Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elden Lord. The Elden Ring. The tarnished.

It all sounds so familiar and yet, he couldn’t place a call upon the meaning.

These terms and phrases play in his head over and over, with the same hauntingly familiar voice that couldn’t be placed.

Tarnished.

Elden Ring.

Elden Lord.

Tarnished.

Elden Ring.

Lord.

Tarnished.

Ring.

Lord.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repe…

A small drop of water lands upon the still man's face, eliciting a gentle stir. Another drop and the man's eyes open, with irises as grey as iron and yet foggy, like glass. One more small drop of water and the man’s eyes focus going from the raw iron they once were to firm steel. They start by searching the ceiling for the source of the offending water.

All that could be found was an old, aged ceiling with condensation being the only likely suspect. Sitting up slowly the man observed the chamber he found himself within. The walls were stone and just as aged as the ceiling with moss beginning to grow upon its surface. The only light within the room came from under an old wooden double door.

Carefully rising, the man let out a small groan as the man’s bones began to crack and pop. As the groan escaped his lips, it echoed within the room causing the man to start before settling again. Though, now settled, the man remained wary.

With a quick, almost animalistic sniff, the man smelled the air, before quickly wincing back in regret. It was like smelling pure acid though there was also the hint of something sweet. The type of sweetness that may make anyone feel nauseous.

‘What the hell is that stench? How did I manage to sleep through that? Better yet why was I asleep to begin with?’

With a great will that man pushed through the smell, and looked around once again, looking for any clues within the darkened chambers. His efforts were for naught though, not being able to pierce the blackness surrounding him.

With a resigned huff the man began to carefully make his way across the room making sure to use all his senses to detect anything amiss. Except for the smell, which had progressively gotten worse with each step, nothing else seemed amiss. The only sounds were that of the man, the only taste was the man’s dry throat, and all he could feel was his clammy hands, balled into fists.

Finally, once thoroughly certain, nothing was amiss, the man made it to the door and with no small amount of effort pushed it open. A shrill screech erupted with every inch the hinges of the door moved, causing the man to once again wince quickly followed by a hand finding its way to the man's eyes as light flooded into the chamber.

As fast as this occurred, it ended though, and the man removed his hand to gaze out upon the land. He found himself upon what appeared to be a small balcony of stone with fence-like structures guarding the edges, or at least the parts that weren’t broken. Beyond that, was fog and what appeared to be a large stone wall. In a better circumstance, the man might have called it breathtaking, if it were not for the fact that this raised even more questions.

‘Where in the world am I? There’s no place I know existing that looks like this.’

With that thought came a realization.

‘Wait, how would I know that? I know what I am and what my goal is, though I don’t have a clue what the Elden Ring is, nor the lord with the same nomenclature. Beyond that, I can’t recall anything of myself.’

To forestall any panicking the man pushed that all to the back and began to observe his starting point under the new light he was granted. What he found within did not help his growing panic, however, as he beheld a corpse, sitting upon a once-darkened wall. The wall itself was clean aside from a small splotch mostly hidden behind the woman’s back. With a wriggling feeling in his stomach, the man came to realize where the acidic smell had originated.

As the man tried to put his stomach back into the right order, the analytical part of the man’s mind took more notice of the corpse's state.

‘Brown robes. An inner cloth with a connected hood. Female. Age is unable to be assumed from here. The corpse has yet to begin decomposing?’

This last detail seemed to puzzle the man as he was briefly torn from his internal strife and caught fully up to his observations. Something internally told the man that if the woman was to smell sweet then the body must be partially decomposed. And yet, the body appears perfectly intact despite the missing … liquids. This puzzle caused the man to walk back inside towards the corpse again to take closer notice.

Now closer, the smells from before were certainly stronger but one was exponentially more so. The same sweet smell seemed to invade the man’s nostrils almost completely pushing the scent of blood out. It was strong to the point of nausea and yet drew him in like a fly to honey. Standing right in front of the corpse now the man inhaled one more time putting all his focus onto his nose. From sickeningly sweet, to now comforting. As if telling him everything was all right. Everything was perfect. Everything was golden.

‘But it isn’t.’

A snap and the man left the trance. The corpse remained and his body had not moved from his standing position over the body. The body that told him, the smell lied. Despite, the insidious effect though, the man could not help to mourn the smell. As if it told him a lie he wanted to believe, and the smell wished to believe as well.

Deep in ponderance of the smell the man’s eyes wandered to the corpse’s left hand. Clutched with the grip of desperation, it wrapped around a small brown object. Gently, as if to not wake the corpse from its long rest, the man unwrapped the fingers and grabbed the object. Holding it up to the light of the door, the man beheld the macabre nature of the object the woman clutched. An old, grey, wrinkled finger, made of wax-like skin. At the base stuck out a bone wrapped in a familiar brown cloth. It was dry, it was strange, and it was not a part of the corpse's hand, which begged the question…

‘Where did this come from and why did the woman have it?’

It was with this thought that the man brought the finger closer to gain a better look. He noticed just under the wrappings appeared to be some strange symbols or runes. They appeared alien to the man and yet something from deep within helped him comprehend their meaning, and, almost by nature, the man read aloud.

“A tarnished one’s mark upon the world?”

As the words were spoken, a faint light shone from behind the man. Quickly turning around the man noticed another set of ruins in front of the corpse. Ruins that were certainly not there before, shining nor dull.

“’ Though the path be broken and uncertain, claim your place as Elden Lord!’”

It was a simple message echoing the same message from the voice in his head and yet.

“Thank you, my maiden. I shall fulfill the promise made between.”

These were words made on instinct, not knowing where they came from or what the promise was he made, just knowing that they were true, nonetheless.

The man didn’t know what pushed him to take the old finger with him, as he tucked it into the old leather pouch he found at his waste. Perhaps the fact he had nothing besides it pushed him to keep it. In any case, with a last glance at the corpse, the man made his way outside and to a small gap in the fence he had seen previously.

Finding a small set of stairs to a lower level, the man descended. He passed another small balcony, crossed a horrifyingly unsafe bridge, and made his way past a large stone structure with no apparent entrance. With nothing else to do the man marched on until he passed through a small stone archway into a plaza-like area.

Graves and spears litter the area. Like every area they were aged beyond the man and almost completely untouched. As the man wandered these graves he pondered the one odd detail as he looked at the graves. Though they appeared almost untouched, there was that one, disconcerting word, almost.

As soon as that thought was had a large mass hurled itself from the top of a large statue at the end of the plaza and landed directly in front of the man. A large amount of dirt and moss was kicked up with the landing and the man recoiled and quickly retreated further away.

The mass writhed and moved as it once again became visible from behind the dust storm. Its back held a large cloak that did nothing to hide the unnatural body of the figure. Arms and legs riddled the things being and each one wriggled and moved unnaturally. What caught the attention of the man the most though was the haunting visage at the front of the thing. Ever gaping and donning a face of pure white, it was the face of pure pain, terror, and anger. It was haunting.

Then still once again came as the thing stared at the man. 1, then 2, then 3 seconds passed. At the end of the third, the thing let out a screech that caused the man to halt in his desperate attempt to scramble back towards where he had come. The yell tore at his eardrums until all that was left was a slight ringing and the feeling of liquid dripping on the sides of his head.

The thing then lunged at the man and attempted to stab him with the many swords within its many twisted grips. Right, then left, then at once. The man attempted to dodge but the many arms lunged at once leaving few options. Yet on instinct alone, the man responded.

The man, realizing dodging was not going to last decided to dive for one of the spears stabbed into the earth at the cost of a stab at his right side. A nasty gash was made as the thing ripped its blade from the man’s torso and made it intercept.

The man ignored the pain though and with a painful exertion, ripped the spear from the ground and used it to parry the incoming attack. It was sloppy, inefficient, and only partially worked, but was better than being skewered completely.

With a quick retreat, the man backed away closer to where he had entered all the while fending off the attacks of the thing. During one such engagement, the man attempted to get a counterattack off but was quickly thwarted with a downward swing of another sword, cutting his weapon’s tip clean off. Once again forced to retreat and find another spear, the man threw the stick, distracting the thing, and grabbed another from the ground.

This back and forth continued for another 4 spears. One would be cut, another simply snapped by the thing's limbs, and the last had broken in an attempt to parry. The man was left with one spear, and none near to replace it.

