Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1 - Falling Leaves

First, there was filth. Then, there was gold. And finally, there was something rather different.

Taylor slammed her hands against the inside of the locker, screaming for someone, anyone, to let her out. Conscious thought had fled entirely, all that was left was an animal yearning to be free, to be uncontained and clean. She might be wearing clothes, glasses, all the things which mark someone out as a civilised human, but when confined like this, when her knees banged against metal walls and she was forced to curl in on herself like a dead insect… she found every long-buried instinct and lizard-brained reaction coming to the surface. Atavism. That was a fancy word for it. She focused on that word, on the way it had looked when picked out in an elegant font on the unevenly-grained pages of a book. Maybe she could try and sink into it, pretend that none of this was happening, immerse herself in other memories… no. The word led to a book, a book led to her mother, her mother led to feelings of familial comfort, and familial comfort led to her. And she led to here. Every train of thought led her back to the same final station, where the doors clunked open and she was unceremoniously dumped out into this cramped, dark, stinking place.

Rot. She felt like she’d never be clean again, like everything around her was sinking inwards, corroding her body, turning everything into a foul, rancid paste. Taylor had stopped screaming. No-one was coming. No-one was going to help her. She could die in here - actually, completely, without a doubt, die in here. Wouldn’t even need to buy her a coffin. Probably need to get rid of the locker anyway, thing was a biohazard at this point, and they may as well just drill it out of the wall, slap a few stickers on it to let anyone know to not open it, then dump her in the ground. Maybe she’d still be alive when it happened, clinging on just long enough that she could feel the first handfuls of dirt clattering down above her. And her last memory would be of a pair of mocking eyes, and red, red hair.

For a moment, she thought this was it. The anticlimactic end to a short and fairly disappointing story. For a moment, it was. And then… it wasn’t. Something twitched in her brain, and she felt something start to shift.

[DESTINATION]

[AGRE-

[INTERCEPTION]


Gold flooded her mind. The most radiant, perfect shade of gold imaginable, like someone had taken the ideal concept of gold and had somehow stitched it into reality. It was the golden of crowns, the golden of old coins, the golden of the sun in all its stages. The rising sun, full of hope and ambition. The noonday sun, splendid and supreme in the sky, sovereign of stars. And the setting sun, with burnished rays thrumming with nostalgia and fond memories. All at once, everywhere, without conflict or paradox. Radiance and grace filled her every thought, and the filth began to shift away. She saw whirring gears suspended in the sky, rotating in infinite fractal patterns with no grinding, no clunking, just perfect smoothness. A dozen parts, varying wildly in origin and purpose, all somehow aligning together in a way that defied comprehension, interlinking on a level so fine that her eyes couldn’t perceive it. Her cells ached. This was perfection, and… something was wrong. She didn’t feel jealous. She felt happy that something so glorious existed in this world, gleeful that she was allowed to see it before the end. She stared for a while, ignoring the world beyond - what was the world compared to this?

The golden light noticed her, and she felt small, and meek, and grateful. Eyes composed of a thousand fractal gears, laced with an infinity of roots so perfectly designed that they seemed like circuit boards. She tried to gasp, but her lungs were empty, her body refused to respond. There was a feeling of… assessment. Every part of her was examined. Her mind was peeled open, her every thought exposed to the searching gold. Instincts were carefully dissected - how would she respond to this situation, or that situation? Which crisis would break her? What was the chance of a catastrophic failure? Percentages, ratios, endless algorithms spiralled past her like the helix of a monstrously huge strand of DNA, and in them was everything that composed her. Nothing was left out. Her response to betrayal was frowned at, the light dismissive of her passivity. But her response to grief was commended, the emotional resilience applauded. Existing data was insufficient. And so, it extrapolated. Future after future. She couldn’t see a single one of them, just blurs - the whirring of insects, or… something else? Thousands of strange sounds and effects, discordant and chaotic, carving the world around them into a more pleasing shape. And a fathomless legion of bodies marching towards a burning mass of spheres, that shone with a shade she could only describe as ‘fool’s gold’. Every other shade of gold felt insufficient compared to the one she’d seen. Even this shade, which melted worlds and reshaped histories.

It did not respond well to this vision. Taylor felt irritation building, a vague notion that she was a contaminant in a perfect system. The shame that filled her was greater than anything she could produce. But the golden light was merciful, and its kindness was boundless. She could be removed from the system. The assessment was completed, and the tangled mass of histories retreated into a single point, an infinite dense singularity which the endless gears ingested smoothly. The filth was gone, now, and all that remained was an infinity of golden stars, and from them, golden trees. No words were spoken, but a choice was put before her, one that she understood on an instinctual level. To stay and be trapped… or to go and find something else. The filth might be gone, but Taylor could still feel the moisture on her skin, the cloying stench that still played around her nostrils. This wasn’t a choice, not to her. In this moment of absolute desperation, when everything else had abandoned her… how could she ever reject the offer? Her acceptance was subconscious, she didn’t even need to speak - wasn’t even sure that she could speak. And the gold responded.

[REJOICE]

A silent voice boomed, using her every atom to project itself - she became the receptacle for the voice, the commands bursting from her own throat, her every cell quivering to project the sound louder and louder. It bade her to rejoice. And rejoice she did, happiness unlike any other brimming in her overfull mind.

[COMPREHENDED. PREDICTED. INTEGRATED.]

And that was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

[DISMISSED]

The gears vanished without ceremony, and Taylor screamed as she plummeted through the endless void, a single golden star blooming larger and larger, brighter and brighter, a mass of stellar roots moving to greet her like an old friend.

Taylor yelped in pain as the ground rushed to meet her. The wind on her skin was harsh and cold, the ground was hard and unyielding, and she was still filthy. Her eyes widened beneath her glasses as she realised that she was still coated in that bloody mess. And she could hear water nearby - conscious thought vanished again. She was covered in rot. And there was a means to remove said rot. Something scuttled out of her way as she ran to the water and plunged her face in, refusing to open her mouth or take a single breath until it was gone. The water was frightfully cold, chilling her to the bone, but it was still the best thing she’d felt all day. Her head sank a little into the mud at the bottom, and she could feel things detaching… her eyes opened. Particulates drifted around her, tiny grey things that she made sure not to breathe in. Bloody clots moved away, tiny moons escaping her orbit. Good. She held her head underwater until her lungs screamed for air… and she emerged. Her hair was still dirty, but it was cleaner than it had been. And at the moment, that was just wonderful.

The rest of her was still disgusting, of course. Couldn’t have everything. But with her face clear, and her hands rapidly scrubbing themselves clean, she was thinking clearly. She wasn’t in the locker. She wasn’t anywhere she knew. Shallow water spread in front of her, dotted with half-crumbled houses that looked like they were hundreds of years old - all raw, grey stone piled up with dusty mortar between them, no signs of wires, pipes, any concession to modernity. Her scrubbing slowed as she processed everything.

Was she a cape? Had she teleported somewhere? She didn’t know of any ruins like this in Brockton - and a brief glimmer of hope sparked in her chest. If she had teleported to… well, somewhere outside Brockton, that was pretty impressive, right? Meant that she’d achieved something? Meant that she… hm. She remembered gold, and a feeling of awe, and a choice… but that was it. Did all parahumans get that? The process of teleportation hadn’t actually occurred to her, she had no idea how her powers worked. She squinted hard, imagining teleporting back to her own house. She squinted harder when nothing happened. She was reaching the point where it felt like some of her organs were about to quiver from the pressure, when something touched her leg. The scream was loud, embarrassing, and shrill. Great start to being a parahuman, truly superb, exactly the kind of heroic impulse she should be displaying. Wait - had someone seen her teleport? Was that good, was that bad, was that… gah. She turned to see who had touched her.

No-one.

The feeling came again, and she slowly looked down - probably just a kid, right? Not an animal, she’d felt fingers, even if they were a bit strangely sized. No-one was there. She looked down further. And blinked.

That was a jar. That was a tiny, antique jar, sealed with wax, with arms and legs touching her like it was confirming that she was real.

To her credit, she didn’t scream. She was too busy processing what the hell was happening to scream. The jar examined her closely, checking that she was real… and it came to the conclusion that she was. How nice. It wasn’t saying anything, but she could vaguely read its emotions from the way it shifted its rocky arms, the way the central jar twitched occasionally. It was surprised, then… curious. With a resolute clunking of fists, it came to a kind of decision. And it hugged her. With rocky arms. Attached to a jar.

Weirdest part was, it was pretty good at this whole hugging thing. Taylor was frozen, staring wide-eyed at the antique jar giving her the first high-quality hug she’d had in a while. Little awkward due to its short height, but it was giving the hug all the requisite passion that a hug needed. Didn’t squeeze too hard, nor too softly, leaning fully into her instead of remaining at a stiff distance. If she ignored the fact that the arms were made of rocks and the jar was a solid, cold mass pressing into her side… she could actually enjoy this. No, wait, she was being hugged by a walking jar, none of this was normal. With shaking hands, she tried to push it away… and it obeyed. In a second, it was stumping away through the shallow water on short legs, arms swinging widely as it tried to balance itself.

So this was happening. The jar was remaining at a distance, but it was still staring at her. Somehow. Despite lacking eyes. Was she a jar tinker? No, she hadn’t made this… was this the lair of a jar tinker? A ceramic tinker, maybe? How did her - no, stop thinking about complicated things, not for now. She was still covered in filth, so Taylor got back to work, using the shallow, dusty water to wash away any larger chunks of matter. It was hard going, especially with the jar staring constantly, but she managed to get most of it off. She was just glad her clothes were dark, they didn’t show stains very clearly. Her mood improved very slightly as she washed, an improvement that vanished almost immediately after she stood up. The wind amplified the coldness of the water, pushing the moisture inwards through her clothes and onto her skin. The shivers were involuntary, the chattering teeth too. God, it was cold here… wherever here was. For the first time, she tried to properly look around, get her bearings. She was clean, she was intact, she had to start finding her way home. Make sure that her dad knew she was OK. And find out what her abilities were… if she had any, that is. Maybe someone had teleported her to them… maybe the ceramic tinker that had made this weird little jar creature. A jar creature that waddled over and attached itself to her side like a loyal dog.

Great. The one thing that had seen her arrive here, who could tell her what had happened… was a mute jar. Splendid, just delightful. There were ruins all around her, most of them low and primitive, clearly left to decay for a long, long time. The water had seeped into everything. The land around the ruins was sprawling and desolate… but it only took a moment for her to realise that something was very wrong. The signs were obvious. She’d thought this was just some abandoned village, but there were other ruins around, larger ones. Skyscraper-sized. She didn’t even know you could build something the size of a skyscraper from those kinds of bricks - she saw no steel girders, no concrete, nothing that would suggest a modern building. And yet there they were. Gigantic pillars, branching upwards to some kind of shattered aqueduct structure - but far too wide, she couldn’t imagine the volumes of water it could carry. More ruins everywhere around her, some tiny, some massive. And each one undeniably foreign.

Yet even with all their strangeness, the ruins lost her attention in seconds as she saw what lay beyond them. Bigger than anything she’d ever seen, glowing softly on the horizon. A tree. A titanic, golden, tree… and it was far away, too, how big must it be up close? It was beautiful, she had to admit that. Totally symmetrical, branches sprouting endlessly yet still forming a kind of harmonious pattern. The glow was enchanting, but not blinding - it barely illuminated the ruins, that job was handled by the dim sun concealed behind low cloud cover - yet she knew that it would be visible at all times. There was no way clouds or nightfall could conceal it. She stared for a solid few moments, just trying to wrap her head around its scale. Things that huge should be terrifying, she knew that. The human mind wasn’t good at processing things that reached that kind of scale, just like the mind couldn’t really visualise enormous numbers. But looking at it filled her with a sense of unearthly calm, like she was looking at the linchpin of the world, the point around which all others revolved, the foundation stone on which everything rested. And it was a solid foundation, more unshakeable than the mountains. Looking at it made her feel secure, like when she was a kid looking up pictures of Alexandria. Just felt right.

Wait, no, it was an impossibly huge tree, it shouldn’t be making her calm, that was wrong on every conceivable level. Taylor tried to clear her thoughts, think rationally about this - maybe she was in a… a pocket dimension, or something. Maybe she’d teleported across the world to a place where parahumans had gone completely nuts. Ash Beast was a giant Biblical pillar of fire, maybe another parahuman turned into a… gigantic golden tree that made everyone feel calm. Hm. Definitely needed more thought. She attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of the jar running away, and grabbing something lying behind a rock. She stared as it waddled back towards her, carrying… a backpack. Her backpack. Huh. So that had come with her. Neat. A quick check revealed that her books had survived the locker vaguely intact - sciences, engineering, literature… a combination of required subjects and personal reading. Good. At least she wasn’t going to go insane. She could read about advanced geometry, quadratic equations and she was going to go mad here if no-one spoke to her.

“...thanks?”

The jug clapped its hands together over its head, with a sound like rocks clashing, and it hopped from one foot to another with something she interpreted as joy.

“So, you can’t speak?”

She was talking to a jar. She was talking to a jar. She felt the need to repeat that because Taylor Hebert, registered sane person, was talking to a jar. Aforementioned jar shook its head… which was its entire body, so it performed a very violent gyration, more or less.

“Are you just going to… follow me, then?”

A nod. Great. She had a silent jar to keep her company. A whole host of questions boiled up, most of them impossible to answer with ‘nod’ or ‘shake’. She tried to narrow them down, failed miserably, and just gesticulated vaguely while asking perhaps the most important question the little fellow had prompted.

“Why?”

It tried to respond using a set of elaborate charades. First, it exaggeratedly walked in a straight line, swinging its arms casually. OK, so it had been walking along, when… it made a motion signifying an explosion, and started flapping its arms wildly, running around in a panic. Then, it indicated something falling down. And finally, it started bowing elaborately to her. So… it had been walking around, something big had happened, she had fallen down, and now it wanted to follow her. That made sense. At least her involuntary teleportation was impressive to someone. Taylor shrugged on her backpack, figuring that she’d start walking in the direction of some more ruins, see if there was anyone here. She needed help, that was for certain. New clothes, too, and some means to get back in contact with her father. The wind was bitterly cold, and the water in her clothes wasn’t remotely helping. Shelter. Warmth. Food. A mobile phone. If - no, when - she got back home, she’d feel entirely entitled to get an actual phone, if only for improbable (but not impossible) situations like this. And maybe to take a photo of the tree so people didn’t think she was insane.

