking into a radio while a wildfire raged around me. Then, cloaked in Light and death, I storm into the keep.

The flame follows me.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

Shardbearer

-x-x-x-​

"…Ha. You're right. It does feel good."

-x-x-x-​

The fire roared in my ears, ravenous. The wooden furniture lining what must once have been an opulent and beautiful dining hall blackened as I passed. Over my head, desiccating chrysalids—severed arms and legs, some from animals, most from humans—dangled from the ceiling like macabre chandeliers. Those which hung lowest caught fire as I passed beneath them.

A soldier rushed out of a side door. I waved an arm, and three slivers of Solar Light buried themselves in his chest. He ignited, screaming, and exploded into cinders and smoke.

There was no viscera, because I wasn't lighting him on fire. That's not how Solar Light works, at its apex. Sure, when I just lightly scorch a guy, he burns pretty much as if he was being lit up by causal fire. But when I'm like this? Luminous with fury, and letting my rage pour power into every blow?

Solar Light isn't fire. Nor is it sunlight, heat, plasma, or any of the other analogies we use to teach kinderguardians the ropes. Solar Light, at its core, is infusion. It's raw energy being pressed into matter like gas into soda. Do it a little, you get a hot knife. Do it some more, things catch fire. Do it carefully, and you can give living things the energy to heal. Throw restraint to the winds, and you can tear matter apart.

I'm not causing nuclear fission, not tearing apart atoms. But I probably could, if I pushed hard enough.

I hear a trumpet sound outside. As I storm out the open doorway, three streams of fire blast in my direction, pouring from little flamethrower installations manned by more of the soldiers wrapped in red. Adorable. The flame flows into the Solar corona around me, achieving nothing. I thrust my right hand out to the side, and my fingers close around the warm grip of my Golden Gun. I bring my hands together to fan the hammer, and blast them, one after the other, scattering them into ash and dust.

There's a huge guy near the back of the courtyard, almost as big around as he is tall and covered in horrible-looking welts and scabs. He draws a massive curved sword, like a cross between a scimitar and a cleaver, and charges me. My next shot catches him between the eyes, and he disintegrates into the same cinder as the rest of them.

There are trumpets going up all over the place now. I hear a bell ringing in a tower. A troll rounds the corner of the path ahead of me, bellowing. He survives two whole shot before the third scatters him. Doors are bursting open all around me, soldiers and knights charging me. I blast all comers, but they're closing. In the end, even with Golden Gun, I'm just one guy.

The moment I realize that I'm gonna get overrun, that realization tempers my hate. That tempering leaches away at the power. I've got a few seconds left of this surge of power before it drains away. Gotta use it well.

So I turn my Golden Gun, not on any of the soldiers, but on the ground at my feet. I fire. It's a trick I learned from Shaw Han, of all people, something he pieced together after working with Warlocks for years. The Guardian Orders, the classes, they're social constructs. They're easy, digestible ways of learning and using our abilities. What they aren't is hard lines on what's possible.

We're paracausal. There are no hard lines.

The Well of Radiance blooms around me, golden mist wafting up from a ring around my feet. The Golden Gun fades, but I don't need it anymore. "Winchester?" I say, reaching up to my shoulder. "Death Adder."

The Veist-built submachine gun appears under my hand. I pull it out and turn it on the closest soldier. The grips of the gun are warm under my fingers, a telltale sign that it's being infused with the Well of Radiance. I pull the trigger, and hold it down. All around me, soldiers die. It's not enough. They swarm me, hacking away at me with swords, axes, spears, and crossbows.

Eventually, one gets lucky. A speartip buries itself in my eye, and the world goes dark.

—The great tree stretches to the sky, its deep brown bark gnarled and thick, its leaves a blanket of green over the land. The sun shines behind them, rendering the whole land verdant.

Another light eclipses it. A golden star, bright enough to be visible in the daylight, and growing brighter by the moment. It descends upon the world, terrifyingly fast, falling towards the tree. It strikes directly where the trunk meets the earth—

I gasp for breath, my eyes opening just in time to see Winchester vanish back into hammerspace. The soldiers who were in the process of picking my carcass up drop me in shock and horror. It's the last thing they manage to do.

The fight begins again. There's still a lot of them, and it seems like they're assuming my resurrection trick was a one-time show. They're still swarming me, and another one gets a good hit—

—Where the star falls, it stains the bark of the great tree in luminous gold. The gold begins to spread, sweeping across the wood like a creeping infection.

It ascends the trunk, following the branches as they split, rushing up the branches and changing the color of the leaves like the coming of autumn—

My eyes snap open, and I jump back to my feet. The soldiers snap back into action again but seeing me resurrect a second time has broken their spirit. Most of those who can't get me in immediate range of their weapons give it up and start running the other way. There's only about a dozen who remain, and they go down easy. I've taken a few good hits by the time it's done, but I'm still alive.

I'm left standing in the middle of a field of carnage. Once I took to Death Adder, the energy in the Veist stinger rounds wasn't enough to disintegrate the bodies as I killed them. So I'm surrounded by scorched corpses, weapons still clutched in their cooling hands. Some of the wooden handles are burning, some of the metal half-melted.

As I look over the bodies, my mind drifts to the visions I just had. I'm not a trained thanatonaut. Never even tried. Every Guardian has a vision once in a while, if they live long enough and die often enough. But two death-visions in a row? Visions that are clearly two parts of the same longer story?

Something's trying to communicate with me. I'm not sure how I feel about that. But there's nothing I can do about it now.

I holster Death Adder, breathing heavily. Footsteps come up from behind me, and a moment later Rogier is abreast of me, staring at the field of death.

"Gods in gold," he whispers.

"Sorry about that," I pant. "Lost my temper, I guess."

Rogier doesn't answer for a long moment. "I begin to suspect that you have no need of my assistance," he says finally.

"Need? Probably not. But it's always better with friends."

Something about that seems like it draws the sorcerer up short. He looks hard at me. "You would offer to help me investigate the tunnels beneath Stormveil simply for company?"

"I mean, I want answers too. A lot of 'em. And—"

A sound from the other side of the courtyard draws my attention. On instinct, I reach for my gun.

"Peace!" calls a woman's voice. She's just rounded the same corner that troll did at the beginning of the fight, and she holds up her left hand in a universal sign of 'don't shoot!' In her right is a battleaxe, but she doesn't raise it. She's wearing fur and rags, with a black cowl over her head and a red sash tied around her belt. "I am no friend of Godrick!"

I holster Death Adder again. "Hey!" I call. "As you can probably tell, neither are we!"

"Clearly," she says, dry as a Mercury summer. She starts walking towards us, hanging her axe from a hook at her waist. "Are you here seeking his death?" she asks. "Or is all this merely incidental?"

"What d'you think?" I ask. "I was originally planning on asking if he'd give up his Great Rune willingly."