‘It’s fast, strong, and unpredictable. The limbs despite this do appear like regular limbs though. So perhaps it can be damaged.’

Another strike and a wound on the man’s left arm.

‘It also doesn’t appear intelligent to a high degree, simply going for simple strikes with no technique or plan.’

A slice to the temple.

‘I’m gaining too many injuries,’ the man dodged to the left and hit the ground with a wheeze. ‘I need to strike before it kills me!’

Another slice barely dodged.

‘I just need something!’

Stab, miss.

‘Anything!’

A slice, followed by a series of stabs.

‘Now!’

As soon as the creature stopped its stabs to rest the man used the spear in his hands to throw up a cloud of dirt into the thing's face blinding it for a moment. Within that fraction of a moment, the man struck.

‘It’s body is too obscured by its limbs, and cloak to properly aim and disarm wouldn’t make an impact in the slightest. Instead,’

Thrusting with all the strength he had, the man aimed for the thing's face, catching it in the eye. With a sickening squelch and a lurch from the thing the spear's tip broke clean off and the thing’s eye was turned into nothing more than mush. It writhed and screeched with horrible pain clutching desperately at its injured eye with no avail.

Sensing a chance the man made a run for it. Throughout the fight, they had managed to inch closer to the entrance. If the man could make it to the chamber again, he might be able to plan something. It was desperate, but it was all he had. So, he kept running, trying to ignore the shocks of pain from each injury he had sustained. 20 steps, 10 steps, 5 steps, 4 steps, 3 steps, 2 steps and …

“I guess in the end, it didn’t matter did it, you bastard?”

A quick stab to the stomach was all it took for the man to fall and a firm bash to his side to send him hurling into a side wall.

Now he lay, soaking in his blood with a creature of nightmares leering at him, slowly skulking over.

“Though, I bet you can’t be happy either considering your state, you sorry sack of…”. Something thin and wooden impaled the man before he could finish the sentence.

“Intelligent enough to think of irony but not to kill me fast, huh?”, the man wheezed out through goblets of blood. With one last wheeze of effort, the man stood, pressing what little of the wound he could cover. Each effort felt worse than the last and yet the man stood and looked upon the thing standing above him. His heart began to slow as he gazed upon the sword in the thing's hand as it raced towards his neck. The man slowly closed his eyes and awaited his death.

“Is that really all you have to show Archer?”, questioned a haughty young woman’s voice.

“Senpai, please, don’t rest now!”, spoke another, softer voice.

“A mighty king’s sheath must be as strong as their sword. Keep fighting, Shirou my sheath.”, one last voice stated in a firm and noble manner.

With a last push of will the man called upon his last dregs of strength and thrust out his hand. He gazed upon the sword rushing towards his neck. He looked upon its everything and understood it fully.

‘An ornamental sword, one to be held in each hand. Wielded by a Grafted Scion, a servant of the one who made it this way.’

The man did not stop there though. He gazed further into its history, who made it, what battles it has seen, what is it made of, and who it had killed.

‘It has been drawn to slay many tarnished and many who were not. Blood of a maiden has recently soaked the edge of the blade.’

With the cause of the corpse's death now found and another force of pure indignation coming full force the man chanted two words, “Trace On.”

A pattern of circuits carved up the man’s limbs to cover his entire body and with his outstretched hand now appeared a perfect copy of the Grafted Scion’s weapon, racing to intercept the Scion’s own.

With a clash of steel, both swords met. In shock, the Scion let out a whimpering screech as it tried to figure out where the weapon had come from. In that instant the man struck out, catching the Scion in the other eye, leaving it blind.

Unable to see and desperate to finish the man, the Scion struck wildly around and attempted to shred the man into ribbons, then and there. And yet no shout of pain was heard. Instead, the limbs of the Scion slowly came to a stop. The swords in their grips slowly fell. Only one sword was left with the Scion, planted firmly in the top of its head.

The man was exhausted, weak, and mere inches from death, and he knew that. He knew that despite all he fought for his promise would be unfulfilled. He knew that the sword he had taken from the Scion would serve him no purpose soon. He knew all this and yet stood.

And yet he walked.

And yet he smiled.

Smiled knowing certainly that death was coming.

If not from the injuries then the forceful overuse of his atrophied circuits.

Maybe he was a fool. The sword he had formed had long since disappeared, with no source of mana to draw from, so a guaranteed fake as well.

Even so, he smiled, knowing he had fought well. That he had fought for them.

And so he kept smiling, as he crossed through the exit of the plaza.

Kept smiling as he reached the edge of the cliff.

Kept smiling as he collapsed, and the ground fell out from under him.

Smiled as he fell deeper into the sea and deeper into the unconscious world.

Chapter Text

“Don’t worry… fortune … his side. We found …, after all. One of his kind … seek … Elden Ring. Even … violate … Order.”

As the man awoke he was greeted by a familiar resting ground of stone. Unlike before, he awoke with the fading memory of someone talking as he faded in and out of consciousness.

That memory was pushed aside as a much clearer one swiftly emerged. With a snap of movement, the man nearly jumped into a standing position ready for a fight before clutching his head as a dull headache began to assault his temple.

‘Where am I now? Is that damn Scion responsible? I could’ve sworn I killed it! Unless … oh.’ An ashen expression took over the man’s expression as he came to remember the full memory of what had occurred previously.

‘So, I died. Though-’, the man flexed his hands and arms as sore muscles contracted and loosened with each movement. ‘If I am dead, this afterlife sucks.’

‘In any case…’, the man looked around the cave he found himself in. The air was damp, and the stone was slick with moss. By all metrics one might measure a cave, it was as normal as they came. That would be with the exception of a few details.

‘Who the hell is that? Why are they glowing and translucent? And what the hell is with the glowing golden tree? And what the hell is with weapons being stuck in the ground wherever I…WEAPONS!’ With a blur of movement, the man scanned the cavern floor looking for something desperately.

‘I could’ve sworn I brought it with me. I kept my clothes and my pouch. Hell,’ the man quickly opened his pouch confirming a gnarled grey finger still in his possession, ‘I still got the damn finger so it should be-’

THUNK

The man’s foot struck something that had been lying next to where he had been lying. In the almost non-existent light of the cavern, details could not be made out, but it was certainly, ‘That damn things sword.’

Picking it up and bringing it closer to his face the man could begin to make out details that he hadn’t noticed in his desperate fight from before and his subsequent death. ‘If it was death.’

It was a straight sword, reaching just over half his arm's length. ‘Odd, could’ve sworn when that Scion whatever used it, the sword was bigger by a good amount.’ It was an oddity sure, but the man refused to dwell and continued to observe. It had a half-circle curve for a guard made of the same material as the handle.

‘Steel for the blade, bronze for the handle and guard. It was tempered by a blacksmith of royal standing and served as both an ornamental blade as well as a tool of battle. Its name, fittingly, is simply Ornamental Straight Sword. Beyond being wielded by the Grafted Scion, it has no history or renown worth telling of. Yet, I can sense something else below?’

Tuning out from the surroundings he found himself the man attempting to look deeper into the sword. He tried to find the same power that helped him to know how to parry the Scion’s attack and produce the weapon capable of doing so. He looked deeper and deeper, and yet all he could find was the history of the blade itself.

Yet, the man kept pushing. He pushed, he prodded, he twisted, and turned until, within a trance, he muttered words carved into his very being, “Trace on.”

‘Mother told me to hurry. She said there was a surprise for me in the courtyard. She said I was finally ready to serve the Golden Order.’

Hurried footsteps echo, as a small figure is seen briskly making its way down a stone hallway. As they pass a doorway, other servants and inhabitants are seen ducking away, out of sight.

“Tch.”

‘Filth, every last one of them.’ With a dismissive glare, the young noble made their way deeper into the winding hallways, now with a much more “dignified” walk.

After many winding corridors, the young noble made their way to the grand dining room. There he stopped and gazed upon the magnificent room. Golden candelabras hang from the ceiling and rich wood is used to construct the many tables decorating the room. And, as the centerpiece stands a glorious painting. One displaying the figure of a grand Lord, now gone, no longer in possession of the golden blessing.