She might be insane, admittedly. Could just be a giant dying hallucination. If so, the jar was especially weird. She didn’t mind ceramics, but she certainly didn’t love them enough to have one as her loyal companion in her last fever dream. Wait - there was something on the jar’s wax seal. A tree, elegantly stamped. She compared the tree on the seal to the tree on the horizon… well, they were both trees, but the symmetry, the arrangement of the branches, they suggested some kind of common origin. Maybe the tree was important to local parahumans, maybe it was the creation of some sort of gang leader or boss. Either way, whatever ceramic tinker had made this little jar with a tiny tribute to the tree. She filed the information away - focusing on the tiny details, the practicalities of getting home, getting shelter and rest, figuring out what was going on… they distracted her from the locker. No time to think about it or anything around it when she was staring at an impossible tree. And that suited her just fine.

The water splashed around her heels as she walked, the ground beneath soft enough to slurp at her heels, but not so soft that it was a hazard. Still miserable, though. She trudged, the ruins approaching with irritating slowness. She was getting tired in a matter of minutes, the effort of hauling her feet out of the mud exhausting her faster than she would have liked. Her jogging had only just started up recently, and it probably needed a bit longer to really pay off. The jar - a part of her wanted to give it a name, every other part of her called that part stupid and insane - waddled beside her, using its long arms to haul itself through the mud almost as fast as she could move with two functional, human legs. Great, the jug was showing her up, like this day couldn’t get any stranger. Well, she supposed that he didn’t have muscles that could ache, or skin that could feel cold. Which probably qualified as cheating, when it came to matters of physical fitness. Not that she was going to say any of this to the jar. The damn thing had hugged her, and was following her around like a loyal puppy. The vague image of it sagging sadly and stumping away on its tiny legs was too depressing to contemplate. Certainly too depressing for now.

Taylor looked down, trying to make sure that she didn’t stumble over any hidden rocks… and what she saw made her freeze. In this still water, her reflection was visible. She was still dirtied, a little red around the edges, and her clothes were a complete mess. Her hair defied description. What made her freeze were her eyes. They were different - no longer dark, now they were golden. A gentle, warming golden that reminded her of a sunset. Her face felt wrong, all of a sudden. Something had changed, something obvious and indelible. God, if - no, no when - she got back home, she’d probably need contacts, or sunglasses, or something to hide these. Did these mean she was a parahuman? Had she mentally snapped? What? Just… what? No, no, there were other things to do. She had to get home first before she could worry about any weird eye colour changes. Maybe these meant that she definitely had powers, and if her powers had brought her here, maybe they could get her home.

Of course, if she had powers, they’d probably have taken her home already. But she banished that thought, it was too hopeless and miserable. Needed to keep moving, one foot in front of the other. Keep moving. Stop thinking.

She was getting closer to one of the ruined buildings, and poked her head in through a hole in the wall to see what lay inside. Rubbish, rubble, more water… nothing of value, and no-one that could help her. She hadn’t seriously expected to find someone so quickly, but the deafening silence around her was starting to weigh heavily. Wait. The silence wasn’t so deafening. Something had broken it. Footsteps, in the water. Taylor turned as quickly as she could, almost falling over as the mud sucked at her heels and inhibited her movement. Something was coming through the water, moving on… she timed the footsteps. Two legs. A person. A relieved smile split her face, diminished a moment later by budding doubt. What if it was a looter, or a villain, or some kind of criminal? If a childhood friend could betray her, then- no, no, focus on the present, ignore the past. Save it for later. She needed help, and this was the first person she’d heard since she arrived in this bizarre place.

Taylor cupped her hands around her mouth, and called out.

“Hey! Is someone there?”

The footsteps paused… then resumed, moving a little faster. Only a small ruin lay between her and the source.

“I’m sorry, I’m very lost, can you tell me where I am?”

Silence, and increasing pace. The doubt peaked, starting to turn into an ominous haze filling her skull. Almost involuntarily she started to move away, slowly heading back towards the shore she’d started from. The footsteps came faster and faster… and a figure emerged from behind some rubble. Taylor’s eyes widened. Empty sockets stared back, a vague blue-white glow the only sign of activity. Bones clicked, and a rusty sword twitched in a ragged hand. She was looking at a walking skeleton. A walking… no. A running skeleton. It was dashing towards her, sword raised, mud trailing from its feet as it moved. No screams, not this time. She just ran, and the jar followed, using its long arms to propel itself forwards in large bounds. The skeleton was absolutely silent. The wind still howled, distant birds still sang… all that had changed was the tempo of footsteps splashing in the shallow water. She ran in silence, accompanied by a taciturn jar, pursued by a mute skeleton.

The shore approached with agonising slowness. Once more, Taylor found herself in a life-threatening situation, and this time her thoughts wouldn’t shut up. Skeletons. She was being chased by a walking skeleton. That made three parahumans - the ceramics tinker, the tree guy, and now a necromancer. Counting her teleportation, that made four (though whether she was that fourth or if another claimed the title was a subject of some debate within her nervous brain). This was ridiculous, this was making less and less sense - where the hell was she? The shore came closer, as did the skeleton, and this close she could hear the grinding of joints in sockets, the rustling of rotten clothes over bare ribs, the scraping of a metal hilt in a bony hand. She felt the water level decreasing, and could have cried. She felt soft mud underneath her shoes, then harder ground, then rustling grass… her pace increased, her lungs felt red-hot in her chest, desperately drawing in enough breath to keep going.

The skeleton followed her, clattering to the shore. The jar… turned around. Taylor almost screeched to a halt as the little fellow ran to the skeleton, leapt upwards, and punched it. Right through the sternum. A rocky fist crashed through brittle bone, and the skeleton briefly reeled backwards. It stared down at the hole in its chest. Then it stared at the jar. And the jar appeared to realise that the creature wasn’t quite as dead as it should be. A rusty sword raised high, ready to come down and beat the jar until it shattered into a dozen pieces. It went up, and up, and… stayed exactly where it was. Because the skeleton was momentarily distracted as a heavy backpack thwacked into its chest, sending it back a step. The skeleton was completely unaffected by this, more confused than anything else, but it gave the jar an opportunity to punch it again. This time, the blow sent it back into the water. No damage that looked catastrophic, but enough to make it topple - the punch had pushed it off balance, and the mud had exacerbated this. It crumbled into the river, but Taylor could already see bones reconnecting, light reigniting in those hollow sockets.

Time to run. The jar tried to bound after her, but without the water inhibiting her movements, she was quite a bit faster than it. With a grunt, she let the creature hop onto her back, wrapping its arms around her chest. It was… surprisingly light. There couldn’t have been very much inside of it, mostly empty air if she was gauging correctly. Still, the ceramic was heavy enough, and she was already tired… but her legs kept pounding downwards, she kept climbing upwards, and the skeleton seemed to have lost interest in them. Not that she knew this, of course - she was too busy running. For all she knew, a single hesitant step and she’d feel an honest-to-God sword splitting her in twain. At least she’d have an interesting tombstone, if anyone ever found her body. And the terror of dying alone, with no-one the wiser, made her run faster. The idea of being forgotten in general terrified her enough that her muscles kept working long after they should have failed. The hills loomed around her, the broken aqueduct higher still, the tree higher than anything else.

Taylor had no idea how long she had been running before she collapsed, panting heavily, sweat drenching her face. The jar tumbled downwards with a slightly nerve-wracking thump, and it… dusted her off. With its giant, dusty, rocky hands. It actually made her more dirty, somehow. It realised this, and tried to correct it by brushing her off harder. The result was predictable, and she finally had to bat the jar away. Minutes passed, and she became increasingly certain that the skeleton wasn’t chasing her, and she could really assess things. The wind was stronger than ever, almost unbearable, really. The landscape was grey and barren, only a few sturdy trees surviving the gale. The jar patted her leg comfortingly as she shivered… and she felt an urge.

“...I guess you should have a name, right?”

It considered this, then nodded eagerly. Taylor tried to think of something… should she give it a normal name? No, Pete the Living Jar just felt too silly, even for her. More names, some of them personally significant, others just vaguely nice-sounding. None of them quite fit the sturdy little thing. One after the other after the other… and a name slipped from her lips almost accidentally, along with a faint twist in her lips that suggested humour.

“Potiphar.”

She realised what she’d said.

“Sorry, just an idea, I’m still-”

The jar loved the name. Potiphar loved the name. He loved it so much that he did a crude dance, hopping from one foot to the other, clapping his hands, whacking them on his wax seal like it was a drum… seeing the little guy rejoice so innocently was cheering. In this moment of peace, the reality of her situation felt far, far away. She’d been shocked into a stinking locker, somehow ended up somewhere else for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, had golden eyes for some reason, and had been chased by a skeleton, befriended by a jar, and deeply confused by a gigantic tree. There were many reasons why she should be panicking, but for the time being, she was alive, and she had a dancing jar calling Potiphar. Sure, she had no food, no water, no shelter. She was lost, completely and utterly, in some mad parahuman’s playground. Unless… she’d heard about alternate earths, obviously. The idea of this being one wasn’t one that she’d considered consciously. Being on an alternate earth, a whole dimension away from her home, was so bizarre that it had barely occurred to her. Could she travel between dimensions?

If she could, why couldn’t she go back? She strained again, trying to flex every muscle she had (not many), trying anything to get her power to activate. Did every parahuman have to do this? Did they all just manifest powers they couldn’t control, weren’t aware of, and couldn’t consciously use? Had her power been a one-time use deal? She’d never heard of a power which activated and then immediately died… but then again, maybe they existed and were so pathetic that no-one ever noticed them until they had been spent. That’d be typical. She had no idea either way. She flexed… and nothing happened. She just looked constipated, and Potiphar was starting to twitch nervously. Taylor sighed, and relented, giving a shaky smile to the jar. It was getting dark. She’d need to find some kind of shelter, maybe some wood for a fir-

The winds howled louder, and there was something like a wolf’s howl carried on it. A whirlwind passed overhead, and in its contortions were dark shapes. Dark shapes that dropped down with weighty thumps. Potiphar twitched nervously, swivelling as he tried to keep all of them in sight at once. The wolves were enormous, larger than any dog she’d seen before. Bristling with fur, pulsing with muscle, jaws dripping with saliva. And their eyes burned with hunger.

She whimpered.

The skeleton had been slow.

The wolves were not.

And their teeth were sharp.

Chapter Text

The last thing Taylor remembered was a slavering jaw clamping around her throat, and tugging. It felt like flexing muscles she’d never known existed, pushing them to limits they never knew… a pity that this happened when her throat muscles were being stretched, torn, and forced into the gullet of a hungry wolf that had come from the sky. That should have been the end. Her golden eyes had clouded over, her brain had gone still and silent, she was dead. She’d teleported to some random place, maybe even another world, and had been killed by a wild animal. Hadn’t survived longer than… maybe an hour, maybe two. Hard to tell. Darkness consumed everything, and she sank into it, in a certain sense relieved. It was over. One last bizarre dream before the end. She’d expected to die in that locker, and now she had died after an hour or two of terror and confusion. Same destination, different route. No more worrying. No more caring. Just… peace. She sank deeper into the depths, and felt something… strange. Something rocky, grabbing at her. It was a vague feeling, nothing she could explicitly pinpoint, but it briefly disturbed her. Not that it mattered. The feeling was replaced with warmth, enclosure, a feeling of belonging to something else totally and utterly, moving without needing to think. Surprisingly nice.

The next feeling was that of roots sliding over one another, dark and life-filled, then sliding over her skin in strange motions. She almost frowned. That wasn’t fair, she just wanted to go to sleep, she didn’t want the afterlife to just be roots and rocky hands. The roots squirmed and shuffled, and she felt things coming together, muscles stretching in a way that they really shouldn’t. It was oddly pleasurable, feeling like sinking into a warm bath where everything could finally unwind. Clicking, shifting, tiny motions in this root-filled place. Rocky hands clapping together - that sound was familiar. Potiphar. Was he here too? Had the wolves cracked him open? No idea why they would, not like there was much to take - he’d felt empty when she’d carried him. But those hands brought more thoughts back to her. Running from a skeleton. Washing her face in the water. Crashing down to earth. Something else, a memory she couldn’t quite latch onto, something golden that made her entire mind ache with loss, distressed at the very notion that it wouldn’t see that shade again. The dark had no bottom, no ending, no lake bottom she could settle into for a long rest. Her eyes burned. Her golden eyes burned, like tiny fish hooks latched into her skin, dragging her out of the dark. She felt a command to RETURN, even if she couldn’t tell where it came from or from who - or what.

Taylor gasped as her eyes flickered open. She was alive. She had a throat to gasp with, she was back! And she was surrounded by roots. Worse. As she looked around, she saw that the roots had other occupants. Bodies slowly meshing with the plant matter, some of them truly ancient. Half-formed, most of them, and pale as milk. Barely intact teeth were clearly visible through translucent lips, and the eyes were just tiny husks of their former selves. She was buried with a mass of bodies. The roots that entombed her were a mix of greys, browns, and a rotten shade of black - and for some reason, the rotten black roots had long cuts along them, from which welled droplets of sap that stank of tar and upturned soil. With a desperate shove, she tried to get out of her prison. She expected resistance, maybe for the roots to constrict and drag her deeper. That’d just be typical, wouldn’t it, she’d end up trapped like these bodies, probably going to be trapped forever by an evil tree because of course she - Taylor tumbled to the hard stone floor with a grunt of pain, and the roots contracted behind her, already filling in the alcove she had occupied. She was still feeling a little bleary, and she saw two stumpy grey things dancing in front of her face… Potiphar.