"He'd not agree," says Rogier.

"I knew that, but it's nice to offer when I can." I bare my teeth. "Then I came across his dumping grounds and his spider. Now, whaddaya know, I'm fresh outta mercy."

"Entirely understandable," says the woman. "I have come for much the same purpose. Originally, I had intended to seek out the Great Rune myself. Somehow, I doubt I'd find much success in competition with you."

I shrug. "I'm not trying to become Elden Lord," I say. "I just promised someone I'd get them to the foot of the Erdtree. Don't see why we can't work together."

She frowns. "You would give up the Great Runes once you claimed them?"

"Not looking for divinity." I remember Savathûn and her siblings, Calus losing sight of everything he once claimed to care for, Ghaul losing his mind in his pursuit of the Light. "Tends to have a kind of cost I'm not willing to pay."

She considers me. "Taking up the Elden Ring given freely seems improper, somehow," she says. "But this can be discussed when the Runes are in our—your—hands. For now, I would be honored to assist in bringing some justice to the false lord." She holds out a hand. It's callused and scarred, with a couple of nails chipped and broken. "Nepheli Loux. Warrior."

Handshakes are still a thing here, I observe to Winchester as I give one to Nepheli. That tell us anything?

Do I look like a Cryptarch's Ghost? he grouses. Probably tell us something if I knew when handshakes showed up in human societies, but why the hell would I know that? Doubt anyone does. Lotta history was lost in the Collapse.

Fair enough. "Barrett-12," I say aloud, gripping Nepheli's hand. "Call me Barrett. Guardian of the Last City."

"A title I've not heard for a man the like of which I've not seen," she says, considering me. "Fitting, I suppose." She casts her eyes around the killing field. "Well. If we are seeking Godrick's death, I think you've destroyed most of his defenders now."

"Guess so." I roll my shoulders, metal and gels creaking slightly. I need some oil before too long. "You know where he is?"

"Not far." Nepheli gestures back the way she came. "I caught a glimpse of him before all the commotion. He was in a courtyard just outside his throne room then. He may have moved now. You created rather a spectacle."

"I do that. Lead the way."

Rogier and I follow her up the stairs and past a series of barricades. They're deserted now. Apparently the garrison joined the party earlier. We make a turn and head up a small flight of stairs and… there he is.

I can see him through an archway flanked by a small gatehouse. There's a door hanging open, and past it is exactly what Nepheli described—a wide courtyard in front of a keep. It looks like that courtyard's been converted into a graveyard. The centerpiece of that graveyard is a stone mausoleam, on top of which is unmistakably a dragon's corpse. Not an Ahamkara, thank the Traveler. It's grey and dull, as if its scales are made of stone. Are they always that color, or is that something that happens when they die?

No time to think about that right now. A figure is standing in front of the corpse. There's a crown on his head, which is the mostly lordly-looking thing about him. He's wearing what looks like it might have been a fancy tapestry, draped loosely over a pair of way-too-wide shoulders. He's reaching up to the dragon's slumped head, apparently caressing its cheek where I can't see. His proportions are all wrong, though I can't make out much detail under that makeshift robe. I'm morbidly curious what's under it… and at the same time, I'm absolutely sure I don't want to know.

He turns to face us. His eyes are sunken, his lips chapped and cracked badly enough that I can see it even at this distance. I start forward, flanked by the two Tarnished.

"Lowly wretches," growls Godrick. "Thou wouldst assault me in my home? Bring war into my house? I am the lord of all that is golden!"

I glance over at the Erdtree dominating the skyline. "Really? Didn't realize we were in Leyndell."

"Hrah!" Godrick lets out a sound somewhere between a growl and a shout. The tapestry on his back twitches, then starts to move, thrown aside by more than a half dozen arms grafted together, protruding out of his own unnaturally long ones. I realize with a sick twist of horror that his arms are made of the torsos those arms are attached to, grafted sternum to hip in a chain. "Mighty dragon!" he bellows, turning his gaze on the slumped beast beside him. "Lend me thy strength!"

With a wet tearing sound, he pulls the dragon's head off its neck. It falls to the ground at his feet—grafted at the neck onto the end of his arm.

"Damn," I say.

A small gout of fire belches forth from the dragon's lips. The head rises as he raises his arm. I'd been imagining some kind of, I don't know, surgery involved in the grafting process. Not just ripping body parts off and slapping them on like standard-issue Cabal armor.

The disgust rises in me again. I keep it in check. I'm a Guardian. That means I have principles, and I stick to them. There was a time when we shot first and asked questions later. That's how the Eliksni inherited legends of the Saint. It's why Savathûn assumed we couldn't be reasoned with, why so many Cabal thought working for the Witness would give them a better odds than joining up with us. We're better now. Wiser. We have lives to spare, and that means we have to be responsible with those that don't.

"I need your Great Rune," I say. "I don't need you dead. Surrender."

He cackles madly. "A crown is warranted with strength!" he screams. "Thou shalt never have mine! Not with the strength of a thousand men couldst thou claim it from me!"

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," I tell him, even as the Golden Gun falls into my hands.

The dragon's head belches flame over me. Rogier and Nepheli leap out of the way. I don't bother. The heat is intense—the fire is paracausal, clearly, given the absence of any obvious fuel—but I'm in the middle of a Solar Super. Good luck getting me to burn. I take aim and fire directly into the grafted gullet.

Godrick screams, staggering back, the jet of flame stopping suddenly as his other hand—six-fingered, I notice idly—clutches at the point where the dragon's neck meets the end of the array of bodies that he calls an arm. I take aim again, sighting directly at the center of his stupid little crown. It's not even properly gold, I notice. It's dull and tarnished, clearly an alloy that hasn't been properly maintained.

I fire, but he moves faster than I thought he had in him. One of his several extra hands snaps into position with a heavy axe, catching the Solar blast on the head. The metal explodes into molten liquid, and he screams again as a lot of it splatters onto him. But then he charges me, grabbing another, much heavier axe in his six-fingered main hand as he goes.

I snap off a last shot with Goldie, but it goes wide. Still hits him, but in the side—somewhere nonvital. Then I have to roll out of the way as he swings down with his axe.

Come on, I tell myself as I come back to my feet. Where's all that raw power from earlier? This is the guy you were angry at! Show him what he pissed off!

But the Light's fickle like that, sometimes. It can be fueled by anger and other emotions, but my connection to it is limited. It gets harder to call on it the more I draw out in a short amount of time. And for the moment, I've run dry.

I sprint away from Godrick, hearing that axe strike the ground behind me as I go. "Rogier, Nepheli, stand back!" I shout. "Winchester—Ascendancy!"

I feel the heavy rocket launcher drop into place on my back between one step and the next. I jump, pulling out the weapon and spinning in midair with it on my shoulder. I fire.