The first Elden Lord, Go-

The personal courtyard of the king was not one of majesty or magnificence. Instead of sprouting flowers displaying majesty, there were simply graves of those fallen on the dreaded black day. No bushes were maintained and organized to be seen, only wild grasses and trees. Yet despite this, it was still a thing of royalty as it belonged to the lord of this castle.

“Come, my child,” came a cold voice beckoning the young noble in further. “Our lord shall be with us soon,” the mother continued with the same cold, steady tone. “Once he is ready he will bestow upon you a gift for which you shall use to protect the Golden Order. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” the young noble responded in a quiet tone.

“Good. Before our lord arrives I will first share with you information that no side of the highest ranking in the Golden Order are permitted to know.”

The young noble raised his head in shock. They had never been allowed information beyond his station as a noble. The only reason they might be permitted to know anything would be if-.

Trying to school their expression of any happiness the young noble spoke slowly, “I understand Mother, and am honored to be given such a duty.”

The woman’s face did not change as she looked at her child, side for a small twitch at her lips. A twitch the young noble assumed meant concealed happiness as well.

“Yes, as you should be.” Each word was enunciated slowly so as to not let any emotion slip in. “Firstly, you must know one piece of information that pertains to where you will be stationed. As you know it is unusual for a noble to be stationed anywhere but a castle, but these are dire circumstances.”

This sent a chill down the noble's spine as their mother continued. “You know of the history of the first Lord of the Golden Order?” Despite the phrasing, it was not a question.

“As the lord was sent away, he took with him his followers, both close in relation and distant. These are now known as the Tarnished. Simply put, my child, they are returning.”

The young noble waited for their mother to continue but nothing came. Instead, she simply stared at them, gauging how they would react.

Tentatively, the young noble spoke, “Why have they come back, Mother? Do they serve a threat to the Golden Order?” The young noble waited, seeing if he had responded correctly.

Not showing satisfaction or displeasure, the mother answered, “The tarnished have come with one purpose alone, to become the next Elden Lord. As to whether they serve a threat, hundreds have already come, in the vain attempt to seek our lord’s golden blessing. For it is by this means one tarnished may begin the path towards Elden Lord.”

Each word was spoken slowly dropping more and more ice down the young nobles’ back with each. If the tarnished have already made attempts at the lord of the castle’s life then it is doubtless they stand in opposition to the Golden Order and seek to overthrow the current Elden Lord. It’s treachery. It’s greed. It’s evil made manifest. It’s-.

“That is where you shall serve the Golden Order, my child,” cut in the lord’s mother. “Today, you shall be given a gift, from our lord. One that shall help you serve him and the Golden Order faithfully. It will then be your duty to hunt down the tarnished as they awaken and cut them down before they strengthen themselves.”

Each word was spoken in the same tone as usual except for one. “Gift”. It had been with a strange tilt to the word, though barely noticeable had it not been for the young noble’s experience. Yet the young noble ignored it, too caught in the excitement of being given such an honor. Maybe if the young noble had looked at the sign they may have noticed the look of shame flit upon their mother’s face for the briefest of moments.

Suddenly a trumpet blared in the distance. The woman took notice of this as a sign and began to speak again in a much more rushed manner. “Our lord is soon to come. His gift is not to be looked upon until he and you are ready. Till then face the horizon and gaze upon the golden hue of the sun. Let it symbolize your devotion to the Golden Order. Just recall, that you must not turn around until commanded. Do you understand?”

The rush shocked the young noble who forgot all decorum and simply nodded in a hurried manner.

“Good,” the mother spoke again, “I cannot stay with you when our lord arrives. I am not permitted to gaze upon your gift. Goodbye, my child, do well to protect the Order.”

With her final piece said, the young noble’s mother departed while also whispering some final words, barely caught by the young noble. All they could do though was watch as the woman departed and turn around towards the horizon as they pondered the words.

Shortly after the departure, another horn sounded, closer than before, signaling the lord's arrival. The young noble had been about to turn around and greet their lord properly when they remembered their mother’s words. Instead, they simply kneeled towards the golden horizon, hoping that was enough to show fealty to their lord and the Golden Order.

Soon the footsteps of the lord were heard as he entered the courtyard and began his movement towards the young noble. Each step was heavy and powerful, displaying the lord's strength and great stature. With the echo of the courtyard, the effect was doubly effective. Though the young noble could’ve sworn there had been not an echo beforehand beyond that of the sea.

Before the thought could dwell the lord stood behind the child and began to speak. The young noble had never actually heard their lord talk as it was below him to talk to one of their stations. So, to hear the voice now clashed with the descriptions of the lord’s voice given to the young noble. Where it was described as royal and strong by servants and their mother, the young noble would describe it as slimy and foreboding.

“Well, young noble of the Golden House. It is time for you to aid in the protection of the Golden Order.” With each step, the young noble could hear their lord’s steps draw nearer till he stood right behind them. Now, cast in the unnatural shadow of their lord, the young lord begins to feel dread and recall their mother’s retreating words.

“Ye shall be made powerful as I have had made myself. And following thee shall be more of your ilk to aid the order. Now turn and receive they boon.”

No longer able to feel the golden rays of the sun upon their skin, the young noble turned and gazed upon the lord for the first time.

Limbs. That is all they saw. Thousands of wriggling limbs sprouting upon the body of what used to be a man, their lord. It was all the young noble could do to not vomit or scream. Though noticing the spaces still left upon their lord's hide did little to ease the desire.

“Now ye too shall become grafted as I have and shall be elevated beyond your station. As such you will be family to none. Instead, we shall become family. A family of grafted perfection. A family of all that is golden. You shall become my scion!”

With the final word, the lord reached for the scion’s body yanking him closer. Now the scion did nothing to hold back his screams as he was pulled apart and put back together in a grotesque manner.

Soon though, the scion was unable to scream as their throat was ripped out, deemed to be replaced later. Instead, all that was left was the last words of the scion’s mother, “I love you, I’m sorry.”

And so, the scion was pulled apart and put together again, in a thousand twisted forms. Memories would fade along with emotions as what was once a young noble closed their eyes and a Grafted Scion opened its.

The man’s eyes shot open as he withdrew his hand from the sword. His concentration was broken, and he no longer felt the rush of memories overflowing his very being. With a labored breath, the man inhaled and exhaled forcing himself to calm.

‘I am a tarnished, not a noble or scion or whatever the hell that thing became. I am a simple, nameless tarnished.’

The man similarly repeated this same sentiment until he was able to ground himself within his body. Yet even as he did so he was left with some part of the tragedy carved into his mind.

After falling from grace, the dregs of the golden lineage sought power and purpose in the past.

It wasn’t a long phrase, nor was it full of much deep meaning. And yet to the man and the Grafted Scion, no, the young noble, it was devastatingly accurate.

‘It’s funny in a morbid way,’ the man mused, trying and failing to steady himself, ‘I had not once been curious as to how that thing had such a well-maintained cloth. Yet now, after seeing your life, I see your mother wasn’t satisfied without leaving at least one more gift.’

The man had been expecting the pain that followed his use of his circuits, but the man did it still suck. Every part of him felt like it was burning and banging kept sounding inside his head. The man so desperately wanted to pass out and let the pain fall away in trade for unconsciousness. He knew he couldn’t though. He needed to keep moving.

Slowly the man began to strain the different parts of his body, attempting to prod out the worst areas. In doing so he began to feel the invisible strain that was now being shown in full. The worst parts, as it turned out, centered in his lower stomach and his entire right side. The same places he was stabbed and bashed.

Now in normal circumstances, the man might consider himself relatively smart. Maybe not always wise, but smart. So, it was certainly only due to his pounding headache that the man came up with the most stupid plan he could come up with.

‘If I could see the condition of the sword then maybe-’

“Trace On”

The man had raised his hand and placed it upon his bare skin, where the cloth he was wearing was punctured by the Scion as he let out those words, and his circuits fired.

I am the bone of my sword.

A tool for humanity.

A fake.

Guardian of the Scales.

A weapon made to kill 10 to save 100.

An Archer.

As the last phrase rushed into the man’s head his circuits automatically shut off indicating it had read all it could or would. The frustrating part to the man was he couldn’t tell which. In any case, the Archer now had worse issues to deal with as he felt the consequences of his poor decision.

Like a boulder, the Archer fell to the hard stone and began to writhe and twitch. With no clear will to resist or signs of letting up, he was forced to simply ride it out.