She had just come back from the dead, and her jar was waiting to greet her, clapping his hands excitedly, dancing from one foot to the other. He was the most splendid thing she’d seen all day, and she wrapped him in a tight hug, just happy to see something she recognised. Potiphar froze… then returned the hug gladly, clapping her on the back. Ow. Why did that hurt so -oh. She appeared to be naked. That was unfortunate. As she tried to cover herself up, Potiphar appeared to realise her situation, and… reached inside his head. The wax seal was off, lying discarded a small distance away. And inside his head were some of her clothes, her glasses, her backpack, and… meat. A lot of meat. A surprising amount of meat. Now that she was alive again, Taylor was wondering how the hell she had gotten here. She was in some sort of tomb, but unlike any she’d seen before. It was dark, dank, and had the dusty smell of old bones (well, she assumed the smell was from old bones. Might be getting a little morbid). But, there were lights, albeit blue-white flames that reminded her a little too much of the flickering light in the skeleton’s eyes. What kind of tomb had lights, unless it was expecting visitors? And, again, how had she gotten here? She saw the meat in Potiphar’s head/body, and felt a dim, unpleasant suspicion wash over her.

“Did you bring me here?”

Frantic nods. Oh. The feeling of being tugged at by rocky hands… had Potiphar torn her apart, stuffed her meat inside his head, and then carted her to a tomb for resurrection? Two feelings occurred at once. Realisation - she was definitely in another world. No doubt about it. No way parahumans could do all this, the world would have gone nuts at the idea of proper resurrection. The other feeling overpowered the realisation very quickly. Disgust. She’d been ripped apart… and her clothes were soaked in her own blood and gore. Her backpack was barely holding back the stains from reaching her books. Looking at the clean white pages, she realised that it was probably for the best that Potiphar had given her these. She was on another world, and the only knowledge she had was that which lay in her own head… and in these. Without them, she would just be a helpless adolescent in a cruel, hostile world. Well, more than usual. She made a silent commitment to never lose them, not if she could help it. They were the only things from her home that weren’t completely ruined.

She was in another world. She had travelled in a way that no other cape had done before. And no matter how hard she focused, she couldn’t travel back. Potiphar saw her moods change from happiness, to surprise, to disgust, to relief, to dread. And finally, to sadness. She crouched down, having barely managed to pull on some of her bloodsoaked clothes, and cried. The jar tried to comfort her as best it could, patting her with the same hands that had torn her body apart. Taylor would never see her dad again. Never visit her mom’s grave. What would he do without her, he’d been sad enough after mom died, what would happen after he found out that she vanished? What would he do before she got back? If she could get back? This was so far out of her mental ballpark that she had no conceptions of how to deal with it, she’d never read of anything like this happening. Maybe others had travelled between universes, but none had ever returned. Just entries on missing person lists.

And here she was, alone but for a living jar. Christ, Christ. The idea of standing up and leaving this grave felt… obscene, almost. The desperation to go home was being quickly overwhelmed by a sinking, paralysing despair. Why bother? She couldn’t even die anymore, not so long as Potiphar dragged her back. She’d go out into the world, get eaten by more wolves, stabbed by skeletons, or crushed by something she couldn’t begin to think of. What was the point in dying over and over until eventually Potiphar couldn’t bring her back? The dark had been warm, comforting, everything that the last few hours hadn’t been. There hadn’t been any thoughts or worries, and being devoid of every care she’d had was dangerously addictive. She worried about her dad… and an insidious corner of her mind told her that if she went back to those roots and never emerged, she’d never need to worry about him again. Bliss was just a foot away. And a violent, unfamiliar world lay outside a pair of stone doors. Nothing but ruins as far as the eye could see… was there even anyone alive here? Was she the one person left? Was that why Potiphar had attached himself to her?

She couldn’t move. She barely reacted when a voice came from elsewhere in the room, hidden from sight.

“Leave thy tears for the living. The dead have no time for them.”

Taylor didn’t stir from her spot. Oh, hooray, more things to kill her, more things to send her back to - oh God. A voice. That was a voice, speaking in English. She sprang to her feet, eyes wide as she searched for the source of that wonderful, wonderful voice. Every detail was wonderful, the most important thing she’d ever heard, and she remembered those details with religious fervour. Admittedly, she might just be starved for conversation, and deeply afraid. Never a good combination. A woman’s voice, low and quiet, with a hard core to it that made her think of some of her dad’s colleagues, the ones who had served in the army back when the army meant something.

“W-who are you? Where are you? Please, I’m very lost, I just-”

“Thou’rt a disobedient soul. The dead need no speech, nor do I. Your business here is completed, there is no reason for lingering.”

“Please, just tell me where I am.”

Maybe she shouldn’t be so insistent with someone she couldn’t see, who had told her quite firmly to leave, but… well, it wasn’t like dying was much of an option. She idly wondered what would happen if she died of old age here, would she just wake up, die of old age again, and so on and so forth forever? Or did this root system reverse ageing, and if so, to what point? Too many questions, too few answers. The woman’s voice replied, this time from a different location, her body still invisible.

“You are in a catacomb, though the name is both obscured and irrelevant. By the rite of Erdtree burial, you have been returned to life - a fact for which thou should thank this Living Jar.”

“Erdtree burial?”

“Find thyself a theogonist to answer these questions, my duties have never entailed enlightening the simple.”

“Alright, alright, please, just… I’m not from here, I don’t know how I arrived, but-”

Movement. The invisible shape moved forwards - or, she guessed it moved. The loose leaves scattered on the floor rustled, the stones tapped lightly, but it could just as easily have been an accident. The only reason Taylor saw the movement was that she had been looking in the voice’s direction. If the woman had been silent, she wouldn’t have noticed a single thing. She barely had a moment to draw a breath before a hard, gauntleted hand gripped her chin and forced her face upwards. The invisible shape briefly swam into view, but only in patches - a dark hood, a shimmering veil, and a pair of cold, golden eyes - the gold of a winter dawn.

“A starving foreign wretch, and yet… your eyes are touched by grace.”

Her voice was almost surprised. Taylor tried to speak, but the gauntlet held her face still, kept her lips from moving. With a derisive snort, the woman dropped her back to the ground - Taylor had been so terrified she hadn’t even realised that she’d been hauled up a good few inches. The woman was tall. The invisibility returned, and she stalked back to another corner of the room… Taylor assumed. Could still be right next to her, for all she knew.

“...what do you mean?”

“Gold. Hm - even for an ignorant foreigner, your knowledge is lacking. The Greater Will gives gold to those who accord to its designs. Be grateful. Were you a graceless Tarnished, you would have felt more than my glove. You would not have made it beyond the roots.”
“...thanks?”

“Thou’rt welcome.”

Great. The first person she meets after arriving here, and she’s a complete asshole. And an invisible asshole, fantastic, superb, genuinely splendid.

“So, where am I? What country?”

There was a rustling of leaves, and Taylor suspected that the woman had sat down on the floor. There was something in her voice, something… dry. Like she hadn’t spoken in a very long time. How long had she been down here? Was she some kind of warden for people coming back to life?

“The region this catacomb was built in is known as Stormhill. All that feels the shadow of the Erdtree is named the Lands Between.”

Erdtree. Must be the enormous golden tree in the distance. Good to know. And Stormhill… appropriate name. It had hills, and the wind was terrible. Unimaginative, but accurate. The woman continued, her voice rapidly becoming bored.

“Begone. And find a home elsewhere. This is no place for thy kind.”

Taylor exploded. She had died, and this woman was just telling her to leave, go out and die again and again. No - she’d died, she’d faced the possibility of never seeing her dad again, and she wanted answers. Was this a good idea? Definitely not. But it wasn’t like the woman could do anything she hadn’t already experienced.

“Where? I don’t know where anything else, I don’t know where the towns are, I don’t know anything.”

The woman appraised her silently.

“Chaos reigns. Rule extends as far as one’s army can march, as one’s sword-arm can swing. Do you have strength to carve out safety for thyself?”

“Of course not, I just got here! I have a jar, and a backpack, and nothing. No-one.”

“Then content thyself with death.”

A pause, and the woman seemed to be piecing her words together. Clearly wasn’t used to giving constructive advice.

“Or… seek strength. For thyself, or embodied in others. From this, all else follows.”

“So… find strong people and get them to protect me.”

Silence. No agreement, but no denial either. A part of her baulked at the idea of just becoming a servant to something bigger than her. Another part remembered the feeling of a wolf’s jaws around her neck, and the cutting sensation of the wind on her skin. Shelter, food, warmth, and a possibility of going home. She couldn’t get those on her own, not reliably, not without risking another death. Even if death wasn’t permanent, the idea of waiting to be torn to shreds and packed into a jar wasn’t very pleasant. And what if Potiphar was trapped in a hole, or something? What would happen to her? No, best to avoid death whenever possible. Her earlier bravado gave way to pragmatism. If there were people out there who could get her home, she’d do whatever they wanted.

“Does someone own Stormhill, or Limgrave, or… whatever?”

“These lands were claimed by Shardbearer Godrick, ruling from Stormveil Castle. A few days travel due west, as the crow flies. A road leads hence.”

“Can I ask what you were doing here? Do you watch the graves, or-”

“My business is mine own. Your life does not interfere with it, lest my knife would have set to its own kind of business.”

The air rippled, and Taylor imagined the woman’s hand waving dismissively.

“Begone. My solitude must remain intact. Be grateful that I did not shatter your jar when he intruded.”

“He’s pretty tough.”

“As am I.”

That seemed accurate. The woman made no indication that she was going to respond to anything else, and Taylor sensed that the conversation was over. Potiphar waddled after her as she walked to the door, passing by the spot where the unnaturally tall woman was probably sitting. Maybe. She could have moved, could be somewhere else, could be right behind Taylor… no, she was fine, just jumpy. The door beyond was stone, and it creaked open as she pressed at it, clunking as some concealed mechanism activated. The catacomb beyond was cramped, dark, and cold. But, she could see stairs leading upwards and outwards, could hear the howling winds of the world - no, Stormhill - beyond. Deep breath. Get ready to go, in her bloodstained clothes, with her heavy backpack and her jar companion. One thing occurred, though, and she turned to the invisible woman.

“Thank you. I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I’m just-”

“Cease thy explanations. I have no need for them. Leave, and if thou returns beyond your jar…”

The implication was obvious, and hung heavily in the air. Taylor walked away, and only looked back once, to see the stone doors grinding shut. She saw something on their exterior, though - indents, located right at the base. Deep ones, but fresh, like someone had been pounding on the… huh. A picture came together. She imagined Potiphar whacking on the door over and over again, until the woman had evidently tired of the noise and let the jar inside to do his business. She wasn’t sure if that reflected more on Potiphar’s determination, or the woman’s mercy that she didn’t kick him to pieces. Either way, she reached down to pat her one friend in this place on his wax seal. He rumbled quietly, jittering on his tiny legs. Hm. Well, nice that someone appreciated her company. A few stairs later, and they were in the outside world. The cold air cut into her just the same as before, but now… she had a name. Multiple names, even.

Stormhill, the place where she’d died. The Lands Between, where the Erdtree grew.

And she had a target.

Stormveil Castle. And Shardbearer Godrick.

“Ready?”

The jar nodded vigorously. And the two set off into the world beyond, where the sun was beginning to rise. If she found Godrick, if she found a person who could ideally keep her safe, fed, warm… then she could focus on trying to get home, stop worrying about every gust of wind that might deliver a pack of wolves, or every shadowy corner where something could be lurking. With a decisive nod, Taylor turned her back to the sun and began to walk.

God, she hoped the sun rose in the east here too.

Well, she still had no idea if the sun rose in the east or the west, but her feet were sore as hell. Her shoes had been a little mangled by their journey floating in her soupy innards (and thinking about that still made her feel ill), and they were never really meant for this kind of journey. The dirt road beneath her feet was hard-packed, and clearly worn by hundreds of travellers over the years, but she couldn’t see a single other person wandering. Just her and Potiphar. Oh, and the howling winds, couldn’t forget those. As she trudged, she thought about what the woman had said - and what it all meant. The Greater Will she’d mentioned, that seemed relevant to her new, golden eyes. Thinking of the words, ‘the Greater Will’ (and they had sounded capitalised), brought a strange feeling over her. A kind of… nostalgia, in a way. It reminded her of that urge to get up from the gloomy world that death apparently consisted of. The order to RETURN. It was the same feeling she’d had when she saw the Erdtree still looming on the horizon. What exactly was the Greater Will, some kind of weird god-king? Or just a god? Did this world have gods? No - focus on the moment, not the terrifying unknowns.

In all the excitement, she’d overlooked a pretty basic fact. This world had skeletons. It had living jars. It had wolves that travelled in whirlwinds (and that had fuelled what she was sure would be a series of delightful recurring nightmares). Oh, and she’d come back to life. Oh, and people spoke English, unless that woman had been a crazed eccentric of some kind that spoke in tongues. Something was definitely wrong with reality here… but strangely enough, she was accepting most of it without question. Sure, why shouldn’t this sort of bizarre stuff happen? She lived in a city with a man-dragon, inexplicable futuristic technology, and physics-defying Nazis. Frankly, she’d become pretty used to seeing the bizarre. She just had to sever a particular causal link, the one that connected ‘bizarre events’ to ‘parahumans’. That was where the trouble lay. Because if she did that, she was left with a bit of loose causality that defied explanation. Bizarre events linked to… what? This world’s equivalent of parahumans? Did this world have parahumans, or did it operate by vastly different laws? After dying and coming back, considering the idea of ‘magic’ as a plausible explanation wasn’t too ridiculous.

Either way, she was lost in every sense. She knew where she needed to go, but no idea where she exactly was, or where anything beyond Stormveil Castle was. And the systems that governed this world made no damn sense to her. Hell, ‘Shardbearer Godrick’ - what was a Shardbearer? Shards of what? And again, what was the Greater Will? No answers sprung to her, none that she could rationally accept. As she walked, she realised that she had changed, just a little bit. Back in the catacombs, she’d felt completely despairing. The moment of peace had made her reflective, and being reflective made her miserable. Now? She was in motion, she had a goal, and that gave her focus. Dying, being attacked, made her clamp down on her emotions, sending her fear and doubt right into her depths where it couldn’t bother her. Sure, when she saw a goat rolling away from her like a bizarre hedgehog, the fear of this insane world came back just a little… but she shoved it back down where it belonged, reminded herself that this world was likely cruel to anyone who approached it with fear. If she wanted to survive, she needed to keep moving towards a goal, because if she stopped and thought for too long… anyway, she needed to be tough. After all, she’d met nothing but hostility so far, and the only living person she’d met was a brusque, invisible asshole who’d have killed her if her eyes were the wrong colour.