The rocket sails through the air, hits Godrick in the chest, and detonates. He's thrown back into the wall beside the archway we came in through, several bones in his grafted limbs audibly snapping with the impact. He screeches, baring his teeth, but he points that dragon's head at me again, shooting a jet of fire my way.

Man just survived a rocket to the chest, what the hell? I've seen things survive hits like that before, sure. Plenty of times. Cabal in heavy armor can sometimes do it, so can Eliksni with high-end shields or Hive bolstered by defensive rituals. A Gate Lord can sometimes do some probabilistic trickery to get through an impact like that if the weapon's causal, even if the hand wielding it isn't. But somehow I was expecting Godrick to be a bit more like a human in terms of durability, especially since I can't see any of the obvious defenses I've learned to look for. But I guess the Runes, the Grace, and all the other paracausal markers I've been seeing around the Lands Between so far let a person build up paracausal shielding a bit like mine.

…Damn. I like the Crucible and Gambit plenty, but I don't like fighting other Guardians out in the field. Not when it matters. Not anymore.

I'm far enough away that the flame barely warms me—apparently Godrick still hasn't figured out his range with that thing, which makes sense given that he literally grafted it on a couple minutes ago. I land and holster Ascendancy. No sense wasting ammo, not while Winchester can't easily generate more. No, I'm gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way. Solar's great for taking out loads of targets at once and at drilling a hole through someone at three hundred yards with Golden Gun, but for a real slugfest?

You can't beat the classics.

With a thought, I change the polarity of my Light. I clench my fists, and electricity arcs between my knuckles.

When I first started out, all those centuries ago, I had a knack for Arc Light. When I made it to the City, still in its early days, I threw myself into learning the techniques of the Bladedancers, the premier Hunters at the time when it came to Arc Light. They've fallen out of favor more recently in favor of the Arcstrider tradition that Efrideet brought back to Earth in the few months she was around before the Red War. Part of me wonders if that would've happened if I'd still been Bladedancing the way I used to, but ever since…

…Well, I'm a Gunslinger now. Deputized into it, you might say. But sometimes this old dog has to put away his new tricks. I reach for Arc Light and it falls into my hand in the shape of a shortsword as easily as ever.

At first glance, Bladedancers look a bit like Gunslingers. Sure, they don't have Golden Gun, but a lot of a Gunslinger's abilities use knives of coalesced Solar Light. To the untrained eye, a Bladedancer's shortsword seems similar. But the Arc blade can't be thrown, not without a whole lot of effort and training, whereas the Solar knives are meant for throwing. That comes down to the differences between Arc and Solar.

Solar's about infusion. About pouring raw Light into something and letting it do whatever you want it to once it's there, whether that's healing, exploding, burning, whatever. Arc Light is different in a subtle, but important, way. Arc Light is about flow. It's about transferring energy from the channeler into the target, rather than about dropping that energy as fast and as hard as you can. Think of it as the difference between tossing a bucket of water into a lake in a spray and pouring it in carefully. Solar is one-and-done. You create the knife, you throw the knife, and that's the end of your involvement. Arc is more… personal. I can't toss my sword and expect it to do much. The sword is just a conduit. It connects me to the target. The connection is the important part.

I sprint forward, Arc blade in my hand. I duck under Godrick's axe and slash at his side as I pass. The moment the blade hits him, I feel the circuit form, and the Light surges through. He yelps, and I smell ozone. He turns towards me, but gets distracted by five glowing blades thudding into his back, courtesy of Rogier. A moment later, before he can do more than turn, Nepheli is swinging wildly at his leg with her axe.

I'd forgotten that I have friends with me. Nice.

The thing about fighting multiple enemies at once is that it's a skill you have to learn. Godrick hasn't. It's obvious in the way he keeps turning his focus on whoever's attacked him last. Rogier, Nepheli and I don't even have to communicate—we instinctively fall into a rhythm. Nepheli charges, hits him a couple times with her axe, then falls back just in time for Rogier to throw a couple glowing missiles at Godrick before he can do more than swing at her once. Then, by the time he's reached Rogier, I'm ducking into his guard and striking him with my Arc sword. I get a couple hits in, then jump out of the way of his swing while Nepheli jumps in to pull his focus.

Before too long, he's flagging. He's an absolute beast, more durable than anyone I've fought in the Lands Between so far, but a thousand cuts will get to anyone eventually. Finally, he staggers after one of Nepheli's hits. I jump on the opening, hopping onto his back. He thrashes, trying to shake me off, bellowing. "I am the lord of all that is golden! I cannot—"

I get my blade into position and slice. It passes through his throat. Blood sprays out. His voice chokes off. His massive hand bats uselessly at his neck for a moment before, at last, he tumbles forward. His body comes apart as he falls, the grafted pieces separating from one another until what eventually hits the ground is the parts of about a dozen different bodies rather than just one. All that's left of Godrick's original body, in the end, is his torso and head, strangely small after fighting the massive, grafted juggernaut for the past several minutes. That tarnished crown is still on his brow. It doesn't even jostle as he falls, and I realize that it's been somehow attached to his head.

Just one last little show of the asshole's narcissism.

As he falls, I feel the paracausal traces I've started to get familiar with attaching themselves to me. His Runes flow out, into me and into Rogier and Nepheli. But something else—some other paracausal trace, a different store of power released by Godrick's death—does something else.

It starts as a trail of golden light rising from the body. Then another, followed by more. They twist around each other, spinning and twining in a strange pattern. They coalesce after a minute into a singular shape. It looks a bit like one of those knotlike carvings that show up in some old ruins north of the EDZ.

"That's it, isn't it?" I ask, stepping forward.

"Indeed," says Nepheli. She sounds reverent. "A Great Rune. I've not seen one before."

I can feel the power radiating off the thing. After another moment of hesitation, I reach out. My fingers brush against the Great Rune. It dissolves into golden dust, which passes into me. I feel it connect to me. I know what it feels like to draw power from death. I've used the Sword-logic before. It felt like this.

I shiver, then turn away, looking over at Rogier. "Well," I say. "That's that. I think I owe you a search for a way down into the mountain?"

 

[RandomOTP]

A lovely update ^.^

 

[Rhyne]

Lovely chapter as always, and those death visions are promising, plot wise!

 

[NHO]

Ah, very lovely.

 

[Matrix Dragon]

I can feel the power radiating off the thing. After another moment of hesitation, I reach out. My fingers brush against the Great Rune. It dissolves into golden dust, which passes into me. I feel it connect to me. I know what it feels like to draw power from death. I've used the Sword-logic before. It felt like this.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, there's that sinking feeling again...

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

The Prince of Death

-x-x-x-​

"Thou understandest not, little brother."

"Then explain to me, Godwyn. Melina is a sweet child, far too young to have caused offense. Whence cometh thy scorn?"

"I have no scorn for Melina. Nor for anything she hath done."