What felt like hours passed as the Archer finally got his limbs under control. Wincing, the man stood as pain shot through him. While the twitching may have left, the pain was under no seeming want to do the same.

Determined not to dwell on the pain nor what he had seen in the; the Archer made his way to the Ornamental Sword. In his pain, he had dropped it to the ground and kicked it even further during his episode. Slowly, the man lifted the sword and held it in a firm, one-handed grip. His other hand lay empty much to the discomfort of the Archer.

‘I saw some shields within the grip of that thing before I dispatched it. Probably should have grabbed one. Though, something inside tells me that wouldn’t fit me either.’

With that thought pushed aside, the Archer made his way to the ghost, yet to move apparently, trying to hide an obvious limp. In his approach, however, he began to see glowing markings appear next to the ghost, similar to the ones within the chamber. The runes seemed twisted differently than last time but once again, they made themselves comprehensible and the Archer began to read aloud.

“The Cave of Knowledge lies below.” Following the reading of the runes the man let out a huff of annoyance. ‘I need to find a way to stop reading these aloud.’

“Brave Tarnished. Take the plunge.” The voice was ethereal. It spoke with a volume in between whispering and talking normally, yet never crossed into either. And underneath it all, was a tone of weariness, regret, and deep sadness. “Of learning, and remembrance. Recall the arts of war. And your warrior’s blood.”

With those final words, the specter ceased his short monologue and once again remained motionless in his chair.

“Hey,” the Archer said while reaching for the ghost, “do you know where we are? And what do you mean by ‘take the plunge’?” No response until, “Brave Tarnished. Take the plunge.”

‘Great. First person I met, and it turns out they’re not alive either and also delusional. Damn, E rank luck.’ The Archer didn’t know where that last part came from or what it meant, but he was certain it was true. A universal truth, even.

As the ghost once again began wrapping up his spiel, the Archer searched around the ghost to find any sort of information beyond what he heard and read. Once the ghost truly finished though, the Archer was forced to concede his loss and accept nothing else was there except for a few wooden boxes and ruined books. ‘Truly, a king’s haul.’

‘Alright then. I guess it’s time to consolidate. What do I know?’ After barely a second of thinking, ‘Fuck all, side that that thing was called a Grafted Scion who was once a noble of some kind and that I died but not really. Oh, and that my damn body hates itself. Wonderful.’ Most of that wasn’t necessarily the truth, and the Archer knew it. He could still recall the voices telling him to keep going, the name of the Lord in the sword's history, and a little about who he was. At least he had something of a name, or at least a title or 2.

‘Guardian of the Scale is a bit too pretentious for a name though. Also, too long.’

Forcing himself to focus the Archer began to formulate his options. The way he saw it was:

1. ‘Leave the door by the weird glowing tree into a completely unknown room or …’
2. ‘Jump down deeper into an unknown cave.’

The Archer sat next to the ghost to weigh his options. Each one had cons, many cons. But the way the Archer saw it was that, if push came to shove, he could maybe retreat into the cave he awoke in. If he went deeper, however, it might not be easy to find a point to retreat and that might very well spell his second death. This is not to mention his already horrible state.

Soon to be swayed towards the door the Archer stood up to prepare for what might be behind it. Yet, as he stood, his eyes caught a glint of something, shining in the deeper section of the cave. Something that called to him. Call it foolishness, recklessness, or plain stupidity, but as he saw that shining object, his choice was made for him. So, with a glint in his eye, the Archer began to prod the edges of the cave to find a safe way down.

Funny thing, though. When you just had your body rebel against you and currently have a headache the size of a continent, looking down a big hole tends to cause dizziness. It was this fun realization that the Archer had to ponder as he fell into the hole.

‘Lesson learned, don’t stand near ledges.’ As the Archer began to sit up he felt his body protest the movement with his arms and legs in full support of the rebellion. Funnily enough, the Archer had thought the pain would have worsened after falling into the equivalent of a raccoon trap.

‘Overstressing my body, that is how I die. Amazing.’ Yet, he was not dead, so through gritted teeth, the man began to rise and lean against the cave wall. During this though, he felt something call him. Something that promised him warmth and protection. It was so convincing that his body didn’t even seem to notice as he fully stood and made his way deeper into the cave, in the same direction he saw the sparkle from earlier.

It did not take long for the Archer to find the object of his comfort. It was … beautiful if the Archer had to describe it. It shone and managed to fill most of the room with a soft golden glow. But something inside the Archer that it could be brighter yet. It called to him, beckoning to place his hand upon it and aid it to grow. And as the Archer did so he took notice of the floating piece of light, or what he now recognized as, a shard of a greater light. Yet, he could feel the light does not disparage its position or state. It simply existed to give light.

As the Archer’s hand rested upon the light it burst outwards, casting the cave into even further picture. Where there had once been creeping shadows now only existed light. And with the shard’s new brightness, it once again reached out to the Archer. It beckoned him to sit and bask in its soothing embrace.

As soon as the Archer sat, he felt at ease. The stresses from his battle and his body's earlier revolt all faded away. All that was left now was warmth.

A voice whispered then, not aloud but inside the Archer's mind. It told him about itself. Its purpose. Its purpose was to provide the tarnished a place to rest and regroup, for the next battle. For it was with it that the misbegotten may be given grace in this cruel land.

The Archer had expected the Grace to end its whispering there, with the usual vague hints towards a wider something. Though the whispering continued. It now spoke of the past, legends hidden outside the vastness of time and space. It told of a man like a hound, wielding a spear of thorny death. It spoke of a king, wielding a sword of purest golden light. It whispered about a monster of a man and his many challenges in his search for atonement. The more legends it told, the more the Archer was drawn in. Each one felt as familiar as the last and eerily, like a part of himself.

Finally, the Grace began its last legend.

“There once lived a boy born in a place, far away from where I was made. The boy was raised by a man who wanted to be the impossible. The boy wanted to do the same, for the man. Soon the man passed, and the boy was alone, not for the first time. The boy had thought it impossible for a third chance at connection. Yet it was given, and the boy was able to build a family.

Despite this chance though, the boy could not bring himself to settle. He still had the impossible to accomplish. And so, he joined a war and fought. Throughout the war, the boy was faced with many challenges and yet he did not die. Instead, he grew and in response, his family grew with him. Though his dream, with each battle, seemed even further away than before.

While fighting the war, the boy fell in love. His sword, powerful like steel, was the one he had fallen. Yet, like steel, she did not bend or let herself feel warmth. And, as such, the boy's feelings went unneeded and were left behind as the war ended.

Once the war had ended, the child began to journey. He was still searching for a way to accomplish his dream. In doing so, he left behind what he had. His family would then die for a third time. The boy, now man, did not allow himself to dwell though. He too became a sword.

The man would soon find himself in front of a task too grand to accomplish. Yet it was one he needed to face to follow his dreams. So, he made a deal and in doing so he became a hero.

Yet, he was not treated as a hero. Instead, he was made the causation of his task. So, he was put to eternal rest, as his old family watched on, some far but some so very near.

So, it was with that, a sword was forged, and a boy and man died.”

As the grace closed out this legend and its whispers faded, it left one final spark within the Archer, so that he may be recognized by its others. Yet, the Archer took no notice and instead still dwelled upon the last legend. One that was certainly a part of his very being.

Soon the Archer reluctantly stood and made his way deeper into the cave. His body was simply going through the motions, no longer bogged down by pain and exhaustion. That was till a sword came swinging at his stomach.

Quickly acting, the Archer took out his sword and charged his adversary. The man who had attacked him had a gaunt, haunted face and looked devoid of all life. Its swings were languid and lacked any finesse side the occasional stab. This man was not truly alive anymore, at least in any way that mattered.

With a swift movement, the Archer avoided a stab to his stomach and made to slice the man’s head off. With little effort, the head separated from the neck and the man fell to the ground, owning nothing more than a bloody stump. To the Archer’s great surprise though, this did not remain the case as the man’s body began to turn to ash and dissolve completely.

The Archer did not dwell on this. It was weird but certainly not the weirdest in the past how long it's been. Granted the Archer was hoping to check the man for anything helpful, like information. To be honest, the Archer had initially wanted to convince the man to stop and talk. The empty eyes had dissuaded that idea. The emptiness brought up unpleasant feelings he couldn’t place his finger on.