Hm. Come to think of it, this might actually be closer to the Bay than she thought.

Seeing the bodies solidified this opinion. They loomed over the road, tall wooden poles on which were crucified pale, writhing people. Her eyes widened behind her increasingly stained glasses. Crucifixions. The woman hadn’t been lying - chaos reigned here. These people had been strung up, and then… abandoned. Most of them were still, but a few kept wriggling on their poles, groaning in pain. They were still alive. She felt sick. Sure, she’d died, but… seeing those people in agony made her afraid of a new possibility. Potiphar would try and cart her back to a catacomb - assuming there were others - to resurrect her. But what if she was strung up? She was quickly realising that there were worse alternatives to death out here. No-one else was around, but a brief investigation revealed that the poles were too thick for her to topple, not without an axe. Cancel that, a chainsaw. She murmured an apology, but the people didn’t seem to care - those that were still cognisant, that is. Wait - who had put them up there? Why? And were they still nearby?

Taylor quietly ducked off the road. As long as she could see the sun, she could keep moving in the right direction… actually, the Erdtree never moved, she could just navigate using that. West was always going to be easy to find, at least. Being captured by whoever had done that seemed like the worst possible option, even if the road made everything easier. Her progress slowed as she forced herself to trudge through long grass, praying that no ticks decided to take up residence on her skin. Potiphar followed without question or complaint, and after a moment she let him walk ahead of her. His body crushed most of the grass or small plants, and matching his speed was still faster than traipsing through the wild growth. The sun continued to rise, eventually hovering perfectly above Taylor’s head. With a groan, she sat down on a piece of rubble from another ruin - and God, there were just so many of these things.

Her feet were on fire. She was definitely developing a blister or two. And she had no idea how long she still had to go. The woman had said a few days' travel - longer than Taylor had ever walked in her life, in short - but that was reckoning by her own means. She was tall, and strong too, probably capable of walking much longer and faster than Taylor could. Taylor was hungry, thirsty, and sleepy. She had no idea what it was like for actual corpses, but dying worked up a hell of an appetite. Potiphar thumped down next to her, lying back and kicking his tiny legs.

“You doing alright?”

Frequent nodding.

“Ever been to Stormveil before?”

A pause… then a vague wobble. What, he’d been there, but he hadn’t been there? Or had he been there a long time ago? He looked like an old pot, who knew how many years he’d lived… hell, she didn’t even know what years meant here. He gestured vaguely, poking his arms in random directions and waggling them. No idea. He whirled around, and slammed both fists into the ground, before jumping around and shaking his head in a manner that possibly meant ‘laughter’. Hm. No clue there.

“Thanks for bringing me back.”

Potiphar tapped his wax seal, then patted her hand. The message was clear: ‘if you die again, I’ll rip you apart, stuff you in my head and bring you back again!’ It said something about the current state of things that this was reassuring to her. As she relaxed under the noonday sun, sheltered from the wind, she began to think about getting home - specifically, if she could bring Potiphar. The little guy had saved her life, seemed wrong to leave him behind. She relaxed into a speculative memory of trudging through the front door, bloodstained, with a jar waddling after her. Could you stuff food inside Potiphar? Could he taste anything put inside his head? Hm. She clamped down on that line of thought, it was one thing to be disassembled and stuffed into a jar, it was another to be consumed like a piece of meat. Which, she supposed, she was at the time.

With a sigh, she heaved herself back up, barely feeling rested. Her thoughts turned weird when she wasn’t walking. The road ahead was long, and she needed to get moving. She strode boldly off, ready to meet whatever challenge faced her…

And muffled a shriek when her foot impacted a fallen man.

A fallen man that was still breathing.

Chapter Text

Taylor clapped her hand over her mouth, desperately silencing her surprised shriek. The man was unresponsive, but still breathing. God - she needed to stop being so easily surprised, if this guy had any intention of hurting her she couldn’t have made herself more obvious. She remained perfectly still, hoping that he hadn’t noticed anything… nothing. He was completely out of it. Maybe he was asleep? Actually, now she was looking at him carefully, he was wearing what looked like a medieval surcoat, marked with the image of a beast and a tree on the breast. That tree again - this time it couldn’t be a coincidence, this Erdtree was clearly enormously significant to the people here, enough that they’d put it on their armour and on their living jars. And the woman in the catacombs had mentioned that she was brought back to life by the ‘rite of Erdtree burial’ or something… hm. She’d need to think about this more, ask someone sane to explain this tree a little better. For now, though, the man remained still. He looked like a professional soldier, full armour, sword at his belt, even a small shield strapped onto his arm. While his surcoat looked European, he had a metal mask over his face which looked almost East Asian - like something a samurai would wear. Or someone else, she didn’t exactly know much about foreign historical soldiers.

Hm. If he was a knight of some kind, who did he serve? Godrick, maybe? If so - ideas were sparking, she could help him, maybe get him back to Stormveil, use him to vouch for her. They’d have to give her shelter if she saved one of their own. She crouched down to give him a better look, try and find some injuries. Strange. He looked fine, the only gaps in his armour made by age. He was completely healthy. But his breath had a rasping, dusty quality to it, and as she looked through the eye holes of his mask, she saw tired golden eyes that refused to focus on anything. He might as well have been dead for how responsive he was… and again, her impressions were subverted. He was saying something, whispering the same words over and over again. Taylor leant close, trying to hear what he was saying - instructions, directions, anything that could help her.

“...Golden One, at whom are you angry? We’ve been loyal, why have you forsaken us? Grant us death, oh Golden Order, please…”

And this he repeated like a mantra, or a prayer. She checked his armour again. Covered in dust, weeds starting to grow up around him. He’d been lying here for a while. Golden One, Golden Order… more terms she didn’t understand. With gritted teeth, she decided to bite the bullet.

“Sir? Uh, can you hear me?”

“...we’ve been loyal, why have you forsaken us? Grant us…”

The same mantra. His eyes couldn’t focus on her… this man looked like he was beyond help. She briefly considered dragging him with her, but… no, not an option. She’d just be slowed to a crawl, and wolves would emerge to kill them both. If he had lived for this long out in the elements, he probably didn’t need her help anyway. She made to stand, ready to ignore him and move on - like the people crucified earlier, just more people less lucky than her. Hah - less lucky than her. That was a funny thought. Who knew, maybe she’d be like him soon enough, worn down by death after death, ready to lie down and accept whatever happened. She’d come close in the catacombs. Might not take much to shove her over the edge. As she came to her feet, though, she realised something. The man had been lying here for an indeterminate length of time. He had a sword hanging from his belt, he had boots, real boots designed for hiking.

A hesitant hand reached for the sword’s hilt, and the man remained still, constantly murmuring his desperate prayer. No time like the present - she slid the sword out of its sheath, painfully slowly, scraping a little in a way that set her teeth on edge. No response. A few more inches and… hers. The man had made no moves to stop her. And now she had a sword. It was heavier than she thought, constantly dragging back down to the floor. But it was sharp, and the heaviness gave it a sturdy quality that made her feel a little more secure. Great, she could try and intimidate people if they came near. The shield was affixed too tightly to his arm for her to remove easily, practically lashed on with leather strips - like he had to be forced to keep carrying it. Given his prayer to die, made sense that his commander would have to force him to bear arms. She’d need to cut at those things, and accidentally wounding him seemed like a quick route to waking the man up and getting killed again. No, not an option. Boots, then. She gestured for Potiphar to stand by his head, for him to stay and not attack until she said. If the man moved, the jar could whack him on the head and they’d run as fast as they could. Well, as fast as Taylor could, she’d definitely have the carry the little fellow.

The boots were surprisingly easy to remove. A few straps, a few laces, and they were sliding off his feet with ease. His feet were… small. Surprisingly so. She tried to see through his mask to the face beneath, and it was young. Had he signed up, or been conscripted unwillingly, then stuffed into armour that didn’t fit him, forced to carry his shield, then thrown into battle until he just gave up and lay down, waiting for something to kill him permanently? She murmured a quiet apology as she removed her old sneakers and put on these much older (but much more practical) boots. The man made no answer. And like that, she was gone, stomping through the grass in boots that actually fit her better than they had fit the soldier. In a second, he disappeared into the undergrowth, and his prayer vanished from earshot. Might as well have not been there to begin with. She made sure to walk more carefully - who knew how many others were like this? How many despairing soldiers were stuck here? And, perhaps more importantly, how many sane soldiers were left?

The next few hours were uneventful, just spent walking in the trees by the side of the road, making sure to stay alert in case someone hostile came her way. The sword hung loosely from her hand - and she very much hoped that other people would find it as impressive as she did. The silence was bearing down on her again, and a few observations thrown Potiphar’s way didn’t exactly relieve that particular itch. The soldier’s words were weighing on her, as was his condition - was he a servant of Godrick? If so, what war was he being used in? He was young, and that suggested a desperate war effort, where every source of manpower was drained dry. The woman in the catacombs said Godrick ruled these lands, but was her information up to date? And an insidious part of her suggested that Godrick’s men had strung up those crucified bodies… and maybe she’d be the next permanent resident up there, if she dared to intrude in Stormveil. But what was the point in running away? She had no other directions, no other places to go or people to visit. Get to Stormveil, see what was what. If they were butchering random people on bloody altars, maybe turn around and find something else. Otherwise?

Well, she’d see.

The sun was starting to set, and her gait adopted the signature swaying, uncertain quality of the truly exhausted. Every step felt like it shuddered her ankle bones almost out of their sockets, her toes were totally numb, and she imagined that if she took the boots off, all she’d find would be a bloody, blistered pulp. Hm. Best to keep them on. Bad enough feeling sore, the thought of trying to stuff a bloody, blistered mess back into the boots was a bit too grim for her liking. Strangely, one of the worst parts were her fingernails. The wind chilled them, turned them into little chips of ice pressed directly against her skin. She’d have curled them up, shoved her hands inside her hoodie, but… sword. She froze, and her thoughts ceased. Firelight. There was a fire ahead of her. And shadows moved around it. With a tiny grunt, she lay down in the grass, watching between the wavering blades. They could be brigands, or skeletons, or simply insane, or a bunch of invisible women who had no sense of hospitality.

Maybe not the last one. She could actually see these people. Her murky glasses made things harder than they needed to be, but she was still able to see helmets, swords, shields… the same outfit as the man in the long grass from earlier. Soldiers. Hm. She started to crawl closer, Potiphar following stealthily behind her. If she could overhear their conversations, maybe she could get some kind of information. The experience was nerve-wracking, but it didn’t look like they were being particularly attentive to sentry duty - the two sentries posted at a gap in the wall of stakes that surrounded the camp were leaning on their spears, barely moving. Probably trying to get some sleep, she thought. Murmured voices - no, not just murmurs, actual conversations. No desperate prayers here, these people were talking. She could have cried, and Potiphar seemed to notice her glee. He crossed his arms grumpily, and Taylor promised herself that she’d… uh, find some way of bribing him. Some new glaze? New innards to put inside himself? Hm, time to think about that later.

She caught a conversation between two soldiers, one holding a torch and the other having a greatsword as tall as her across his back. Torch was the first one she heard speaking.

“...don’t like it, is all.”

Nasal voice, slightly whining in a way that grated on her nerves. Greatsword replied in a more gruff, solid tone.

“Marika’s tits, no-one cares what we like. Lord wants us to guard the road, we guard the road.”

“Cold.”

“And if it’s cold, then it’s cold. Grow some stones, lad.”

“What about them Tarnished? What if one of them comes up, what’ll we do?”

“Fight them, you daft sod. What’s one graceless lunatic compared to us?”

“...I guess.”

More information that she wasn’t willing to try and rationalise yet. Though ‘Marika’s tits’ was something she could probably exclaim to show that she was a proper local. Good to keep in mind. These people seemed sane, though… and she saw no bodies on pikes, no crucified corpses. Push came to shove, she could run as fast as possible away from them. No archers, and they were bound to a camp, after all. That fire was the first sign of warmth she’d seen all day, and they had food, real food. Her stomach rumbled. She motioned for Potiphar to stay still, handed her sword to him for safekeeping… and stood up.

“Hey!”

The sentries jerked to attention, twisting their heads in her direction. Golden eyes narrowed behind iron masks, and spears were levelled towards her.

“Halt! Who goes there!”

Taylor walked slowly into the light, hands raised, looking like some filthy urchin instead of a dangerous enemy. Hopefully.

“I’m just travelling, could I possibly stay by your fire for a while?”

She shivered exaggeratedly. One of the sentries stumped over, armour clunking loudly. Those spears looked sharp. A few other soldiers were looking over in interest… and others were just slumped by the tents, rocking back and forth or remaining completely still. She opened her eyes as wide as she could, removing her glasses as well. The soldier paused, noticing her golden eyes. Good, that had worked.

“What are you doing in Lord Godrick’s lands, girl?”

Good, they were definitely servants of Godrick. That meant she could be more truthful.

“Just… trying to get to Stormveil.”

“For what?”

She gulped. Even if she didn’t succeed, it seemed like a good way to get in his soldiers’ good graces.

“To work for Sha- Lord Godrick.”

A pause… and both sentries burst out laughing, one of them slapping his armoured leg with a raucous clanking. Stifling their wheezes, they relayed her intentions to their fellows, who likewise fell into fits of laughter. Taylor felt her face reddening. Did she say something wrong, or stupid? What was it? And did they really have to be so rude?

“Show us your arms, girl!”

What. No - the camp was entirely focused on her, refusing would probably make them angry. And she wanted to avoid that if at all possible… that fire looked awfully enticing. And the food. Crackling meat, a whole roasting pig with fat dripping down its sides, fat droplets that hissed as they hit the fire below… she rolled up her hoodies sleeves, thrusting her forearms in their direction. One of the sentries hummed.