"Thou hast a poor way of showing thy brotherly affection, then."

"It is not what she hath done that concerneth me. It—someone listens."

-x-x-x-​

The three of us sit down around a Site of Grace Rogier spots not far from where Godrick went down. A moment later, Melina appears beside us in a puff of sparkling blue. "Well fought," she comments.

"Thanks," I say. I'm still panting some, and so is Nepheli, but Rogier's worse off than either of us. Sweat literally drips off the end of his pointed chin.

"A finger maiden?" Nepheli asks, shooting Melina a look that's somewhere between reverence and suspicion. It's a weird combination.

"Nay," says Melina. "Merely a traveler, seeking a path north. Barrett has agreed to help me, in exchange for what little aid I can provide him."

"Guidance, mostly," I tell Nepheli. "When I first got here, I had no idea where I was or what to do. Me—Morna's helped a ton, even if she can't pick up a gun and join in every scrap."

"I see," says Nepheli, in a tone that suggests she doesn't completely. But when she adds, "Well met, then, Morna," it sounds sincere. Then she turns back to me and Rogier. "You say that you are looking for a way into the mountain?"

"Just so," says Rogier. "I have been investigating the Deathroot infestation that has overtaken the Lands Between. Many of the roots seem to converge here. I suspect that some central growth, a local heart of the lattice, is somewhere within the mountain."

"Is it not possible that this central growth is buried too deep for you to find?" Nepheli asks. "You do not carry pickaxes and shovels. Do you intend to use gravitational sorceries to tear away the rock?"

"No, I have only a little skill in such magic," says Rogier, and I grin at the boyish excitement in his tone and posture. I get the feeling he's surprised at the apparent depth of Nepheli's education, and he must be excited to talk to someone who knows more than I do. "But the Deathroot, so far as I can tell, craves the open air. It does not like to be entirely buried, but prefers to protrude from the ground. It is possible that this local mother-root behaves differently, but I suspect otherwise."

"Well," says Nepheli. "I did not follow it any great distance, but I did find a path that may lead where you seek while I was exploring the castle. I can lead you to it, if you wish."

"Is it the elevator in the tower on the wall?" I ask. "On the south side of the castle? 'Cause I checked there. No path into the mountain."

"No, the mechanism to call it did not respond to me and I found no other way down," says Nepheli. "What was down there?"

"A Crucible Knight named Trinovar," I say. "He's a decent sort. Now that Godrick's dead, I think he'll want to talk to any Tarnished who's willing to chat."

"Talk?" Nepheli asks incredulously. "A Crucible Knight? Are they not all sworn enemies to the Tarnished? All those I've encountered attacked me on sight. I was under the impression that they hated our kind due to our connection to the Lord who brought shame to their order."

"Trinovar didn't seem ashamed of Godfrey," I say. "That's actually what he wanted to talk to you about, I think. I got the impression he was hoping that y'all being back here meant there was a chance Godfrey would return too."

"Truly?" Nepheli looks… pensive. As if she's not sure how she feels about that—or, really, as if how she feels and how she thinks she should feel are very, very different things.

"Yeah. You want to come with me and Rogier when we talk to him?"

"No, no," she says hurriedly. "I will guide you to the passage, but then I must return to my father." She hesitates for a fraction of a second on that final word. I have a few guesses why. "He will await my report at the Roundtable Hold. He will wish to know of Godrick's defeat."

"Roundtable Hold?" I ask.

"A safe place for the Tarnished to gather," Rogier says. "I've been there a few times. It is a place… between."

"A place between?" I ask, looking at Melina. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It does not exist within the normal flow of space and time," Melina says. "It exists apart, accessible only to those able to reach it by other means."

We Tarnished can use any Site of Grace to travel there," Rogier says. "Rumor has it that it was once a manor in Leyndell, but the Two Fingers removed it from the city after the Night of the Black Knives. They say a set of Fingers resides within the Hold, though I have never seen them myself."

"I have," Nepheli says. "They take audience with my father, on occasion."

"Your father?" Rogier asks, looking at her sharply. Then his eyes widen. "You are Sir Gideon's daughter."

"I am," says Nepheli. "He took me in upon my return from beyond the Fog. He has guided me well."

"I am sure he has," says Rogier. "Not for nothing is he called 'the All-Knowing'."

"Who is this Sir Gideon?" I ask.

"Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing," Rogier says. "A particularly old and well-studied Tarnished. He is based within the Roundtable Hold, and though he himself seldom leaves he is said to have agents all over the Lands Between."

"Of which I am one," says Nepheli, "and proud to be so. My father is a great man. Wise and noble."

I know what hero worship looks like when I see it. I also know that it's never a good sign when a kid worships their parent that way. Sometimes it's because the parent really is a hero. More often it's because the parent wants to be seen that way. "I'm sure he is," I say neutrally. "Well, we'd appreciate a tip about that path down before you leave."

"Of course," Nepheli says, standing up and dusting off her fur skirts. "Come. It's not far."

We stand, Melina vanishing into sparkling mist. She leads us back towards the courtyard where I fought the guards, but instead of crossing it we skirt the edge, entering a side chamber. It looks like some kind of arsenal for the castle's quartermaster, full of racks upon racks of weapons and armor lining the walls. In the center of the room is a Site of Grace, to our right is another elevator shaft, and across the room is another door, leading outside.

"There," she says, pointing at the door. "It was barred from the other side, but I came upon it from the other direction while trying to avoid the soldiers in the courtyard."

The three of us approach the door. Through it, I can see what she means about a path. It's not really a path, not an intentional one, at least. But there's a crumbling ledge that leads over to some support arches, which we could probably climb down towards the ground below.

"Excellent," says Rogier. "Many thanks, Nepheli."

"No thanks are needed," says Nepheli. "I ask only that you share any information about the origins of deathroot should you find it. We must work together to contain Those Who Live In Death, or they will spread unchecked through all the Lands Between."

"Just so," says Rogier. "Are you parting from us now, then?"

"I am," says Nepheli. "I have fulfilled my task here, and I must return to my father. Farewell, Rogier, Barrett."

"Farewell, Nepheli."

"See you around," I say. "If we run into each other again, let me know if I can help you out."

"I shall remember your offer, Barrett," says Nepheli. "Thank you." She turns and squats beside the Site of Grace. I watch, interested, as she reaches out and touches the flickering gold. Her body slowly fades away, dissipating into a sparkling golden mist, not unlike the one that Margit turned into after our fight.

"Barrett?" Rogier calls. I turn to see that he's already halfway across the ledge. "Are you coming?"

"Sorry, on my way," I say, starting down the steps after him.

The path is unsteady, but we eventually make it down to a small wooden platform just a few feet over the ground. And the ground is… well, no bones about it, it's disgusting. Flies are buzzing all around, feasting on the old, rotting corpses that have been piling up here for what's got to be a long time. There's no sign of Godrick's chrysalids, which makes sense. I don't think people come down here often—that path didn't look intentional. I'd say this is where they dumped bodies Godrick didn't want.