Similar men followed the first. Some wore the same yellow uniform while others dawned full sets of armor, though rusted and worn. The Archer had initial hopes for communication with the armored men. This was dashed as he struck one of the helmets off his head to reveal the same lifeless expression. From then on, the Archer abandoned non-lethal strikes for these foes and instead aimed for the joints and finally, the exposed neck.

After drowning in the blood of these men, the Archer made it to a small statue of a woman with her arms spread out. Some part of him linked to the statue and the Archer knew, that it held some of the power the Grace holds, yet not much. This swiftly fell to the wayside though, as the Archer spotted a small body of water.

At the sight of the water, the Archer strode forward with the intent to drink. He could not recall the last time he had drunk anything. Hell, he couldn’t think of the last time he ate either. Strangely, he had not felt discomfort at any point despite all of that. In any case, he figured a drink couldn’t hurt.

As the Archer entered the room however he heard the splash of water and clanging of metal as another man, garbed in metal charged him. He was similar to the other armored foes he had fought. He had powerful overhead swings but not much else. The armor he wore was some quality of iron and had a cloth of red and green draped on the front. His sword was … basic. It had no real legend to it and the only history it had to tell was revealed at a glance. A simple broadsword is mass-produced and unrecognizable from its sisters.

With a grim determination, the Archer moved to the right of the knight’s opening overhead slash. While powerful, it was dreadfully slow and as a result, easy to counter. Like previous armored foes, the Archer began at the joints. Unlike before though, the chainmail meant to protect these areas wasn’t completely shattered yet. It was still rusted though, so with some well-placed swings, the mail broke, and the knee pit was cut causing the knight to buckle slightly.

Unlike previous experience though, the knight did not fall completely. Instead, he began to favor his right leg and traded powerful swings for quicker, light attacks. This had worked to give the knight some distance and push the Archer into a more defensive position.

Compared to the Scion though, the attacks were sluggish and held very little threat. Honestly, the Archer felt a little guilty comparing the Scion to this knight. It was like comparing a toddler to an adult. Soon the knight began to tire and as a languid swing came the Archer’s way, he parried and delivered a swift upward slash, knocking off the knight's helmet. Following up the attack, the Archer sent a quick kick to the knight's stomach, doing little damage but knocking him over.

As the Archer stood over the knight preparing the killing blow to the neck, he looked into the knight’s eyes. The clear, hateful eyes.

“You’re not like them, are you?” The question slipped out before the Archer could think to deliver the blow.

The knight glared at the Archer and attempted to take a swing before having his sword swiftly batted away and sent flying. With nothing left to do the man responded, “Tis not important, you verminous traitor!” The words were yelled at the Archer, holding malice and a small dose of fear. “You would slaughter us the same as would we to you. For you are a filthy tarnished who seeks to dethrone my lord!”

“I don't seek to dethrone anyone, much less your lord,” the Archer argued. “And I certainly don’t want to kill you if it is not necessary. Please, I just am looking for a way out.” Maybe it was desperate, but the Archer could not care at the moment. This was the first moment of lucid conversation he had since awakening, and he was not letting it go so easily.

The Archer’s words did not seem to reassure the knight though as his face twisted into an even fiercer snarl as he spat his next words. “Yet you wield one of the swords given to those under my lord's close service. Oh, you think yourself so clever with wordplay, but you tarnished are all the same, filthy thieves.”

“Listen, I’m not-”

“I do not care what you claim to be! If you claim to not want to kill me then you are a coward. I am not a coward though!” With those final words, the knight lunged for his sword, uncaring for dignity. Against the Archer though, the action was far too slow, and he made to cut the man’s other leg and both arms to halt his progress. As the last swing came for his right arm though, the man turned his body and allowed it to catch his chest, cutting the cloth upon it and leaving a long gash upon it.

The knight had made it to the sword and yet it was for naught. In his current state, he couldn’t fight. This the knight knew and so with iron resolve the knight spoke, “You seek to become an Elden Lord, but your journey is for not. You are not worthy of standing before even my lord!”

“Again, I don’t seek anything. I just want information and to leave. Killing you or you killing me is pointless. So, if you just help me we can-”

“No! I refuse to betray my lord like you have!” Slowly the knight raised his sword and stabbed forward before the Archer could stop him. A fountain of blood shot out as the knight's once bright tapestry was dyed crimson.

The Archer stood there, frozen as the water under him was made a murky red. “Why?” That was all the Archer could ask as he stared at the sword protruding out the back of the knight’s throat.

“Loyalty to the lord of all that is golden,” the knight intoned faintly as his eyes lost the spark of life they once held. Soon, he too like the others before, faded to ash as he blew away in the nonexistent wind. The Archer no longer felt the need to drink.

The rest of the cave was short. Turns out he wasn’t far from the exit and the water area served as a watering hole of sorts before any signs of life disappeared. At least, that’s what the Archer figured as he found coffins lining the rest of the cave as he left. Soon, he made his way to a familiar location as he gazed down at the specter of a man sitting in a chair. Next to him, the Archer could still make out the same runes that called this the “Cave of Knowledge.”

It was with a bitter realization that the Archer realized the knowledge it held was simply of how to kill and survive. Slowly, so as not to slip, the Archer followed the small stone path that led around the pit he had fallen in. At the end, lying off the edge, was a corpse he had not noticed previously. Upon him, the Archer found a small piece of wood with symbols carved into the surface.

Before, looking closely at it, the Archer gently hopped down to his starting area, right next to the glowing tree. Within the light of the tree, he now glanced at the symbols. Same as before, minus the glow, the carvings made themselves comprehensible.

“Strength.”

Looking to his right, the Archer noticed a strange pair of vials lying at the roots of the tree. They both held the same base design, circular at the base with a cone-shaped spout. They were then adorned by a wrapping, branch-like pattern, of gold. The only difference came in the coloration of the glass, with one being red and the other blue. He had no idea what they were used for, but he figured knew they could be useful for carrying water, if nothing else.

With his new vials and charm obtained, the Archer made his way up the stairs next to the tree and out the door at the top. If he had glanced back, he would have noticed the ghostly figure begin to fade as it gazed at him leaving.

The chambers that followed the cave system were a change certainly, but not by much. It was still stone, creepy stone, just now shaped. He did happen upon a wall of fog seemingly guarded by some sort of gargoyle. No matter what the Archer tried, he couldn’t get through and was forced to leave for now. Before leaving though, he took note of the strange hole on the gargoyle’s head.

Once at the end, the Archer gazed upon a stone gazebo. Inside he found a tile poking up from the ground. With nowhere else to go and almost out of patience, the Archer stood on the tile and pressed it down. Slowly, a small platform began to rise in a still circle, carrying the Archer to a higher floor.

Once at the top, the Archer spotted another door, this time closed. After scanning the room and searching the pots inside the Archer made his way to the door. At first, he attempted to push it open to no avail. With some quick prodding, pushes, and pulls, the Archer realized how he needed to open it.

Squatting down, the Archer placed his fingers under a small lip at the bottom of the door. With some strain and no small amount of resistance, the door began to lift. Light quickly flooded the room bringing in more illumination than the torches ever did. Invigorated by the signs of the outdoors, the Archer doubled his efforts. Next came a soft breeze at his legs, which were bare save for some scraps of cloth, clinging on for dear life. After came the smell of salt and water. Finally, the Archer made one last heft and pushed the door up and heard it lock in place by some hidden mechanism.

Grass, trees, and structures littered his view, finally breaking the grey monotony of the stone and death. He could make out a grand castle just over a ridge and could even better make out the smell of the ocean. It was truly his small pocket of paradise for that instant. Even better, the Archer realized, was that a man was standing not too far away. One that had not attacked him on sight.

With renewed energy, the Archer made his way over to the man, catching sight of another Grace on his way. With a little more energy than he probably truly had, the Archer spoke.

“Hello., I just got out of that dreadful cave as you no doubt saw. I was wondering if you could-” Once again the Archer was interrupted.

“Oh yes... Tarnished, are we? Come to the Lands Between for the Elden Ring, hmm? Of course, you have. No shame in it. Unfortunately for you, however, you are maidenless.”

.

.

.

“What?”

Chapter Text

“What?”

Hearing what the man said the Archer couldn’t help but respond dumbly.