“Better try elsewhere, girl. Too skinny for Godrick.”

His companion shook his head.

“Nay, right size for a scion, though.”

“Oh, there’s a point. Alright, he might have some use for you after all. Though… are you sure?”

He looked almost pitying. A feeling of dread was building up. The idea that Potiphar wasn’t standing by her side was increasingly disconcerting - even if he couldn’t speak, it was nice to have a jar nearby.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I just want a job, that’s all. Hard to survive out here alone.”

The wind howled as she spoke, and for once she was glad for that damn gale. Nice and appropriate. Greatsword strode through the soldiers, pushing them aside. He stood taller than all of them, and his sword looked even larger up close. He sized up Taylor.

“Hm. So, you want to serve our Lord? Then you can share our fire. But if you think about stealing, or betraying our trust in any way… well, you can get a good look at Stormveil from the top of a cross.”

A toothy grin spread beneath his mask, and Taylor gulped. So, these people did crucify others… she tried to calm herself. The Romans had crucified people, the Japanese tried it out for a while if she remembered correctly. Didn’t mean that they were bloodthirsty barbarians. Maybe these people would only crucify criminals or enemy soldiers. Not good… but manageable. God, she was finding crucifixion-happy soldiers manageable, her standards were slipping.

“Alright, I’ll behave.”

“You’d better. Back to your posts, men! Let her fatten herself up for the Lord!”

The soldiers dispersed unceremoniously, and she wandered quietly into the camp, hoping that Potiphar would remain at a distance. No idea how they’d respond to a living jar like him, maybe they’d call her a witch and throw her on the fire they cooked the pig on. Speaking of which…

One of the soldiers saw her practically drooling, and grunted as he shoved a wooden bowl into her hands. Then, a rough-handled knife. She smiled hesitantly.

“Thanks.”

Only a grunt in response, and she could see that his eyes had the same faded, dry quality as the unresponsive soldier. When he walked away, he practically staggered, seeming to have very little idea where he was going. He slumped to join other soldiers, staring down at the grass, only their breathing suggesting that they were still alive. In fact, as she looked around… only a few soldiers were talking to each other, shooting her uneasy glances. Some were barely alive, leaning on spears or stakes… and others were completely comatose, refusing to acknowledge her presence, murmuring things under their breath. She could guess - prayers to die, prayers to some ‘Golden Order’ (and was that the same as the Greater Will?). How many were like this? Was this why the world had seemed so… desolate? And how did the skeletons fit into this. Greatsword and Torch had walked away, the sentries were ignoring her… and the pig was crackling. She sliced a strip. Then another. Then another. And soon she had a bowl brimming with shimmering meat.

She ate with her hands, barely caring about the grease and fat that built up on her fingers and under her fingernails, barely caring that until a minute ago she’d been clutching a sword that’d been lying in the ground for a very long time. The food was divine, and a pitcher of water nearby quenched her perishing thirst. Bite by bite, sip by sip, she returned to a state of humanity. Minutes passed, and she slumped down near the fire, mouth stained, fingers filthy, and completely and utterly content. The universe wasn’t quite so cruel when she had a bellyful of meat. Even the usual despairing thoughts of getting home, navigating this strange world, her dad, her mom, her… well, they weren’t quite so despairing when she was feeling this comfortable. Animal satisfaction at being fed and warm tended to overwhelm more complex things. She leant backwards against a sack of what looked like potatoes, feeling more comfortable than she had since she’d arrived… well, excluding the darkness after death, but that place didn’t have pork. And that was another thing - pork. It tasted a little funny compared to pork back home, a little more game-y, but it was unmistakably from a pig. That tiny commonality gave her a little reassurance. If this world could have pigs, the same as Earth, then it could have sane people too. That logic made a kind of sense when she was finally feeling sated.

Another soldier - Torch, the nasal-voiced complainer - came over to help himself to some food, and something rather stronger than water that came from a stoppered bottle. Wine, ale, she couldn’t quite tell… but it was pungent. He removed his mask to eat, and she saw a lean, narrow face with a thin beard to conceal a weak chin. His skin was oddly papery, almost like old parchment faded by the sun. Wrinkled, but the man was still somehow young. A brief pang of fear ran through her - was this the fate that awaited people who resurrected too often? Would she come home looking like him, paradoxically old and young, papery, wrinkled skin over a youthful frame? He sniffed, and narrowed his watery eyes.

“No trouble. Or you get the cross.”

“I won’t make any, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying. Just warning.”

He shifted nervously as he consumed the pork with the tip of his knife, messily chomping away. This close, she realised that these soldiers were actually quite tall and broad - her dad would’ve said ‘built like a brick shithouse’ if he thought she wasn’t listening. Whatever they were feeding them, it was working. She felt the urge to break the silence, relieved to be talking to someone who wasn’t invisible or trying to kill her.

“So… what’s Lord Godrick like?”

The man’s lips - bloodless and slimy - curled into a cruel sneer.

“He’s our master. If you want to sow dissent, do it to someone else.”

“I’m not, I’m not. I’m new here, I just… wanted to know who I want to work for.”

“Hm. If you’re insistent on meeting him… make sure to call him ‘Godrick the Golden’ or ‘the Lord of all that is Golden’. Don’t listen to the other names you might have heard.”

“What other names?”

He paled.

“Nevermind. Forget I said that. Just… call him ‘the Golden’ if you have any sense. And kneel properly, he hates it when people don’t do it quickly enough.”

“Have you met him before?”

“He ordered us dispatched here, captain told us the proper protocol before he arrived. Good that he did. He’s… intimidating.”

His smile returned, crueller than ever.

“I’ll leave it there. Eat up. A good day’s travel left before you reach Stormveil.”

He giggled a little girlishly, and Taylor shifted uncomfortably.

“By the way, what’s up with the wolves? Do they always come from the sky?”

“Pretty much. Curse of the last Storm King, the serfs say. We use beast repellent, though. Keeps the wolf-winds at bay.”

He gestured vaguely to a stack of torches and a barrel of some kind of dark fluid. Ideas were racing through her head - but Torch was already turning to leave. Storm Kings, curses, serfs, beast repellent… if she could get her hands on some of that stuff, she’d feel a hell of a lot safer. Hell, having a torch would be pleasant. No chance that she was going to steal them, though… maybe in the morning she’d ask them politely. They’d shared their fire and food with her, maybe they’d share this beast repellent as well. It was surprising to hear that there were ‘serfs’, though - feudal society, then, with knights, lords, kings… or maybe it was just their term for it.

Speaking of which, it was just beginning to sink in that everyone was speaking English. And understandable English too, not some stew of angry consonants like Old English or a mangled mess that sounded like you had cotton stuffed in your mouth, like Middle English. That raised… questions. A part of her thought of random people getting shunted through portals into this world, then somehow reinventing Medieval Europe. No - that was a bit too silly. Or was it? Either way, this world had enough nonsense going on with skeletons, invisible women, and ‘wolf-winds’. Them speaking English was honestly one of the least surprising things to happen thus far. She settled backwards, getting comfortable… and felt her eyelids closing. The night drew on, and she found herself slipping off to sleep. For the first time since she’d arrived, she slept. It felt final, in a way - like she had committed herself to this world, trusting it to still exist when she woke back up. Accepting, on a complete and subconscious level, that this was all real. Darkness consumed her before she could think too hard about that.

Her dreams were strange. For an instant, she thought she was back home, the feeling of pleasant nostalgia overwhelming… but the golden light disabused her of that notion very quickly. She standing before the Erdtree, the golden bark stretching far above her into the sky, higher than any skyscraper she’d ever seen. But instead of feeling terrified… she felt safe. She was at the root of the world, and it was stable. Everything else was in chaos, but the Erdtree would remain still for the rest of time - she understood that on an instinctual level. It was a good dream, for a while. She settled into the roots, remembering the feeling of being embraced by the roots in the catacombs, and the golden light swaddled her gently, rocking her into a deeper sleep… but something was wrong. A smell filled the air. Rot, dust, and other, indefinable scents that nonetheless reminded her of the grave. A damp feeling spread beneath her, and she cracked her eyes open to see what was happening.

Black matter. Black, putrid matter, foaming up through the earth, accompanied by spindly black roots that started to trap and choke the roots of the Erdtree, infiltrating and putrefying everything in their wake. Taylor surged to her feet, scrambling away from the decay… and there was so much more of it, tiny wriggling white worms swimming in the growing tumorous mass. Cloudy eyes swam into view on the surface, unfocused and blind, but nonetheless present where they really shouldn’t be. The Erdtree moaned in pain, a sound like a whole forest toppling at once, and its branches quivered in agony. The sound made her heart leap into her throat, that something of such beauty could be tainted by this spreading contagion. Someone needed to purge it, burn it out completely.

The rot spread, and other things came in its wake. A red mould that spread and corroded, whispering as it went, forming tiny rust-red butterflies that flew in eerie patterns. More contagion. The Erdtree growled as the crimson rot spread higher and higher, giggling as it went. Wounds appeared in the golden roots, and boiling hot blood erupted out, filled with contaminants that took root and wept fiery blood in their own right. The sun behind the Erdtree was eclipsed by a rising moon, one that was despairingly cold and lonely. The sound of hissing serpents filled the air, and churning magma. And… something else. Something yellow, that crackled and fizzed, that whispered of dissolution and the eradication of all that divided and distinguished. Chaos, raw, primal, and above all, hungry. Her eyes itched to see it. The Erdtree stood strong, but the lower boughs were gradually being overwhelmed by all the corruption that spread from the dark ground. It could resist almost anything, but against everything? Even the might of the Erdtree had limits.

As tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, she felt an enormous hand settle on her shoulder. She looked, startled. What faced her was shattered, like cracked ivory, and inside the cracks swirled a formless black mist… and within that, shards of something golden, something effortlessly beautiful. And for all its beauty, the fact that it was shattered filled her with unspeakable sadness. Stony lips moved as if to speak, but no words came… just an intention, a driving command that forced its way into the inner recesses of her mind, no, her soul.

PURIFY

Taylor gasped as she woke up. The memory of the dream was already fading a little, but the overriding tones remained - perfection corrupted, perfection in need of purification. The other soldiers around her shivered, those who were sleeping murmuring desperately under their breath. She leant close… and reeled back. They were talking about boiling blood, black and scarlet rot, a serpent coiled at the centre of the earth… had they been dreaming the same dream? Was that possible? She shivered - this world had seemed more welcoming, just for a moment. And like that, her comfort was snatched away. Great. Couldn’t have shit in the Lands Between, apparently. She grumbled as she tried to settle back, desperate to get a little more sleep. But the murmuring was incessant, and the dream had been too disturbing for her to willingly go back into its territory.

It was good that she was so hesitant.

Because she heard something that the sleeping soldiers ignored, that the half-comatose sentries barely noticed. The pounding of hooves on a dirt track, the grunting of a person on its back. Someone was coming. And as the sentries snapped to attention, their spears slowly coming round to face the intruder… the hooves increased. The person who was coming clearly wasn’t friendly, Taylor could sense it in her bones. She scrambled away from the fire, into the dark. She could barely hear stumpy legs running for her as she came to the edge of the camp, and Potiphar scrambled towards her clutching a sword in his rocky hands. A walking jar had never been so welcome, and she snatched him up as she ran for the bushes. If she was wrong, she was wrong. If she was right… she wanted to hide. The soldiers cried out in surprise as the intruder crashed through the sentries, and she could vaguely hear swords being drawn, and a single shout being raised.

“Tarnished!”

The next cry that split the night was from a woman she’d never heard before, bellowing in a voice louder than any voice should rightfully be.

“My name! Is Nepheli Loux! Warrior!”

Two feet crashed to the ground.

“By the will of my father and my ancestors!”

An axe swung through the air.

“Perish!”

Chapter Text

Taylor dove into the long grass, and remained very, very still. Her eyes were fixed on the sight before her, the shapes of the soldiers and this ‘Tarnished’ - Nepheli Loux, she said her name was - silhouetted against the crackling flames. The slumped men stumbled to their feet, drawing swords with hesitant hands. The Tarnished had leapt from her horse in a single smooth motion, planting her feet solidly with a resounding crash. She was huge, larger than Taylor certainly, and positively bursting with muscle. She swung two enormous axes, one in each hand, and the fire illuminated a savage grin splitting her face. She seemed to be wearing furs of some description, and Taylor would have guessed that a fur-wearing barbarian would be no match against an entire camp of trained soldiers, even half-asleep ones. Greatsword, the leader of the camp it seemed, drew his eponymous sword with a roar of anger.

“Another lesson, then? Won’t you ever give up?”

His voice turned oddly pleading at the end, and she heard the same tone of absolute weariness that she’d heard from the more catatonic soldiers. Nepheli bellowed a mocking reply, her voice humming with joyful adrenaline.

“What, not got the stones? Come on, serve a bad master in life, at least give yourself a good death!”

The insult trailed off into a meaningless, passionate roar to the entire camp… and somehow, that roar made Taylor almost crumble completely to the ground, like a solid weight had suddenly pressed down on her. Potiphar stumbled a little, waving his arms wildly as he tied to stabilise himself, and Taylor promptly wrapped herself around him - there was a crazed barbarian standing very close indeed, and the last thing Taylor wanted was for her only friend(?) to get smashed into oblivion by a casual swing of one of those enormous axes. She had guessed that the Tarnished would stand no chance against a whole camp of soldiers.

She guessed wrong.

Nepheli was a blur of violence, her axes spinning easily through the air. Swords cut towards her, and she dodged, moving like some kind of parahuman. Everything she did looked practised, like she’d done it over and over again. Greatsword rushed forward to pierce her, and she smoothly sidestepped with contemptuous ease. One axe struck it off course, sending him stumbling and struggling to regain his balance. The other axe she used to casually decapitate a soldier who was still struggling to extract his sword from a sheath that had almost rusted shut. OK, that was good luck, but the others… no. Torch swung at her, but his strike was too wide, too telegraphed, too slow. She whirled and practically chopped him in half. That was impossible - she must be some kind of Brute… no. Perhaps people were just like this in this crazy world. And wasn’t that a horrifying thought. The camp was stirring into full combat positions now, moving steadily to surround her. OK, they had some good ideas - raise shields, hem in her movements, poke at her with spears and swords and present no openings. They made one mistake, though. They let her stand too close to the fire.