There's a couple of really big rats—the biggest one, I'm talking the size of a Cabal Interceptor—feasting on the bodies in a corner. They start towards us, hunger in their eyes, but a couple shots from DMT take out the big one, and the smaller ones—still as big as War Beasts—scatter after that.

Past them is a yawning opening. It's not exactly a cavern. It's too constructed for that. It looks…

Some of Earth's oldest Golden Age cities are thousands of years old. In a lot of those cities, fires, earthquakes, and other disasters brought down the cities over generations. New buildings got built over the rubble of the old ones. But sometimes, parts of those cities survived, buried beneath the weight of the later generations.

This looks like that. It looks as though Castle Stormveil—the castle we just fought our way through—was built over the ruins of an older castle, and we're about to enter those ruins.

"This is it," says Rogier softly. "I can feel it. I haven't felt the guidance of Grace in a long time, but it felt like this. This is where I am meant to be. My fate."

I grimace. "Not a fan of fate," I say.

Rogier chuckles grimly. "Nor is anyone whose fate is cruel," he says. "It comes for them nonetheless."

I consider explaining paracausality to him, but now's not the time. It doesn't really matter what he thinks at the moment. I know the truth.

Guardians make their own fate.

Together, we descend into the dark. A small bug scuttles out of our way—looks like a dung beetle, the way it's pushing a bundle ahead of it—but it doesn't seem aggressive, so we ignore it. We come to a small ledge overlooking what must once have been a large atrium. Maybe a church? Hard to tell, with the mud and sludge coating the floor and the dirt and roots poking through the walls.

Across the room, I can barely make out something in the gloom. It looks pretty shapeless to me, pale and squat, but something about it draws my eye. Sends a shiver down my spine. "What is that?" I ask quietly.

"I think that is what I am here for," says Rogier softly. Slowly, he crouches, then drops down to the floor of the room. I follow him down as he starts forward.

He's barely taken two steps into the room before it starts to rumble. For a moment, I'm worried about a cave-in. But I needn't have. What happens instead is almost as bad.

From the center of the room erupts a giant serpent. Its flesh is made of rotting bark and tangled roots. Two twisted arms emerge from about a quarter of the way down its length. Its head has no eyes, no features at all, other than the gnarled, infected texture of its flesh and a massive, gaping mouth. It rises from the muck like a whale cresting over the sea. As it does, it fills the air with a horrible, ear-splitting scream that rattles my alloy bones and practically knocks the air out of my gel lungs. Then it descends, right onto me and Rogier.

We scatter. I roll right, he runs left.

"The hell is this thing!?" I scream.

"A corrupted spirit of a minor Erdtree!" Rogier calls from the other side of the room between grunts as he dodges the thing. "But why is it here!?"

I don't know the answer, and there's no time to think about it now. The serpent turns on a dime, swinging its head like a giant flail towards me. I roll out of the way, reaching for the Light. It coalesces in my hand as a Fusion Grenade. I toss it into the thing's mouth, then sprint out of the way as it swipes at me with its spindly claws. The grenade detonates, and the spirit lets out an otherworldly shriek of pain and fury. The ground rumbles under me as it gives chase, but then I hear the crystalline impact of one of Rogier's spells as he draws its attention.

Unfortunately, the strategy that worked on Godrick doesn't work as well here. Sure, Rogier pulls the monster's focus. But as its head turns towards him, golden fire filling its jaws, its tail whips around, catching me on the backswing as I turn to face it. The impact knocks me sprawling. I pull myself to my feet just in time to see it just barely miss catching Rogier in its jaws.

I reach for the Light again. But it hasn't been that long since I tossed out a Blade Barrage, a Golden Gun, and an Arc Blade all within half an hour of each other. The Light is there, it comes to me, but it's tired and sluggish. I don't think I have a Super in me.

Damn. I need to be more conservative with my abilities. I don't have a fireteam of other Guardians to watch my back out here. It's just me and, occasionally, whatever Tarnished feel like hanging around, so far.

But I have a hunch. The thing's whole body is flickering with golden flame, now, and Rogier said it's an Erdtree spirit. The color gold is connecting, in my mind, to the Golden Order, to which death is anathema.

"Winchester?" I say. "Deathbringer."

Got it, he says in my mind.

I feel the heavy rocket launcher drop onto my back. I pull it out, the black stone and charred bone icy under my fingers. As my finger lands on the trigger, I can hear the Deathsingers' hymn on the knife-edge where hearing passes into imagination, where reality becomes nightmare. I take a deep breath, raising the launcher, aiming it at the air above the spirit's head.

I pull the trigger, hold it down as the Void-charged projectile surges forward, then release it just as it passes over the serpent. The secondary activation breaks the Void orb apart, sending a cascade of shrieking nothingness down onto the spirit. As the spheres impact its twisted flesh, it screams. Where they touch, bark vanishes, leaving clean scoops of negative space where the serpent's body has been wiped away. It crumples beneath the onslaught, writhing, until one of the final orbs strikes it in the center of its brow. Then it stops moving.

I sling Deathbringer back over my shoulder, and it vanishes back into hammerspace. Winchester replaces it, hovering over my shoulder. "You can't keep bringing out Power weapons to every damn fight," he says. "At this rate I'll be out of ammo for you in just two or three more."

"I'll keep it in mind," I say, crossing the room. It takes me a minute to find Rogier. The thing fell on him as it died, and he's having trouble pulling himself out from under it. I give him a hand, bracing myself against the much and lifting the serpentine body just enough that he can crawl out.

"Thank you," he says, standing. "That was… unexpected."

"Yeah," I say, trying not to think about the fact that I'm still not completely certain I'm imagining the hymn still ringing in my ears.

Rogier turns towards the back of the chamber. I follow his gaze, then follow him as he starts walking. The indistinct, pale shape in the back of the room starts to come into terrible focus.

"What the hell is that?" I whisper.

It looks like a face. An indistinct, half-melted face. Its eyes, which are its most well-defined features, are hollow openings. They don't move in any way, but I can't shake the feeling they're following me.

"So it is true," whispers Rogier. "There is a Prince of Death."

"A what?"

"I did not want to believe it…" Rogier takes a couple more hesitant steps towards the thing. "Common wisdom would have you believe that the deathroot first began appearing after the Elden Ring was shattered, but my research indicates that it is not so. There are records of it dating back to shortly before the Shattering. There are indications, also, of a guiding intellect behind Those Who Live in Death. A nascent god, perhaps even an Empyrean, whose purview is over Destined Death itself, or perhaps whose very existence is in defiance of Destined Death. The Prince of Death, it is called. These two facts put together… and now, in the face of this… The deathroot is no inert contagion. It is the flesh of the Prince of Death himself, imposing his own Order upon a world bereft of Gold. And I fear I may suspect his identity."