“Ah, hard of hearing are you Tarnished? I simply pointed out the truth, you are a maidenless fool searching for the Elden Ring.”

Each line was delivered with this tone of pitying condescension. Now, the Archer would say he is a calm and collected person. He rarely lost his composure and even rarer did he act rashly. But what the hell was wrong with this white-masked creep?!

“Tis most shameful though,” the white-masked man announced in the same tone, “for without runes, and an invitation to the Roundtable Hold, well you are fated to die in obscurity.”

“Luckily for you, however, there is one shining ray for the maidenless.”

In a vain tone the man then announced, “Me, Varré. Please take care to listen closely this time tarnished as hard as it may be for you. Are you familiar with grace? The golden light that gives you Tarnished life.”

Not caring to hear an answer, Varré continued soundly ignoring the face of confusion and growing frustration plastered upon the Archer’s face.

“Then you may also behold its golden rays pointing in particular directions at times?”

Honestly, the Archer hadn’t. When he first found the Grace underground he had been so filled with relief and then was so enthralled with its legends that he didn’t notice anything. Not that the Archer let the bastard, Varré, know. He simply nodded again, content to figure it out later.

“That, Tarnished, is the guidance of grace. The path that the Tarnished must travel. It will surely lead you on the path you must follow, even if that path is to your grave.”

With those last words, Varré turned to stare at a small shard of light, floating nearby, untouched. Now that the man, Varré had finished his speech, the Archer was given a moment to speak.

“Who the hell introduces themselves like that?!”

Not expecting that response or any really, Varré turned what was assumed to be a questioning gaze upon the Archer.

“I literally come out of a hole in the ground and the first thing you do is call me maidenless? No shit I’m maidenless, I had better things to do than have sex!”

“Tarnished, thou art a fool if you think I meant-” Varré said trying to interject before being cut off. “Honestly,” the Archer continued, “first the fucking giant spider monster Grafted Scion prick then I end up in a cave feeling like absolute shit, fight off some zombie-like soldiers, kill the first sentient person I see because he couldn’t fucking surrender. Finally, to add to the shit storm, I run into you, a white-masked, creepy, pervert-sounding, asshat who goes off on a whole lecture after calling me, me, -”

Running out of steam quickly, the Archer cut off his last ramblings and took a deep breath. Then he took another. After a few more seconds of harsh breathing, the Archer finally had enough sense to reflect on his outburst. He must have had more stress building up than he thought, if not physically, then mentally. Good to know that Grace didn’t help with that.

“Are you quite finished with your outburst, Tarnished? Be grateful that I still have the grace to remain calm and not react like a savage as you did.”

Varré’s words held no small bit of disdain, though still carried the same goddamned tone that threatened to send the Archer off again. Varré forestalled that honestly pleasant-sounding inclination by speaking again.

“I call you maidenless because that is what you are you fool. You lack a finger maiden that can provide you the strength of runes.”

Hearing more terms that meant nothing to him, the Archer officially reached his limit and made his way to the Grace. Varré, believing he had spoken some sense into the deranged Tarnished, turned again to gaze at the Grace. Though, the Archer could feel pinpricks on the back of his neck making him aware of Varré’s continued attention.

The effects of the Grace weren’t as strong as the first he had found, most likely because he hadn’t been injured all that much. All he had were a few cuts, gained while learning the patterns of those husks below the surface.

In any case, the healing was not the main thing the Archer was looking for. Instead, he gazed into the Grace, attempting to prompt it to divulge more legends and tales. For a minute straight, the Archer stared at the Grace without blinking.

“I suppose it is to be expected of most tarnished.” came the mocking tone of Varré. “Insanity is such a common trait. Yet, I had hoped though might not be stricken. Though, considering your barbaric shouting, it is to be expected. What a pity.”

Being brought out of his concentrated trance, the Archer did not trust himself to reply. Despite Varré’s unimpressive demeanor, he could tell he was dangerous. The bloodstains the Archer was able to find on the man’s robe added to this impression. It was best to salvage or not make worse the one new, non-violent, connection he made in this land.

Instead, he settled for simply clenching his jaw and glaring at the Grace, even if it was certainly directed towards Varré. Thinking clearly now, despite the nonsensical phrases and terms, the Archer had to admit that the white-masked prick had given him some actual advice. Advice that appeared to be true judging by the strand of light coming off the Grace.

Tracking the light, the Archer saw a small, desolate church sitting off in the distance, being overlooked by a giant castle. The Archer could also notice a small stream of smoke coming from within the structure. The Archer took this as a sign of another, hopefully, more pleasant, person.

With no qualms about leaving Varré’s company as soon as possible, the Archer stood and began to make his way to the church.

“Grace’s guidance will certainly reveal the way forward, even for a tarnished as lowly as you.”

The Archer was about to turn and respond but stopped himself when he heard Varré continue speaking.

“To Castle Stormveil, over the cliff. The home of the decrepit demigod, the Grafted Lord, Godrick.”

Varré was condescending and more than a little bit rude to the Archer. This, the Archer was certain of. Yet, when Varré spoke of the so-called Grafted Lord Godrick, it made the way he spoke to the Archer sound downright polite and amicable.

“It is time you should set off; I should think.” The change in tone was abrupt, to say the least. Back was the same condescending tone, like he was sending off a child to do chores. Yet, the Archer could not deny, he had been aided twice by the man. Maybe that, mixed with his forgotten upbringing, led him to perform his next action.

Turning to face Varré, the Archer bent his body slightly down, in a grateful bow. “Thank you, for your generosity in giving me such advice and I apologize for my outburst.”

‘Even if it was deserved’ was left in his head and the tone, the Archer would admit, was less than polite. Choppy and forced with no shortage of sarcastic flare as each word was spoken. Yet that seemed not to matter to Varré as he stared at the Archer, before bursting into fits of laughter.

“It seems I was not entirely correct about you, tarnished.” Behind each word was a smile, not visible behind the mask, but certainly heard in the words. “Maybe, if you can recognize those you should respect, you may have your uses yet! I look forward to observing how you will respond to the struggles ahead of you, tarnished. May the blood you spill be glorious yet!”

The way Varré spoke sent the shivers down the Archer’s spine. The way Varré had spoken had brought upon emotions and fears with no memories to connect to them. Just the simple feeling of being stalked by a predator who wanted nothing more but to watch him suffer. This, combined with the general unpleasantness of the Varré in general, made the Archer quickly correct his posture and begin making his way down towards the church.

As he left though, he recalled something. “Godrick, the Grafted Lord. Is he in any way related to the Grafted Sci-?” Turning around while asking this question, the Archer was only greeted by empty air and a small puddle of crimson blood on the ground. With that disconcerting sight and almost certain connection established, the Archer turned back around and continued his way to the church.

The walk was short and simple. Or it would’ve been if it weren’t for the halberd currently attempting to skewer his head.

Shortly after leaving the Grace behind, about halfway to the church, The Archer had felt something. Some sixth sense, telling him something was wrong. He had yet to feel anything like it and yet, he knew to trust it instinctively. So, when the light warning bells erupted into blaring alarms, the Archer leaped out of the way as a large piece of metal landed where the Archer had just been standing.

Holding said piece of metal, was a large soldier donned golden armor. Under him was a similarly large, black steed, donned in similar golden plates. Within the grips of the man was the halberd in question and a large shield, shaped like a dinner plate.

For the last minute now, the Archer had been dodging blow after blow from both the soldier and the steed, barely being able to escape with shallow cuts and bruises. Occasionally he would be able to parry and attack with his sword, but as he went in for a counterattack, the steed would either carry its rider away or simply kick him out of the way. The worst part was the knight showed no signs of slowing.

Each attack came with the same ferocity and strength as the last. Yet, the Archer’s attempts to dodge, block, and parry were becoming less effective.

“Stop your attacks! I mean you no harm!” It was a long shot born out of desperation. The Archer had no expectations of his attempts for a reason to work. He had at least hoped it would buy him some time to plan though.

 Not seeming to notice the Archer’s pleas, the knight continued his attacks. The Archer had long since gotten used to the knight’s patterns, for as much as that meant when the attacks never slowed down.

Left with no other choice, the Archer made a strike toward the steed’s legs, hoping to spook it and cause the knight to fall. That plan was swiftly dismantled as the horse leaped into the air and came down with the force of a falling boulder.