The Tarnished raked one axe through the hot fire, sending burning logs across the grass. Grass which had been dried over the countless hours in which the fire had burned. Flames exploded outwards, embers scattered, the wind fanned everything higher and brighter. The circle of shields broke as their feet began to singe… and there was her opening. Nepheli whirled into the midst of the circle, kicking, chopping, bellowing, doing everything possible to spread as much chaos as humanly (Tarnishedly?) possible. The soldiers were doing all that they could… but it was obvious that they’d trained against standard units, the push and pull of pikes, the shoving of shields, formations locked together with generals standing behind. Against someone with mobility and no care for staying still, they were sluggish and got in each other’s way more often than not. Nepheli took ruthless advantage of the confusion - why dodge a sword strike when she could shove another soldier into its path, forcing them to try and disentangle themselves. The fire denied reforming the ring of shields, and second by second, the ground became more and more soaked with hot, dark blood.

They succeeded once or twice. Taylor saw a line appear on her side as one soldier got lucky, saw blood run down… less than there should be, but a hit was a hit. A torch thrust in her direction scorched her flesh a little. A cut here, a burn there… none of it fazed her. She gritted her teeth and kept fighting. They’d get lucky a few times, but in the end? Their wounds were stacking up slower than she could kill them. The flickering flames cast ruby-red reflections in a churning lake of mud and blood, mud that accepted the soldiers thrown into it with exceeding gratefulness. It had barely been a few minutes, and already the camp had been whittled down to a few soldiers and Greatsword, facing Nepheli while panting heavily. Something like hope was crossing their faces - they’d wounded her a little, and without so many people surrounding them, they actually had room to manoeuvre. Nepheli was dripping blood from a few shallow wounds… but it could still weaken her, right? Still slow her down enough?

She casually took a flask from her belt and had a little sip. In seconds, her wounds sealed shut. She clashed her axes together in a shower of sparks as the process completed, and she was left right as rain. The brief hope died a painful, bloody death. As did the soldiers. Greatsword had his arm chopped off, and his screaming was silenced by a vicious cut across his throat. The greatsword larger than Taylor’s entire body sank into the mud, and he followed it. The rest of the soldiers didn’t stand a chance, some of them backing away cringing as Nepheli advanced, others trying to make a break for it into the night… those who had the mind to do it. The ones with tired golden eyes, who had no sense for the world around them, charged relentlessly with miserable prayers on their tongues. None of it mattered. The barbarian was utterly merciless, and her skill surpassed theirs in every respect. The sound of conflict faded… and all that was left was the sound of heavy breathing, and footsteps leaving the camp.

Taylor huddled into the grass, clutching Potiphar as tightly as she dared. The Tarnished walked heavily, without much subtlety. Her axes dragged against the dirt, leaving deep, savage grooves behind her. She left the camp, and looked around, a vague expression of suspicion crossing her face. She sniffed. For a second, Taylor was terrified that she’d be found, that her second death would be found at the hands of this monster. She came closer to Taylor’s hiding spot. God, she was huge, her muscles pulsed with vitality after this battle. Actually… there was something wrong with her body. Something golden was trailing from it, tiny threads leading back to the camp, connecting to each one of the bodies. They were like miniscule arteries, pumping golden blood into her body across the distance. With each pump, each glowing mote that sank into her body, she seemed to look larger, stronger somehow. Oh God. She got stronger by killing people. The mad barbarian got stronger by killing people.

The terrifying thought ran through her mind as the barbarian came closer than ever… but with a derisive snort, she turned and left, apparently not noticing her hiding spot. Taylor didn’t dare sigh in relief. The barbarian marched back, examined the bodies casually, then hopped on her horse and left. Only when the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance did Taylor dare breathe, did she dare release Potiphar from her grip. She shivered in the cold, but couldn’t bring herself to go back to the fire and confront the bodies that lay around it. She knew she should be moving - the Tarnished could come back, she could… God, now she thought about it, she could see why that woman in the catacombs was willing to kill her if she was Tarnished. Putting the pieces together, that woman would have registered as an insanely dangerous cape back home. Strong, fast, capable of growing stronger by killing people, endlessly resurrecting… if anything, it reminded her a little of the Butcher. No fighting them. Just delaying, distracting, and hopefully one day imprisoning. Fan-fucking-tastic. She wasn’t just in a hostile alien world, she was in a hostile alien world where there were immortal Terminators running around fighting anything that moved.

Where did all her luck go? Did she use it up at some point in her childhood? Was there some moment where a chemical tanker full of slow, painfully acting acid could have spilled on top of her but didn’t? Because she had clearly squandered her life’s supply of luck and was now reaping her delightful reward. Either that, or she was about to be the luckiest person ever. If - when - she got back home, she’d probably go to Vegas, see if she could milk something good out of this experience. She had a momentary image of stuffing dollar bills inside Potiphar, cracked a smile, and realised that the terror had made her a little delirious. Part of her was immediately trying to figure out ways to survive another encounter with a Tarnished - the soldiers had been competent, but they were far too slow, clearly trained to fight soldiers like themselves. Against a whirling storm of mobility and skill like Nepheli Loux, they hadn’t stood a chance. She needed to keep moving. If defended camps were no good, she’d need to push onto Stormveil Castle. Maybe they’d have proper methods for dealing with these… things. And as she thought, she remembered the feeling of that barbaric roar, the sparks flying from clashed axes, the savage grin on her face…

With a grunt, she heaved herself up. The longer she stayed in one place, the crazier she’d go. Keep moving. Don’t look back. Focus on surviving, because if she didn’t, she’d go nuts. She strode into the camp, trying to ignore the bodies, failing miserably. It was bizarre to see them crumpled like this, all that frightening strength and size diminished into nothing. Some of them looked peaceful, others looked angry. All of them looked dead. How would they come back to life, she thought - would they stand up eventually, or would something come along to take them to a catacomb? Or would the earth swallow them whole to commend them unto the depths? Seeing the mud sucking at their bodies, she almost thought the last option might be correct.

Best not to think about it. Just keep moving. Her sword was being carried by Potiphar, her backpack was still slung across her back… what else did she need? Food, obviously. The pig was useless, some of it charred from falling into the fire, other parts ruined by being soaked in mud. Water… waterskins, hanging around the belts of the dead men. She grabbed one, unclipping it with a murmured apology to the soldier. Some more searching yielded a few rations - dried biscuits, jerky, standard trail fare. Not exactly her favourite, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. What else, what else… the beast repellent. As morbid as it was, the fact that these men were dead actually made her life slightly easier. Torches could be stashed in her bag, and she filled up another waterskin with as much beast repellent as she dared. It was black and foul smelling - she tried not to think about how they made it. In a matter of minutes, she was outfitted with all the supplies she’d need for several days. Her hands had been shaking the entire time, but if she kept her eyes forward, refused to meet the cold, glassy eyes of the corpses in the mud, she could almost keep going.

It was only when she zipped up her backpack with a sense of finality that the reality of her situation crashed down again, as an accidental glance saw the mound of muddy corpses lying still and cold, completely unresponsive. Even if they would come back to life at some point… this was still more death than she’d ever really witnessed. Did she commemorate them? Did she try and take care of the bodies, or did she just leave, do everything she could to survive at all costs? The question weighed heavily on her, and - she dashed to slap at Potiphar, who was trying to cram some of the mangled remains of Greatsword into his hollow body.

“No! No desecrating the dead!”

The jar looked at her with something resembling incredulity. Remarkable, given that he had no face. A moment passed before Taylor realised the reason.

“Alright, I’m the exception. But don’t cram other people in there. It’s… just don’t.”

Potiphar gestured to the body, then to the inside of its body, repeated this a few times, and then spread his arms around him, like he was impersonating a fat person. Wait - god fucking dammit.

“Do you get stronger the more people you eat?”

Excited nods.

“No! We’re not doing that! You will not eat dead people. Except for me.”

The jar kicked his feet sullenly, and replaced the wax seal covering his head. Great. Was there anyone in this world who didn’t get stronger by killing people? She stalked off into the darkness, leaving the burning camp behind her. As grim as it was… she’d started to get used to this. Being surrounded by danger at all times, being killed, really put things in perspective. They’d get up again, she assumed. And she needed to keep moving. For all she knew, if she died here Potiphar would have to drag her back to those catacombs, and the entire journey would start all over again. She wasn’t quite sure where the Tarnished had gone, the sound of hoofbeats had been indistinct, but she stuck to the undergrowth at the side of the road anyhow, clinging to the trees as shelter from the wind and any searching eyes… or gleaming axes. As she walked, she started to imagine why this world was so… ruined, why she hadn’t seen any functional settlements, just ruins and a single military camp. Maybe these Tarnished started it. Once people started getting stronger by killing, it wouldn’t take long for order to completely break down. Maybe those people on the crosses had been Tarnished too, immobilising them the only solution to their threat.

If anything, she felt a small spurt of optimism for the future. She was heading to Godrick, a Lord of this land. Not some wandering barbarian, not some lunatic Tarnished, but a genuine figure of authority. An intimidating figure, according to Torch, but you’d need to be to survive in a world like this. She imagined a towering Lord doing his best to keep the peace, providing shelter from roving packs of Tarnished. It was speculation, sure… but the image of the warrior woman silhouetted against the flame, growing larger with each man she felled, was one that had stuck with her. Seemed the perfect encapsulation of this awful place. Her weariness was gone, replaced with absolute determination. She needed to get to safety, before a Tarnished found her, or some other horror. The night was growing old, the sun was staring to peek over the horizon… and she kept going, trusting that the Erdtree was guiding her way properly, marking west as clearly as it could. Potiphar trundled after her, edges still a little red from where he’d been playing in the viscera.

Hours passed. What she lacked in stamina, she more than made up for in willpower. She was going to survive, and nothing would stop her from achieving that goal. Her progress was dramatically increased by the addition of food, water, and rest. Her limbs were spry, her steps were light, and she was making good time. She assumed. She certainly felt like she was making good time - Potiphar was struggling to keep any kind of pace with her, and that suggested something good. The sun had risen, and the wind was howling stronger than ever… thankfully, though, it howled across, hampering her stride a little instead of presenting a solid wall to struggle through. Would have been nicer if it was pushing her forwards, but she was willing to take small victories. Every so often, she’d glance up and see the ‘wolf-winds’, as Torch had described them. They were small, dense pockets of air shrouded in strips of moisture, and inside were packs of wolves, at minimum three, at maximum seven or eight. Up high, they looked tiny, but Taylor had quite an in-depth knowledge of how larger and powerful they could be. The beast repellent was… tricky, but she thought she’d figured out a way of using it. The torch had illuminated her as she walked through the night, and a spray of repellent turned it an interest colour while releasing an incredibly strong smell, stronger than even the barrel had produced. With this in mind, she felt vaguely secure… and indeed, the wolf-winds stayed at a distance, shunning the scent of her still-burning torch.

During her rare breaks, where her legs gave out and she found herself forced to rest or collapse, she opened up her backpack and read what she could from her textbooks. It was… strange, honestly. These were the last real, physical remnants of Earth Bet on her person. Her clothes hardly counted - all she had were the memories in her skull and the words on these pages. One more disaster, and she’d lose the latter very quickly indeed. Every word became laden with significance, every diagram became vitally important. Hm. Maybe if she was put in life-threatening situations more often, she’d be more effective at revision. She never rested long, just until her limbs felt ready to stagger on for a little longer.

She couldn’t quite tell how long she’d been going when she first saw Stormveil. It towered high above, situated on top of a steep hill. The storm howled around it, angry grey clouds forming a menacing anvil that hung above the many towers. It wasn’t a style that she recognised. Sure, it was blocky, had walls, a central keep, the whole standard castle package. But the details were alien - the way the crenels and merlons were elegantly sculpted and picked out in gold that shone even from this distance, the dark material it was built from, the scale. Again, this world just built things too damn large, first the Erdtree, now this castle. It was becoming a distressing pattern that this castle, built on top of a pillar of rock separated from the rest of the world by a narrow bridge, was larger than most buildings she’d seen in her entire life. Not that she’d seen many huge buildings, but even so. Stormveil was enormous by any standard. And it only got larger as she approached.

What also attracted her attention was the ‘aqueduct’ she’d noticed on arriving in the Lands Between. Up close, she saw that it very much wasn’t an aqueduct at all. It was a bridge, with tiny figures moving about on top. A broken bridge, though… and at the end was a tower that was even larger than Stormveil - this was just getting ridiculous now, how could they build this, they were still using swords for crying out loud! How come her house back home, with centuries of technological innovation and expertise behind it, could still have a rotten porch step and a lousy air conditioner, while these people that fought with swords and had to deal with immortal psychopaths could build… that. Gah. It rubbed her up the wrong way, and she relished in the irritation. Proved to be an adequate distraction from everything else that was happening. The castle came closer, and she stopped walking. Instead, she jogged. It was interesting jogging in boots instead of sneakers, but she thought she managed rather well. Screw conserving energy, she had a goal. And it was in sight. She even abandoned the undergrowth to use the road itself, relishing in the feeling of an actual road beneath her feet, no roots to tangle or branches to scratch.

The only thing that could stop her was a giant psychopath on a horse.

The figure that stepped into her path fulfilled some of those qualities. He was very large. He had a horse. He also had a threatening demeanour and a sword. So this could go very wrong very quickly. The curved sword raised up, pointed at her, and Taylor froze. This was it. She’d made a stupid mistake at the very last hurdle, and now she was going to get viciously killed for it. Hooray. Couldn’t wait to walk back here from the catacombs, maybe the invisible woman would actually kill her this time. The sword remained still, and she almost went cross-eyed staring at it. The man examined her for a moment, probably sizing up the best way of killing her. And then a harsh voice bellowed from within the depths of the strange scaled helmet.

“Move!”