I stare at the horrible face. "You think this is the Prince of Death, then?"

"No," Rogier says. "But deathroot—its bulbs often take on features resembling eyes. I had speculated that if a single root grew to sufficient size, it might begin to take a more defined shape. And it seems to be so." He gestures with a shaking hand. "This is simply a very large deathroot growth. But it has begun to take a shape reminiscent of the original deathroot. To resemble its progenitor. That is the Prince of Death, of which this is merely an imitation."

"And you think you know the Prince of Death's identity?" I ask. "Implying that he was someone else, before the Shattering?"

He grimaces. "I do not know. And I dare not speak of it. Not yet. But I must take a sample, at least. Perhaps, if I bring back proof, D will—"

I don't have time to react. Rogier kneels, pulling a knife out of his belt with one hand while reaching out with the other. The moment his fingers touch the root, I feel a mind turn its attention on us. It's the same sensation of being watched I had when Thermidor, Parvati and I were exploring High Coven, in the days after Savathûn first became a Lightbearer.

Thorny black brambles shoot out from the root. They wrap around Rogier, tearing into his flesh. He screams, but only for a fraction of a second. Then he falls silent, his skin going grey as another vine shoots from the ground at his feet, stabbing upward through the small of his back with enough force to raise him into the air like a macabre banner.

"Rogier!" I shout, but his body is already dissipating into dust.

 

[Caiuz]

Welp now I can only hope Barrett has enough Warlock in him to find a cure for Rogiers Deathblight.

 

[RandomOTP]

A lovely update

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Many thanks to @Keltoi, @DemiRapscallion, and @BinaryApotheosis for betareading and fact-checking.

-x-x-x-

Purification

-x-x-x-​

"Ran into a guy with a replica out in the field today."

"A replica of what?"

"Of the gun, dummy. I think he assumed mine was one too. Didn't correct him."

"Why would he…?"

"I think there's a group of these guys. You've heard the rumors, right? These 'Dredgens.'"

"Sure. What you wanna do about it?"

"Well, I mean… if they wanna follow the example of the guy who used Thorn first, why don't we give them someone to follow now?"

-x-x-x-​

I stare at the spike of thorny bramble for a long moment as the dust of Rogier's body blows away. It's fine, I tell myself. He'll be fine. He'll be back at the Site of Grace Nepheli led us to any second now.

I swallow, then turn away. There's a ladder along one wall, leading up, but I ignore it. I'm not in the mood to explore at the moment. Instead I go back the way Rogier and I came. Some of the gaps are too far for an ordinary human or neohuman to cross, but a few double- and triple-jumps get me over them.

Soon, I'm stumbling back through the door into the arsenal room. Rogier is there, sure enough, sitting slumped beside the Site of Grace. "Rogier," I say, and then stop, taking in what's happened with widening eyes.

"Hello, Barrett," says Rogier, looking up at me in exhaustion and despair. I can't blame him.

His legs… well, they barely look like legs anymore. They've swollen up into grotesque tubes of necrotized flesh, tendrils of that same thorny bramble poking out from under the rotting skin. His pants have torn away, leaving him in little more than a tattered loincloth.

"Traveler," I murmur, even as Winchester pops out from hammerspace beside me. I don't even have to ask—he's already going over to scan the damage.

"I do not think I will be able to join you in speaking to the Crucible Knight," says Rogier. "I do not think I can walk at all, any longer."

"Don't give up just yet," says Winchester sternly, even as Melina appears beside the Site of Grace in a flicker of mist.

"How is this possible?" she asks, staring at the damage. "How can such an injury linger even after you have been restored by Grace?"

"I suspect only a wound or curse dealt by something which rivals Grace in power could have such an effect," says Rogier grimly. "It is as I suspected—the Prince of Death is spreading his own Order through the world. And I, doubtful as I have been in the guidance of Grace and the Golden Order of late… well, the Erdtree's hold on me is likely far weaker than it would be on a more loyal Tarnished. As such, I am more easily marked by other powers."

"Marked is right," says Winchester, backing away and turning his eye on me. His spines are rotating agitatedly. "It's a… parasite? Something like. Ain't seen anything quite like it before. It's not an entity in its own right, not like the Hive worms. If anything it resembles radiolarian contamination."

"Like Asher's arm."

"A bit, yeah. Dunno for sure if it'll spread, or how fast. But it doesn't seem like it's as deep in as Asher's problem yet. We might be able to… burn it away."

"Solar Light?" I ask, already mentally reaching for it.

"Might work. Not sure. Might also heal the infection if it doesn't recognize the contaminant as separate from Rogier. That's what happened with Asher—the Vex conversion registered as the same being as the rest of Asher, so it wasn't possible to use Solar healing to expunge it."

I'd forgotten that. Parvati, one of the better Sunsingers I've known, tried to heal Asher not long after he got infected. Didn't work. If this really is similar to the Radiolarian infestation… I don't think my Gunslinger's imitation of Dawnblade abilities is going to be able to succeed where Parvati-9 couldn't.

…But there is at least one difference between this affliction and Asher's. "It's paracausal, right?" I ask Winchester.

"Sure." Then my Ghost stops in place, hovering perfectly still, as he realizes the implication. "Lumina."

I nod, already reaching for the gun as Winchester transmats her onto my hip. I don't know how Lumina works. No one does. All I meant to do, when I took the old Thorn out of its sealed vault to try and find some meaning in everything that had happened, was to purge the old corruption. I'd hoped it'd give me some kind of peace. Closure.

Instead, the gun that Thorn became took on purification as her own identity. She was more than just a purified Weapon of Sorrow. She was something entirely new. A Weapon of Hope.

"I need something to load a Noble Round," I say. I look at Rogier and Melina. "You two stay here. I'll be back."

Melina makes to stand, but seems to think better of it. "Very well," she says. "Return soon, whatever you are attempting."

I head out of the room. The courtyard is still silent after the carnage I put it through. But there are places in this damn castle that I haven't been. Places far enough away that whoever's there wouldn't have heard the fighting here. I look around, and see a stairway leading down into some kind of cellar. That's promising. I jog across the courtyard and head down into it.

Jackpot. Another war beast-sized rat jumps at me just a few paces into the gloomy, damp corridor. I shoot it in the dome and reach for the glowing Remnant it leaves behind. Its death flows into the gun.

Here's the thing. I love Lumina. And I don't mean in the way that I love the DMT or Quickfang. Those weapons, and several of the others in my arsenal, are just a blast to use. They feel good in my hands, they're rhythmic and satisfying in action. It's almost meditative to rapid-fire the Dead Man's Tale, tugging the lever back between each pull of the trigger.