‘Oh, what the hell.’

These were the last thoughts the Archer had as he was launched into a nearby stone outcrop, injuring his back and breaking his left arm. Ignoring the pain, the Archer stood, strengthening his grip on his sword. Through darkening vision, he saw the knight charge at him, halberd pointed forward. Recalling the last time he was stabbed, the Archer made to jump away before stopping himself. Instead, he simply stood and watched as the knight closed in.

Slowly, the Archer took steady breaths. The adrenaline of the fight was keeping his pain at bay, yet he could still feel the intense pulsing of his broken arm. The knight was nearly at him now, soon to impale him upon his stony grave. He still did not move.

The knight sped up, seeing the calm disposition taking over the Archer’s face. It was the face of one ready to die. The knight would kill him in five, four, three, two, o-.

As the knight made to skewer the Archer, he threw himself to the left as the knight was barely an arm's length away. Confused at the results of its charge, the knight attempted to turn and strike the Archer, finishing him off. Resistance was all that came. The knight then looked towards his halberd to notice it impaled into the stone the Archer had stood in front of.

Realizing the error, the knight attempted to pull his halberd to no avail. The increase in speed had caused it to be stuck in, wholly and truly. With dread building, the knight and his steed put their all into yanking the weapon free as the Archer slowly stood.

He had landed on his broken arm, injuring more. The Archer did not care though as he regained his balance and made his way towards the knight. Noticing the approaching man, the horse and knight struggled more and more to wrench the weapon free.

With 4 swift strikes, the Archer sliced at the steed's legs, crippling it. To the Archer’s surprise, the knight did not leave the steeds back and instead continued to yank at the halberd. Not one to let an opportunity go the Archer began to search for areas to strike the knight. Unlike the horse, the knight was covered head to toe and with the struggling of the knight, small openings were difficult to locate.

Rubble began to fall from the impaled stone as the halberd moved slightly. The Archer was running out of time. He needed some way to break through and -.

‘Fight together.’

It was a foreign thought. One certainly not belonging to the Archer. Even so, he listened.

‘We do not fight alone. We fight together.’

Thinking of where the thoughts were coming from, the Archer turned towards the only other thing that spoke within him. His sword.

‘We are created to fight together, yet our golden light exists as one.’

Dawning realization came as the Archer recalled the original sword’s wielder. A being that held more than one weapon. Uncertain as the consequence may be, considering last time, the Archer began to chant.

“Trace on”

Lines shot up the man’s body and arms as he spoke. Each one held energy, used to fuel a singular process. There were many steps to making a blade. When he first fought the Scion he gained an understanding of these steps. And with understanding came the ability to replicate them with his mystery.

“I am the bone of my sword.”

It was a new line, but a necessary one, the Archer felt. He needed durability more than what was required to pierce the Scion’s skull, and the line would provide it. As he spoke it he raised the hand with the Ornamental Straight Sword, gesturing outwards to the world, as if to claim authority over reality.

In front of the outstretched hand came a blade, the same blade the Archer held. Before the blade fell to the ground the Archer placed the original blade in his mouth and caught the other. Clenching his teeth around the sword hilt, desperately trying to keep it within, he brought the newly formed sword up to it, forming a cross. The swords then began to glow with a holy light and on instinct, the Archer ripped the traced blade across the original forming holy sparks.

As the Archer finished his preparation, the knight finally managed to rip his halberd free. Somehow the steed he rode upon also managed to heal itself as it stood. That is not to say it did so without effort though. With grim satisfaction, the Archer realized the knight had no way of charging anymore.

Not wasting a moment, the Archer charged. Unable to quickly move, the knight responded by swinging his halberd in a horizontal swipe. With practiced movement, the Archer slid underneath the attack as best as he could with his injuries. Quick to respond the knight raised his shield and slammed it into the ground creating a shockwave. This had managed to push the Archer back but only slightly.

Back on the charge, the Archer dashed forward. Like before, the knight attacked, though instead opting to jab outwards. This turned out to be a mistake though as the Archer swiftly dodged to the right and jumped left to land onto the pole of the weapon. Using it as leverage, the Archer swiftly jumped off the pole and attacked the knight head-on.

Quick to respond, the knight brought his shield to provide protection. Once again though, the Archer used the knight’s response as a steppingstone and instead landed on the edge of the shield. With a glowing sword in hand and one in mouth, the Archer stabbed, aiming for the top of the knight's head.

Grim satisfaction filled the Archer as he saw the glowing sword at first struggle to pierce and then slowly sink into the knight's head. The last struggles of the dead came as the knight launched the Archer into the air using the shield. Yet the sword remained impaled, left behind by the Archer.

With clumsy acrobatics, the Archer flipped and landed on his bottom with a thud. A much heavier collapse came soon after as the knight and its steed collapsed. With no fight left, both were left to fade into dust and glide away in the wind, leaving behind a golden halberd as the lone symbol of their existence.

The grounds of the church were pristine in their rune. Soft green moss-covered walls and fallen blocks of stone. Up on a small, still-standing pillar, a small bird worked away, preparing a nest. The only sign of still living people was the small fire burning away loose twigs and leaves. To Kalé, it was the perfect place to set up camp. Granted, he didn’t have much of a choice with the Tree Sentinel currently guarding the place.

With a small poke of a large branch, Kalé adjusted some of the timber inside the fire. He hadn’t been trapped for long, but he’d have to make a break for it eventually. Despite the ideal location for camping out safely, there weren’t many travelers passing through willing to trade.

A dull thud took Kalé out of his thoughts. The bird had also noticed something amiss and took off. Tensing his body, the trader made to pick up his instrument and ready his mule. More thuds now joined with the sound of hooves sounded out, louder. Yet, it was clear that the source of the sound, no doubt the Sentinel, was a good distance away.

Calming himself and his now frightened mule, Kalé began to listen for reasoning for the Sentinel's new movements. Quickly, the sounds picked up, becoming more erratic and agitated. It was clear now that it was a fight, as the clash of steel against steel soon joined the erratic noise.

“May you win, stranger,” Kalé said in a quiet voice. It was a wish born out of selfishness, not for the sake of the Sentinel’s combatant. For if the man won his earlier issues would be easily solved.

The sounds of combat carried on for a few more minutes before a crash echoed throughout the area. After, silence came, with the only sound being the thump of Kalé’s heart in his chest. Straining his ears, the trader attempted to hear any other signs of a struggle from his spot next to his stead. The thump of his heart, the sound of wind, and crackling fire were all he could hear. After a minute of bated breath, the trader heard the sound of breaking stone, another thump of metal on the ground, and then nothing in quick succession.

Unwilling to risk looking out the doorway, the trader waited. Soon the distinctive sounds of scraping metal on dirt and stone came. At first, it was distant, carried by the echo of the area.  Then it got louder and more prominent until it halted. It had halted, right outside the entrance.

Shrinking himself, Kalé made to hide in the corner of the ruins while also tensing himself. He should’ve made a break for it, Kalé knew this. Yet something told him that he would need to meet whoever walked through that entrance. A very part of his soul echoed those thoughts.

The dragging sound came again and soon, a man bloodied and beaten stepped out of the archway. The clothes he wore were ragged and torn, being held together by some cosmic luck. The sword at his waste told a different story. Its edge was chipped in some places but was overall sharp. Kalé’s eye as a trader told him it was a good sword to have. That, in this case, was not the best sign.

That nervousness soon turned to surprise, then full-on panic when Kalé saw what was making that dragging noise. A golden halberd, as tall as it looked heavy, followed, covered in dirt, dust, and no small amount of blood.

“Greetings,” Kalé said, in an attempt to hide his fear. What he had meant to say in an inviting, polite tone, instead came out raspy and strained. The man did not respond and simply stared. Assuming, or more accurately, hoping his voice had simply been muffled by his mask, he repeated himself louder. Again, the man stared. Panic becoming worse, Kalé began to move from his crouched position to fully stand. That was until the man began moving.

With one methodical step after another, the man began to approach Kalé. Each step was slow and limping, and yet the halberd that followed him seemed to carve through the floor like a hot knife through butter. Not wanting to assume the worst, Kalé held onto the vain hope that he was approaching to talk better. That hope was swiftly dashed as the man continued to approach in silence.