Her legs obeyed, at long last, and she scuttled off to the side of the road once more. The man on the horse grumbled, something about ‘stupid commoners, running like they own the place’. She stared at him as he departed. His clothing was different to anything she’d seen before in Stormhill, likewise his accent. Foreigner? Like her? No, couldn’t be quite like her, he didn’t look like a half-dead rat traipsing to a castle that might help her. Her attention was rapidly distracted by what came next. A carriage, larger than some buses she’d seen, hauled not by horses, but by a pair of huge… things. She had no words for them. Grey, enormous, vaguely human-shaped but definitely not human. The chest had an enormous hole in it, a dent where all the internal organs should be, and pierced through was an iron chain linking them to the carriage. Dead, black eyes stared out from hollow sockets sunk deep into their deformed faces, and a mane of grey tendrils rustled in the strong wind. She stared with wide eyes as the giants dragged the carriage onwards, not sparing her a single glance. Behind them were more of the men on horses, and a whole crowd of… well, she thought they were people. She couldn’t be sure. Their flesh had the consistency of old paper, the gold in their eyes had faded to a near-grey, and their clothes were usually nothing but rags. They shambled after the carriage, more people than she’d ever seen in one place in this world. None of them spared her more than a glance, and they perpetually murmured dismal prayers, begging for death, the return of the Greater Will (whatever that was), and… hm. That was new. Prayers to figures she’d never heard of. ‘Marika’ was mentioned in loving tones, ‘Godfrey’ with pride, ‘Godwyn’ with despairing sorrow… and one kept grinding his teeth and cursing ‘Shabriri’ over and over again.

She had no idea what any of this meant. If anything, she was just glad that the people were ignoring her. If anything, it seemed like the only genuinely sane people in this little procession were the horsemen, who gave her wary glances as she stood by the side of the road. Fair enough. She wouldn’t trust a lonely stranger, not with Tarnished running around. Still… she felt the need to say something. If she let a bunch of sane people go past her without saying a damn thing, she’d feel mighty embarrassed. She’d craved conversation from the soldiers, from the woman in the catacombs… and here were some more rational people. Hey, maybe these ones wouldn’t violently die or threaten to kill her. They’d only told her to ‘move!’ thus far, which was startlingly reasonable in the grand scheme of things. She called out to one of the riders.

“Hey, sorry, mind if I ask where you’re going?”

The rider came to a halt in front of her. He was… large. Bigger than any of the people she’d seen so far, a little taller than Nepheli. His curved sword hung loosely from one hand, and she had every confidence that he could use it. He stared at her, examining first her eyes, then her sword, then her jar. Whatever conclusion he came to, it wasn’t ‘this girl is an immediate threat that I should lash to my horse and drag over the next few miles’.

“Why do you want to know?”

The accent was definitely foreign. It reminded her a little of… Scandinavia, she thought. She based her incredibly accurate opinion on precisely one old TV show. So she was pretty much certain.

“Just… you know, curious.”

“We travel with carriage. Make sure idiots don’t die. Nothing else.”

“OK, OK.”

“What is ooooh-kaaaay?”

Hm. Strangely, knowing that English wasn’t completely the same over here was a relief and a half. It made things marginally less weird. Marginally.

“It means ‘yes’, or ‘I understand’.”

“Hm. Oooh-kaay. Where you travel?”

“Stormveil. Looking for Lord Godrick.”

The man barked a quick laugh.

“Good! You look weak, like lamb. Get you a shepherd, eh?”

He leaned closer, dangling precariously over the edge of his horse.

“You make good choice, though. You’ve heard the rumours about Stormveil, hm?”

A sinking feeling, again.

“...no, which ones?”

“They say the Tarnished won’t go near the place.”

The sinking feeling turned into soaring hope.

“Really? Why not?”

“Nomadic merchant told me the Fell Omen is out there, by the castle. Kills any Tarnished that try to cross the bridge. Good place to hide, no?”

“Sounds like it.”

The man glanced at his departing carriage, and readied himself to rejoin them. But not before he offered a final comment.

“You stink like horse dung. Wash before you meet the Grafted, hm?”

Three thoughts occurred in quick succession. First, how dare he comment on her smell. Second, he had a very good point about her smell, her clothes were still filthy and probably needed burning at this point. Third… the Grafted? Wait. Torch had mentioned ‘other titles’ that Godrick was known by, and that she should always call him ‘the Golden’. But why ‘grafted’? The horseman rode away before she could ask, chuckling to himself as his fellows yelled back to ask him what he’d been doing with the skinny kid. She was glad she couldn’t hear his answer over the increasingly harsh wind. The question remained, though. Graft… like, a skin graft? Was he some kind of burn victim who’d received grafts to heal? She didn’t know they had grafting in medieval Europe, but… well, this place had resurrective immortality and the biggest damn tower she’d ever seen. Maybe they had skin grafts. And disliked people who received them. Maybe this Godrick fellow wouldn’t be so bad.

She walked onwards, and the castle came closer and closer. Hours passed, and the sun began to set… and the castle was almost upon her. The last climb was the most brutal of them all, pushing her limbs to their very last limits. Potiphar trundled after her with utter placidity, evidently not having many issues when it came to stamina. She could swear that he was being smug about it, too. Apparently jars could not only be smug, but they could also express that smugness without faces, voices, or anything that could be used to emote. But his wobbles as he walked were definitely inflected with a certain ‘ha, silly human, won’t let me eat dead bodies, struggle up this hill with your feeble meaty bits’. She might have been going a little bit mad. Well, more mad than she already was, which was something of a feat. The amount of counselling she’d need when she got back would be… well, it’d be something, all right. How do you counsel someone who’s died and come back to life again? Had any capes - no, there had definitely been capes who dealt with that. She’d be in safe hands. Which was a reassuring thought, given that she was currently heading up to a very ominous castle.

Up close, Stormveil had a whole host of qualities she couldn’t quite express - at least, not with her mind and body so exhausted. The hill came to an end, and she was faced with a narrow tunnel. Carefully, cautiously, she navigated the damp stone passage, doing her best to avoid touching the slick walls. She could imagine the purpose here - a narrow passage where enemy numbers could be quite satisfyingly reduced. Though… there was a surprising lack of murder holes or slits where hidden archers could fire at any corralled foes. It was a good tunnel, but it could definitely use some improvement. It wound up and around, coming… to a bridge. And the rumours the horseman had told her of the ‘Fell Omen’ came back to mind. She’d been too busy rejoicing internally over the idea of never having to see a Tarnished again to really question what a ‘Fell Omen’ was. A giant bird? Maybe? No clue. Either way, she was about to enter its stomping grounds.

The gate to the castle was right ahead. The proximity gave her confidence, and she strode forwards onto the bridge. It was half-ruined, no railings to protect one from falling into the void below. Swords, armour, banners… the relics of a hundred battles were scattered around the bridge, marking where people trying to enter the castle had failed. Were these the remains of Tarnished, or some prior conflict with normal humans? She imagined Tarnished falling, and their weapons being stolen to form potent reminders of why they shouldn’t come back. Intimidation was probably a damn good tactic against immortal warriors. Her stride became more cautious as she went on, anticipating… something. Anything. An invisible woman diving out of nowhere, a giant bird flapping down from on high, or maybe something like Nepheli charging out with both of her axes drawn. Potiphar slowed down as well, but insisted on remaining ahead of her, curling his arms in what she imagined was meant to be a ferocious stance. It didn’t really work, but she appreciated the effort.

The wind was stronger than ever, so strong that she found herself drifting alarmingly close to the edge on a few occasions. With gritted teeth, she kept heading towards the gate and the promise of safety. And then, it came. A presence - weighty, solid, similar to the feeling of Nepheli Loux’s roar. There was a vague glimmer of gold on one of the nearby towers, and the colour reminded her of something. Taylor remembered what the horseman had said - that the Fell Omen only hunted Tarnished. She whipped her glasses off with a huff of irritation, widened her eyes as much as she could, and yelled in the direction of the gathering light.

“See?! See?! Gold! Not a Tarnished!”

The light hesitated, and something inside the light peered at her. It scrutinised her carefully, and she felt like her skin was being peeled away, the light seeing beyond her eyes to the very depths of her soul. This should have terrified her. But honestly… she was tired. She wanted to stop walking, to finally sleep in a proper bed, to not have to worry about constantly dying. And Stormveil looked like the best way of achieving that particular goal. And so, she yelled at the light again, her voice adopting a hint of petulant anger.

“If you’re going to tackle me, threaten my life, or chase me, can you just get on with it?! I’m very tired, and I’d like to get some sleep!”

A pause, and a faint sense of incredulity. This only pissed her off more.

“Gold eyes, not a Tarnished, how more obvious can I be?! Just…”

She dug to the depths of her spite and dragged something to the surface.

“...fuck off already!”

Taylor wasn’t much given to swearing. She wasn’t very good at it - not like her dad. But the passion she injected into the curse word was such that Potiphar clapped his rocky hands to his ceramic not-face in mock shock and horror. Bah, she imagined he was swearing all the time in his own head. Peddling an absolute crock of shit, he was. Heh. Crock. Oh God, she was going insane. The light twitched, the incredulity spiked… and was replaced with something resembling amusement. With a final gust of wind, the light faded away, and the pressure vanished. All that was left was an impression of twisting horns, and a few words. In a voice dry as sand, weighed down the crushing pressure of years, the light spoke to her.

Keep thy wits, little human. They are thy greatest asset.

She blinked. She hadn’t imagined that, had she? The pressure had let up, and she saw nothing blocking her path. Well, except for a very tall, pale man wearing robes of some kind. A man who was bellowing at her. She walked closer to try and catch his words:

“Stop yelling, you bloody wretch! Woke me up from my nap, you did, you common idiot! Expect you’ve got a good bloody reason for doing that, hm? A good reason for waking old Gostoc?”

Finally.

A welcoming party.

Her wide smile seemed to unnerve the gentleman.

Chapter Text

Gostoc came closer across the bridge, and Taylor found her smile dripping away. The man didn’t look well, not in any way. His flesh had the same pale, unhealthy consistency of the others she’d seen, but while theirs had been like shrivelled paper, his was more like melted wax. Not only had his skin been drained of blood, it was drained of proper structure, leaving him with sagging eyes, a long face, a drooping nose… and to complete the whole ensemble was a missing arm, indicated by a knot in his white robe. Oh, she couldn’t forget the old-fashioned manacles hanging around his neck that would have looked more in place in a set of medieval stocks. Gostoc panted as he jogged to her, his pale, decrepit body straining under even that meagre effort. He’d never have managed the walk up to Stormveil, she thought with a certain amount of pride - pride she felt rather justified in having, given that she’d walked for two days and had seen things that defied explanation. Oh, and she’d told a talking light to fuck off. Which was definitely a memory she’d relive a few times. He reached speaking distance, and staggered to a halt. Golden eyes narrowed at her.

“Well, what’re you doin’, hm? Spying? Infiltrating? Reconnaissance? Eh, speak up, speak up!”

“Those three words mean the same thing.”

His face twisted into a scowl.

“You want to get thrown off this bridge by our knights, brat? No? Then start bein’ polite to your betters.”

Taylor raised her hands in surrender, coming down from her temporary high.

“Alright, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it. I’m Taylor, I came here to see Lord Godrick the Golden.”

He blinked.

“...you’re what.”

“Here to see… Godrick? The Golden? Lord of Stormveil?”

“Marika’s tits, are you fooling with me? Want to see Lord Godrick, she says, hasn’t even got the right to ask for an audience, bah, youth these days…”

Taylor was rapidly starting to dislike Gostoc.

“I want a job. I was told that Godrick’s castle is safe from the Tarnished.”

At the mention of ‘Tarnished’ the gatekeeper looked a little more nervous (gratifyingly so), and he started moving back towards the castle proper. Fair enough. Immortal Terminators seemed like bad things to be caught in the open by. He gestured for her to follow, and follow she did, quickly approaching the main body of the castle. A huge portcullis separated her from the interior, though, and the two ducked into a small gatehouse. Gostoc caught his breath, and started warming his hands over a low fire he had evidently kept burning. Taylor happily joined him, and Potiphar started toasting his feet.

“So, you want a job.”

“Well, yeah. I want to be safe, and Stormveil seems like the safest place around.”

Gostic had to stifle a laugh at that… then he saw the earnest look on her face, and happily uncovered his mouth to laugh loudly and rudely.

“You’re funny, I’ll give you that. What, want to become his jester or somethin’? Godrick didn’t like his last jester, don’t imagine he’ll take to another one.”

“What? No, I don’t want to be a jester. I want to work, I don’t care what he has me doing. I can… wait tables, I guess. Could learn to cook.”

Gostoc sized her up, taking in her filthy clothing, her jar companion, her general air of desperation.

“You won’t be a guard, that’s for sure. Too skinny, no muscle on you.”

He snorted at her tiny frown.

“Oh, don’t take it harsh, no-one wants to be a guard. Miserable job. Better to be a gatekeeper, stay here all day, so say I. But… I’ll tell you what, you give me that there sword, I’ll tell you a secret.”

Her immediate response was to refuse him. It was her sword. But… Gostoc had a point. She could barely use it, but she could definitely use a ‘secret’. Assuming he wasn’t trying to screw her over. She wasn’t born yesterday (though, by this world’s standards, she might as well have been. Arriving in the world was a synonym for birth, after all).

“What’s the secret?”

“Sword first, secret later.”

“What’s it about? You’re not just going to tell me a secret about gatekeeping, aren’t you?”

He grunted shamelessly and shrugged.

“Worth a punt. I’ll tell you about Godrick, then. Just give me the sword.”

Hm. He didn’t look too tough - end of the day, Potiphar could break his nose. She surrendered her weapon, grimacing internally as she immediately missed the comforting weight.

“Hmm… this is one of our Lordsworn’s swords, you know? Didn’t steal it did you?”

She shifted from foot to foot.

“Heh! Do as you like. Maybe I shouldn’t give you a secret, hm? If they’d found you with this, they’d have killed you like that. Maybe old Gostoc did you a favour, hm?”

“Tell me the secret or Potiphar will break your nose.”