Lumina isn't like that. Don't get me wrong, she's still a well-made gun. Clean, smooth to fire, decent recoil compensation. But she's no Dire Promise, no Bottom Dollar. She's not one of my go-to weapons for duels in the Crucible, and that's okay. That's not what she's for.

There must be meaning in my roar. Those were the words I'd inscribed on the barrel of the gun, the final touch to transform the weapon that had taken Sara from me into the weapon that would bring the closure, the absolution, that I'd wanted for so long. I don't even remember deciding on them. I just remember my eyes blurring with simulated tears as the plasma chisel moved in my hands.

And the thing is, she still roars. She still fires the same ammunition that Thorn once did. It comes out of the same barrel. She still kills. Purifying her didn't make her into something other than a gun, a weapon designed to deal death with terrible efficiency. But, then, so am I. I'm the same sort of being as the Warlords who turned Earth into their own feudal playground. My fundamental nature is the same as Dredgen Yor's, the man who first turned Rose into Thorn. And it's not like those of us who align with the City have cleaner hands. Saint-14 may have been forgiven by Misraaks, but I'll never forget the first time I heard the Eliksni whisper about their boogeyman, who carved a path of slaughter through thousands of their fellows. Guardians, like any other soldiers, are weapons designed to kill.

What sets us apart—what sets Lumina and I apart—is that we're more than that. When I first finished Lumina, it worried me that she still needed death to fuel her, just like Thorn had, like any Weapon of Sorrow did. But talking to Ikora about it put my worries to bed.

The thing is, the Light isn't peaceful. Not the way we use it. We're not pacifists. There are pacifist Lightbearers, Efrideet at the top of the list, but they're not Guardians. The thing about building a gentle place for the meek and the small is that you need to ring it in spears, and you have to be ready to use them.

So, yeah, Lumina still requires death to fuel her. It's what she does with that death that sets her apart. A Weapon of Sorrow takes in the power released by death and swallows it, drinking up the violence like a gluttonous alcoholic, always craving more, more, more.

A Weapon of Hope takes in the power of death… and then gives it away.

Lumina is proof that there can be meaning in the killing, that there can be a reason we're all doing this, that there is a cause worth fighting for. And I love her for it.

I return to the Site of Grace, Lumina flaring with white fire. I take aim at Rogier, and let loose the Noble Round. He flinches, but the orb of Light emerges almost slowly, sailing across the room and sinking easily into him. The white flame spreads across his body.

And the brambles in his legs burn away. The necrotized flesh sloughs off like a layer of tarnish, leaving his own legs, healthy and functional, behind. He stares at them for a long moment as the pale fire dissipates. Then, hesitantly, he stands up.

"How is this possible?" he whispers.

"This is Lumina," I say, gesturing with the gun before holstering her. "It purifies the influence of paracausal contagions and poisons. Guess it works on the influence of the Prince of Death, too."

"Incredible." He takes a long, slow breath, then looks at me. "Thank you, Barrett," he says. "I had feared that all of my hopes, all the questions I still had to answer and the research I still wished to do, had slipped from my fingers. I thought I would have to hide away in the Roundtable Hold, waiting for the end of the age to come and find me. You have given me back my life."

"No need to be dramatic," I protest.

"I am not." He chuckles. "And besides, you have given me a whole litany of new questions to ask, new answers to seek. Come, let us meet this Crucible Knight. And after that, wherever you next travel… if you will have me, I will follow you."

"You sure?" I ask.

"Quite sure," he says. "You have given me more answers and questions both in the past day than I have managed to find alone in years. I would be a fool to part from you if I can avoid it."

"We're going to Caelid next," I say. "From what I hear, it's not a nice place."

"All the better," he says. "I have never dared investigate Caelid alone in any depth. But at your side, I think there is a great deal I might learn."

Melina stands. "We should be off soon," she says. "Godrick is defeated, and Barrett is in possession of a Great Rune. That should be proof enough for Sir Trinovar of his master's death."

"Indeed," says Rogier, rising as well. "I look forward to meeting this knight."

It doesn't take us long to get back to the old elevator shaft. Rather than just jump down, this time I use the lever beside the pit to call it up. Rogier and I step on it, and I hit the pressure plate to lower it.

Trinovar is seated by one of the walls of the tower when we descend. He stands to greet us. "Ah," he says, looking me up and down. "I acknowledge thee, Shardbearer. Then Lord Godrick is slain?"

"Yup," I say. "Sorry about that."

"A cruel fate, that should bring so deserving a lord to so untimely an end," Trinovar says, bland as shaved ice without syrup. "But, alas, there is nought I can do to restore him. Vengeance shall not resurrect the dead, and so I feel no pressing need to seek it."

"Glad to hear that," I say. "With him gone, I assume your standing order to attack Tarnished is obsolete?"

"Just so," says Trinovar, nodding his helmeted head at Rogier. "Greetings, Tarnished sorcerer. I am Sir Trinovar of the Order of the Crucible."

"Rogier," says Rogier. "Formerly, I suspect, of the Academy of Raya Lucaria."

"You suspect?"

Rogier shrugs. "Some Tarnished lose much or all of their memories upon their return from beyond the Fog," he says. "I am such a one. It concerns me little, I confess. If I had friends or family before I was forsaken by Grace the first time, they are almost certainly both long dead and lost to me by the dogmatic rejection of those without Grace in any case. I cannot miss that which I cannot recall."

That rings a little hollow to me, but to be fair, I'm an Exo. The whole 'Guardians lose their memories' thing works a little different when you've got a name and a number inscribed in your metal skull, and you keep having dreams of people your past selves maybe knew once.

"The Golden Order did grow dogmatic, in the years following the Eternal Queen's apotheosis," says Trinovar. "It was a terrible shame at the time, and so it remains now. Such rigidity was once anathema."

"I agree!" Rogier sounds almost excited. "The Golden Order, at one time, was able to take in the strengths and the peoples who were once its rivals into itself. It assimilated the Academy of Raya Lucaria, the trolls of the far north, even the demi-humans of southern Limgrave and the Misbegotten of the Weeping Peninsula, originally."

"And the Order of the Crucible," says Trinovar. "We predate the Golden Order, you know. Ours was an early alliance of Queen Marika. It was in part to gain our service that she first approached Lord Godfrey for an alliance."

"Indeed?" asks Rogier, stepping past me to approach the knight. "Then what did you and your fellows serve before the Golden Order?"

"Originally, we served Lord Placidusax."

"The Dragonlord?" Rogier's voice is slow and full of wonder. "Then he did exist? The records are so dim of that time, now."

"He did," says Trinovar. "But after the coming of Gold, the great temple of Farum Azula vanished from the skies, and he vanished with it. The ancient dragons who survived rallied around Gransax, who traced his lineage back to the Dragonlord. But he was not Empyrean, and was deemed unfit to take up the newly gilded mantle of the Erdtree and the Elden Ring. So we waited for new Empyreans to rise, and Lord Godfrey chose to cast our lot with Queen Marika when they did."