Kalé nervously tightened his grip on his instrument and tensed his muscles. Just as Kalé was going to jump for his mule in hopes of escaping, he caught one good look at the man’s eyes. The eyes that weren’t looking at him. Pausing, Kalé followed the man’s gaze.

‘Is he looking at the anvil?’

Kale’s confusion at the man’s attention made the thought of escaping momentarily escape his mind. That moment was enough for the man to finish closing the gap. Snapping out of it he looked at the man now standing in front of him. Now with certainty, Kalé could say the man wasn’t looking at him. Though, to Kalé’s further confusion, he was no longer staring at the anvil. Instead, he seemed entranced by a single spot on the stone flooring.

With curiosity taking over confusion, Kalé watched as the man let go of the halberd, leaving it to fall. With a loud crack of stone, it slammed to the floor and made Kalé flinch back in response. The man seemed to barely notice though, and instead continued to stare at the floor. Slowly, he began to lower himself to a seated position.

After a second had passed, Kalé recovered from his flurry of emotions and concerns. Letting out a breath he didn’t notice holding, he opened his mouth to attempt communication again. As soon as he did though, he shut it again with a clink of teeth.

With morbid fascination, Kalé observed as the man, who had been injured to no end, began to miraculously heal. The man’s body, like clay, began to have his cuts seemingly pushed closed and melded together. His left arm, which had been clearly broken judging by the crooked angle, began to snap back into place inaudibly. During all of this, the man showed no signs of pain or discomfort. He simply stared unfocused ahead.

Once all the man’s wounds were healed, he let out a soft groan of relief. Then, calmly, he looked at Kalé. Then he blinked. Then he blinked again.

“Who are you?” Maybe it wasn’t the most graceful way of introducing oneself, but bite him, he was tired. Though, maybe it would’ve been better to be polite considering he had walked in and completely ignored the man in favor of the Grace. Honestly, it was concerning how alluring the Graces seemed to be.

Refocusing from his wandering thoughts, the Archer waited for a response from the man. Instead, all he got was a constantly changing expression. Some of the expressions he recognized briefly. Confusion, nervousness, fear. Finally, though, the man settled on a face of realization as he looked at the Archer. Cautiously, the man sat with his instrument and began to talk.

“I go by Kalé though you can simply think of me as a wandering trader.” The man’s, no, Kalé’s voice was raspy and a little bit muffled by the mask around his mouth. “And you are a tarnished, I can see it. And I can also see…”

At the pause, the Archer tensed. While Kalé had been polite since meeting him, he would have no surprise if he turned out to be dangerous considering the people and things he had encountered. Kalé finished his sentence, unknowing of the Archer’s turmoil, “I can also see … you are not after my throat.”

For a second there was silence. Until…

“Pfft.” The Archer couldn’t help but let out an undignified snicker. Which was then followed by a series of full belly laughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” the Archer tried to say through laughter, “I do not mean to come across as rude. It’s simply that going through a rough series of trials to discover a pleasant face, especially one willing to joke, left me off guard.”

Letting out a small chuckle of his own, Kalé spoke, “I would less say that was meant as a sort of jest, but instead a simple observation.”

“Even so, the difference in tone is enough to laugh at!” Maybe the Archer was being too loud now. Honestly, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“Then I am glad that my company hath been enough to provide you with some relief. Though, I must say it is rude to ask for one’s name and not provide thine own. Pray tell, what might I call you, traveling tarnished?”

The question caught the Archer off guard and made the smile on the Archer’s face lower slightly. Kalé must have caught notice of this and spoke again, hastily.

“I mean not to pry. I simply wish to know how I may address my new friend.”

“No,” the Archer interjected, “it is not your fault. No, it is simply that I can not recall a name in which to call myself. Though, perhaps…”

The Archer stared into the Kalé’s yellow eyes and recalled the memories he had recalled in his fight against the Grafted Scion. The names he had been referred to by. Senpai, my sheath, …

“Archer”

“Archer? A peculiar title for one without a bow.”

Despite the joking tone in which Kalé spoke, the Archer’s face took on a thoughtful visage. “Perhaps. Even so, it is a title, no, a name that I know belongs to me.”

“If that is thou’s name, then that is how you shall be referred. It is a true pleasure to meet you, Archer.”

Once again focusing on Kalé’s eyes, Archer responded with a small smile, “And a pleasure to meet you, Kalé. Though, I don’t think you should be talking about fitting names.”

Confusion flashed across Kalé’s face then. “I am uncertain of what you mean,” he responded slowly.

With a growing smirk, Archer continued, “After all, you don’t look nearly green enough to be a cabbage.”

Catching on to what was meant, Kalé let out a small huff. “Thou are not the first to make that connection, and I dare say, you won’t be the last. In any case, if you are not after my throat, we may at least trade.”

Confused, Archer watched as Kalé stood and undid some pouches on his mule. There he pulled out a handful of small, dried fruits, which he fed to the mule. In the same pouch, he pulled out a small kit of some kind.

“I would suggest a crafting kit. A necessity for all the tarnished seeking to become the Elden Lord.”

“It seems you have me at a loss again,” Archer interjected. “Unfortunately, I have not a coin to my name, if that wasn’t apparent by my lack of pockets.”

“Coin? Hah! Archer, my friend, surely you jest. What good would scraps of metal be in this day and age?”

The confusion must have been apparent on Archer’s face as Kalé, curiosity in his voice, began to speak again. “You must have been long wandering my friend. It is odd to see such a fresh tarnished. No matter! We do not use coins in the land between, no. Runes are the only things that hold value in trading.”

“Well,” Archer cut in, “I must once again insist that I have nothing to my name, whether it be coin or Runes.”

Losing his teasing tone, Kalé fixed Archer with a piercing stare. A stare that Archer could’ve sworn pierced his very core. “Runes are not physical in nature. They make up the core of a person. Surely you felt it. When you killed that Sentinel, something entering your center.”

The words were clipped, bridging no room for disagreement. Reluctantly thinking back, Archer could recall a faint sense of warmth entering his core. Thinking further back, he could also recall something similar after defeating the Scion, though dying made the memory unclear.

Kalé, noticing Archer’s concentration, simply watched, only moving to shift into a more comfortable seated position. In a meditative state, Archer began to focus on his core where he vaguely recalled feeling that strange warmth. There he found an invisible presence, a mass of untapped power. It did not move or give off any heat, unlike when it entered him. It simply rested, waiting for something.

Archer was tempted to use his ability to examine the mass closer. Yet, he did not trust Kalé enough to risk him noticing. Reluctantly, Archer left his trance and opened his eyes. In front of him remained Kalé, in the same position, with his instrument clutched in his hands. His eyes remained unblinkingly boring into Archer, unmoving, unblinking. Those yellow, piercing eyes.

Feeling a shiver down his spine, Archer made to stand. While it may be true that Kalé has been his most pleasant company yet, something about him made the Archer’s skin crawl.

Before Archer could leave, Kalé blinked, and the spell was broken. “Sorry about that, must’ve dozed off. Tis getting late, I suppose.”

“Late, but it’s only-” Looking at the sky, Archer saw an orange inferno painting the horizon.

‘Must’ve been meditating longer than I thought. Add that to the list of concerning traits. Fits right next to being compelled to read strange scripts aloud.’

Letting out a small chuckle, Kalé made to put out the fire. “We can discuss trade more in the morning. S’not safe to keep a fire burning in the dark. Attracts all sorts of unwanted beasts.” After the fire went out, Kalé tossed a bundle of cloth at Archer. “It’s not much. Should be enough for the night though.

And like that, Archer’s first day(?) after awakening came to an end. Despite the darkness that overtook the land once the orange glow of the sunset subsided, Archer did not feel the bitter cold of night. Instead, he was embraced and warmed by the grace beside him.

Looking up at the night sky, Archer simply stared at the canopy of lights above him. Stars and constellations he couldn’t know existed as a taunt almost. A reminder of how unfamiliar Archer was to the world and himself.

‘Though, there is at least one thing I can recognize.” The soft, white glow of the moon illuminated Archer. Its light drew Archer away from his worries and suffering, all the pain he had felt since awakening. It comforted him, to see something so familiar. And as a cloud passed over the moon’s body, Archer fell into a slumber. Then when the cloud passed, the moon's blue glow cradled Archer once again.