"Fascinating," Rogier murmurs.

"I am afraid that, while I yet recall these broad strokes, many of the details are lost even to me," says Trinovar. "Alas, the memory of a man doth decay, after so long a count of years."

"Of course," Rogier says.

"Question," I say, thinking of my death-visions. "What's this about the newly-gilded mantle of the Erdtree? You make it sound like it wasn't always gold."

"It was not," says Trinovar. "In the beginning of time, the Great Tree grew from these lands to hold up the very sky. At the time, its bark was brown, and its leaves green, like any other tree in the Lands Between. But then, some centuries after the coming of Mankind to these lands, a star of Gold fell to earth. It struck the base of the Great Tree, and from that impact…"

"…The Gold spread up the bark," I whisper. "Until it reached the branches and the leaves, and the Great Tree became the Erdtree."

"Just so." Trinovar looks at me oddly. "If thou knowest this tale, then why dost thou ask?"

"I didn't know it. I saw it. In a vision. I thought—you can never trust death-visions to be that literal."

"Death-visions?" Rogier asks.

"When a Lightbearer dies, sometimes we can see things," I say. "There are people—Warlocks, mostly—who train to try and collect as much information as they can from visions like that. Thanatonauts, they're called. But I never trained as one. I get a death-vision maybe one death in a hundred, at most. But I died twice in that fight in the courtyard, and I saw two parts of the same vision. That never happens."

"And you saw the Elden Star fall upon the Lands Between?" asks Trinovar.

"Yeah. I saw the tree turning gold. I think something wanted me to see that."

"An Outer God?" Trinovar doesn't seem to be asking me, exactly, though he's looking right at me as he says it. He sounds… excited. "Could it be…?"

"Could what be?"

"If you have been singled out by an Outer God, perhaps even the Greater Will itself," says Rogier slowly, "that might make you…"

"…An Empyrean," Trinovar murmurs.

I take a step back. "Uh, no. No, we're not doing that. Nope."

"Thou wouldst reject such a glorious destiny?"

"I make my own destiny." My voice snaps out before I've even had time to think of a response. "I'm a Lightbearer. I'm paracausal. I've had gods and monsters and embodied Logics all try to make me be something they want, and it's never gone well for them. Guardians make their own fate."

"It is never wise to struggle against the currents of fate," says Trinovar. "They will only drag you below with greater force."

"You don't—" I pause, taking a couple deep breaths to calm down. "The greatest enemy I've ever fought was the first one who told me, in exactly so many words, that there is no destiny. It was right. There are forces in the universe trying to create destiny, placing obstacles and pressures into the world to try to push people one way or another. It was one of those forces. But they're never insurmountable. Not for me. I'm paracausal, that's what that means."

"Either way," says Rogier. "Whether or not destiny has any hold on you, Barrett, you must be curious what entity gave you these visions, and for what purpose."

"As am I," says Trinovar. "If thou art Empyrean, Barrett, then whatever thy feelings on the matter, it is one great import."

"On that, we agree," I admit.

"Then we should try and find answers to these questions," says Rogier. "I suggest the Academy of Raya Lucaria, as a place to begin. For all their faults—and there are many—there is no finer repository of knowledge on the movements of the stars, which are said to govern the destinies of mortals. You are not mortal, precisely, Barrett, but it is a place to begin."

"That's in the opposite direction of Caelid, though," I say.

"Thou makest for Caelid?" asks Trinovar. "I have heard only ill tidings from that land, ever since the Empyrean Malenia unleashed the power of her fetid god."

"Yeah," I say. "I've heard a lot of the same. But supposedly, Radahn is holding back the asteroid field just outside this world's atmosphere, and I need the resources in those rocks. It's the only way for me to repair my ansible and call my fireteam."

"I know not just what these words mean," admits Trinovar. "But if thou makest for Caelid, we could begin our investigation in Sellia. The town of sorcery is near as old as the Academy itself, and while it hath other specialties, many of the greatest scholars of Raya Lucaria came originally from that place."

"Wait," I say. "Our investigation?"

Trinovar draws back. "Ah—forgive me. My tongue outstrippeth my wisdom. If thou wouldst have me, I would join thee in thy journeys. I have little to hold me, either here in Stormveil or in Limgrave at all. There is little in my life more pressing than the prospect of an Empyrean untainted by either the rot-god which hath claimed Malenia or the strange affliction that burdeneth Miquella."

I grimace. "I don't like the idea that you're following me because you think I might be your next Elden Lord," I say.

"Besides which," adds Rogier, "there is at least one other Empyrean. Lunar Princess Ranni was said to be such a one."

"Aye," says Trinovar. "But she hath not been seen since before the Shattering. If she yet lives, I have yet to see evidence of it. Nor, for that matter, hath the one demigod whose Empyrean status was never confirmed."

Rogier blinks at the Crucible Knight. "What demigod is this?"

"Why, the Princess Melina, of course," says Trinovar, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.

"Ah," says Rogier. "Few records even exist of her. She was born scarcely a decade before the Shattering, was she not?"

"Just so," says Trinovar. "And she vanished on the eve of her audience with the Two Fingers, when it would be determined whether she, like her siblings, had the potential to succeed her mother. None know where she went, or what the judgement of the Fingers would have been."

I have to force myself back into the present. There'll be time to interrogate Melina—the demigod I've been traveling with, whose thighs I fantasized about a couple hours ago—later. To be fair, I'm not actually sure it matters? It's not like Marika is my god. If I can kick the whole Hive pantheon's collective asses with my fireteam, I can crush on a local demigod. It's probably fine. Maybe. It just feels like something I'd have liked to know a bit sooner, you know?

For now… "Fine," I say. "It is worth investigating, if nothing else. I don't know exactly where Sellia is, but we can stop there either on the way to Radahn, or after we've gotten his Great Rune, before we leave Caelid."

"Then I have thy leave to join thee?" asks Trinovar.

"Sure. Just… no worshipping me."

The Crucible Knight laughs. "No fear of that," he says. "Whether thou art Empyrean or no, thou'rt no god yet."

 

[Matrix Dragon]

The part about Luminas nature was particularly nice.

 

[Arkio]

"Empyrean" fits the various speakers more than a guardian, though I think the Traveler communicates with the player in the Lumina quest, so it might be a case of it fitting Barret here specifically, if that is the case and if he did the quest.

 

[Ardion Prosili]

Makes sense to me, the Empyrean thing do. The player Guardian ends up having a lot of conversations with paracausal beings. The Traveller most frequently but also the Witness, and maybe whatever actually is the Darkness.

It also makes sense that he would reject the label, given all the trouble the aforementioned entities gave the City.

 

[HeWhoLurks]

Hmm, very similar to Miquella's unalloyed gold.