The jar slammed his fists together loudly, and braced himself for a proper leap. Gostoc backed away a little, clutching her sword in a way that made her feel better about her own lack of experience. She lived in a world where swords were long-obsolete, what was his excuse?

“Alright, call off your attack jar, call him off. I’ll tell. Godrick isn’t the most charitable Lord. Barely a Lord at all, really. Fell Omen keeps the Tarnished out, everyone knows that.”

Taylor could… see what he meant. That pressure had suggested the arrival of something large and powerful, and with it gone, she could see the poor state of the castle. Holes in the walls, unmanned towers, decaying stones, and all manner of problems. There was even a giant hole in the wall of this gatehouse, one that led to a path winding around the edge. Useless for an army, but for a single determined Tarnished? She could see Nepheli crossing that in no time at all, probably scaling the walls with all the handholds she could see from here. Hm.

“He won’t take you just because you act sweet or bat your eyelashes. Not his type, anyway.”

It took a moment to process what he meant, and she felt tempted to set Potiphar on him. Her disgust must have been obvious, because Gostoc burst out laughing, showing decaying black teeth.

“Oh, don’t take offence. Though are you sure you don’t want a quick dunk in a well? Maybe a latrine? You reek, girl. Open sewer, you are. I’m a kindly fellow, but others may be a mite faster to judge, hm? Outward ugliness is a warning of an evil spirit, eh?”

‘You’re one to talk’ would be Taylor’s first response if she had absolutely no restraint. Which, for the time being, was not the case.

“Not to mention, all goes well, we’ll be fellow-toilers, won’t we? Don’t want to be rude to your superior, do you? But anyhow, Godrick won’t take you out of the kindness of his hearts.”

Hearts?

“No, won’t take you as a cook unless you already know how, no need for maids or serving girls… hm, don’t know what you could do.”

An idea occurred. She wasn’t going to express it to Gostoc, of course. He seemed as trustworthy as a glass submarine, and her plan depended on having everything remain with her. She fixed him with her steeliest gaze. Based on his lack of reaction, it wasn’t much. Something to work on.

“Either way, I want to see him.”

“Well, on your head be it! Don’t mind me if I don’t stay to watch - alright then. Open the gate!”

The last words were bellowed at the top of his lungs, his single remaining hand cupped around his mouth to try and amplify the noise. Didn’t really work, just redirected it to the side. Either way, she could hear the portcullis grinding open - another vulnerability, who put Gostoc in charge of the gate? The man was as trustworthy as a squirrel on a nut farm, why should he be allowed to open one of their most solid defences? He accompanied her back out, and gave her a mocking grin.

“I’ll come with you for now. Don’t want them perforating you before Godrick can, ha!”

She saw what he meant in a matter of seconds. Ballistae. Multiple, powerful ballistae, set up to fire multiple arrows at once. Soldiers in red cloaks stood behind them, their faces covered by chainmail veils. They were… skinnier than the soldiers she’d met - no, Gostoc called them the Lordsworn. What made these people different? They gave her the creeps, certainly, with their silence, their staring, and the tiny briars which poked through their armour. Were they even alive, or were they something like the skeletons - maybe a bundle of briars given life and stuffed into a suit of armour? They watched silently as the two walked, and Gostoc fell silent, a few beads of sweat running down his face under their scrutiny. They were surrounded on all sides, and… well, Taylor had become a little paranoid over the last few days. Every rustle was an approaching wolf, every figure on the horizon was a Tarnished or a madman. With that paranoia came rather intense powers of observation, a tendency to scrutinise everything. Having seen a whole camp of soldiers wiped out by a single axe-bearing lunatic, she wasn’t so easily impressed by walls and guards as she, perhaps, would once have been. And seeing these ballistae, these archers, made her immediately try to think of the best way to avoid them.

To her surprise, there were many such ways. The road they were walking on was uneven, and there were protruding mounds of rubble and errant boulders scattered here and there… it meant that if she wanted to, she could probably avoid the arrows just by crouching, running to the side, sticking to blind spots. Difficult, sure, but given that death was no longer the barrier it had once been, who knew? Ballistae would take a while to reload, and their range of fire was fairly limited given the time it would take to reposition. She could imagine Nepheli Loux, the Tarnished, getting through this barrier with… not ease, exactly, but getting through it at all said something fairly damning. This was the front gate, and she could see weaknesses. The path was wide, and gave her far too many options for manoeuvring. Some barriers, but not enough to really inhibit movement in a meaningful way… and not enough soldiers to guard the unprotected gaps. More walking, more archers, more ballistae, and then a wide path flanked by statues.

Not a single barrier to be found, just empty space and… a giant lion. Huge. Practically the size of a truck. She froze when she saw it, with its coal-black skin and faded grey mane. She saw its jaws, and remembered the feeling of getting her throat torn out by a starving wolf. And that had been a fraction of this creature’s size. Part of her was terrified, and the other was strangely… pitying. Manacles around the feet, scars around the face, huge metal blades attached to the arms. The lion had clearly been repurposed into a proper weapon of war. And it was sleeping like a giant cat - how long would it take it to wake up in an emergency? Once the immediate surprise wore off, she wondered how old it actually was, how effective it would be in combat. This path was wide, and the statues provided ample blockages for a clever Tarnished. Not to mention, with a space like this, the creature could be hemmed in on all sides, and none of the ballistae were angled to assist it, nowhere near enough soldiers stationed nearby to help. It looked terrifying, sure, but its actual efficacy was… well, a little dubious.

The impression of skin-deep strength pervaded the more she walked and saw. It made her nervous - this was where she wanted to be safe, if she could see these flaws, surely anyone could. Except, apparently, for whoever was commanding this castle. Without the Fell Omen… who knew how safe she’d really be? Not safe enough to focus on her own ability, to try and get back home. That was certain. They emerged into a larger courtyard, and again she saw flaws. The ballistae were facing a choke point, which was good, but most of them were scattered on a flat plain. Nepheli could have charged over the feeble barricades, and in a second she’d be safe from half of their ranged weapons. The walls had no archers, where they would be best used. Too many soldiers, as well - they could be defending the front gate more, which was actually designed to resist an invader. Not this open courtyard which only had improvised defences, nothing truly solid. Maybe it was her dad’s blood in her, but she was getting irritable at all these obvious problems that some common sense would solve. As she walked, Gostoc talked quietly, the guards ignoring them both.

“Oh, I see your disapproval, lass. I see it plain. You think it’s a rotten heap, hm?”

“I wouldn’t use those words, no.”

“Heh, something ruder, hm? Fair, fair.”

“Why are there no Lordsworn? I haven’t seen a single one since I arrived.”

“Lord Godrick uses them in the realms of Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula. Can’t trust these exiles too far from the castle, no. Might get ideas about running.”

“So you put them in charge of defending Godrick instead?”

“...fair. Why don’t you say all this to the Lord, hm? See how he takes it? Loves suggestions, our Lord does. Oh, one moment - hullo Onager!”

Taylor blinked. She thought she’d seen it all. She was clearly wrong. The grey giants had been one thing, but the creature before her was quite another. More human than the giants, certainly, but distorted. Coal-black skin, larger than any human she’d seen, wider too. And there were growths all over his skin, some smaller than her thumbnail, others larger than her head. And almost all of them had been filed down, leaving painful-looking pale stumps - giant molars protruding from his skin like warts. Mangy dogs rested around the creature’s feet, and dark eyes stared down at them from a scarred face, while malformed fingers toyed with the handle of a cleaver probably heavier than Taylor’s whole body. Potiphar retreated a little at the sight, only moving forwards when he realised that Taylor would overtake him (she assumed, given the haste with which he waddled back to his original position).

“Gostoc. The girl?”

His voice was like stones crashing together, bursting from a contorted throat that turned everything into a growl.

“Wants to see the Lord, she does. Mind if we…”

“Do as you want.”

He gestured with his thumb, then settled back into what she assumed was a nap. Again, a guard, and a powerful one, placed right at the back of the castle and allowed to nap freely. The salt-licked parts of her blood that hailed from the Dockworker’s Union were getting very crabby indeed. Onager snored as she walked past, and his dogs growled softly. A final passage lay between them and Lord Godrick, and it had all the problems of the others. A good choke point, but its defences were inadequate. Instead of things getting tougher, there was a narrow passage with a few birds perched above, and… a set of stairs, with a few of these exiled soldiers and a grey-skinned giant. Without the stake through its chest, it looked downright feral, ready to smash something at any moment. Gostoc walked past it with as much speed as he could muster, and Taylor gladly followed. Good position, but she could imagine a way around it. If she hid in the narrow passage leading here, the giant would be unable to act - if she had a gun, that would be the time to use it. But no, had to be here, in a passage where it could barely move properly. Her opinion of Godrick was declining.

And at long last, here they were. The final bridge. Long, wide, giving way to a fathomless chasm on either side. The wind had been alright inside the castle, now it was more unbearable than ever - she felt herself drifting to the side with every step, constantly forcing herself to remain on track, to remain centred. Tombstones surrounded her on every side, written in a language she didn’t understand. Hm. That sparked an idea - she hadn’t seen any writing thus far, and the only sample was totally incomprehensible. She paused Gostoc, turning to look directly into his faded golden eyes.

“What is it, girl? Lord’s just ahead. Not softening, are ye?”

“No, just… a small question. Can you read?”

Gostoc’s lip curled into a sneer.

“What, you think us servants can’t read? Maybe some of them, but I’m a gatekeeper. Been with this castle for years.”

He shrugged.

“If I couldn’t read, I’d have gone bloody insane, wouldn’t I, you daft prat.”

“OK, so… one moment.”

Her backpack had seen better days - well-worn before today, then soaked in filth, a little torn by a curious wolf, soaked in gore, and then hauled across Stormhill for two damn days. But the inside was still secure, and her books remained intact. She flipped open one - one of her English Literature texts, Julius Caesar. Gostoc blinked as she thrust the book under his nose, flicked to a random page.

“Can you read any of this?”

Gostoc peered, he hummed, he sucked his teeth, he did all manner of things to avoid talking. But in the end, under Taylor’s inquisitive gaze, he found himself compelled to answer.

“...no. Why bother reading foreign trash anyhow…”

His malicious mutterings aside, Taylor felt another surge of hope. She had an idea - better than the one she’d formulated at the gate. Not that she was going to share it with Gostoc yet. They walked in silence, Gostoc too irritated by the fact that he’d been forced to admit a fault, Taylor too tense. Godrick the Golden. She’d seen some weird things so far - skeletons, living jars, resurrection, grey giants, whatever Onager was… and at this point, she had no real clue what to expect. And that title, ‘the Grafted’, still bugged her. They were coming to a final keep, and some of the old irritation returned - long, easily defended bridge, and there wasn’t a single guard to be seen. She wanted to live here, dammit, they could at least put in some effort! The irritation gave her confidence to keep moving, and Gostoc pounded twice on the enormous wooden doors that lay between them… and the Lord of Stormveil Castle. Gostoc’s voice was almost inaudible over the strong winds, though he was clearly yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Supplicant to see Lord Godrick, supplicant to see Lord Godrick!”

A moment passed, and the doors began to creak open, pulled by two sturdy knights - better armed and larger than any of the soldiers she’d seen so far. Intimidatingly large swords hung at their waists, and eerily bright torches were clutched in their gauntlets. This must be the throne room, she thought. Torches burned in soot-stained sconces, leaving black marks on the ceiling where fires had licked for… centuries, possibly. A titanic statue stood in the back of a man bearing an axe, with a lion draped around his shoulders - or was it sinking teeth into the man’s shoulder? At this distance, with this gloom, she couldn’t tell. Her eyes were drawn lower by sudden movement. The huge wooden throne in the centre, large enough to use as a bed for someone her size, had an occupant. Her eyes widened, and Potiphar couldn’t help but scuttle behind her legs. Gold eyes, so pale they almost appeared white, stared from deep sockets. A cruel mouth twisted into a paranoid frown, further distorting an already deformed face. His arms came down on the rests of his throne. Then more arms. And more. And more. Taylor had thought maybe she’d reached the peak of strangeness - and once again, she was dismally wrong. At least she finally knew why they called him ‘the Grafted’.

Godrick was horrific. She couldn’t tell where his original body ended and a mass of grafted limbs began, each one pale and twisted out of its proper shape. Flesh from a dozen sources was packed onto his exposed torso, and his legs were as gnarled as old tree trunks. The fusions were distressingly smooth, like his body had grown to accept the new limbs, skin flowing to conceal any scars. Maybe if he had huge, Frankenstein-esque stitches, Taylor could have contented herself knowing that he had been sutured together like some freakish lab experiment. But the smoothness made her brain twitch irritably - one part saw the cohesion and thought that he had just been born that way. And every other part screamed that he was totally, incontrovertibly, unnatural. He was an abomination, the kind of thing that would scar people for life back on Earth Bet. His ‘clothes’ were rags, nothing fitting his monstrous frame properly, leaving him condemned to loose cloaks and baggy trousers, usually made from patchwork cloth. And despite all this, all the horror he contained in the melded mass of flash, he still radiated a kind of power. The pressure she’d felt on the bridge was back, somehow stronger - it made her ears pop just being around him. And the titanic axe by his side suggested that he wasn’t some invalid.

She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Godrick the Gold- no, the Grafted, could crush her to death with one of his many hands. Everything fell together - the name, and the laughter from the soldiers and Gostoc. Where did these limbs come from, she wondered, despite already knowing the answer in her heart of hearts. He stared down at her, and with a grunt, descended from the throne. Even without it, he still towered, and she was forced to crane her neck just to keep his head in sight. The doors slammed behind her, and she could vaguely hear Gostoc laughing to himself as he ran away as fast as his atrophied legs could carry him. At least she still had Potiphar… who was still cowering behind her legs. Fair enough. If she could cower behind someone she’d probably be doing it right now too. The Shardbearer ground his teeth thoughtfully, examining her from top to bottom. His thin lips curled into a mocking smile.

“A supplicant?”

His voice was raspy, accented in a way she didn’t quite recognise.

“A supplicant comes to the court of Godrick, Lord of all that is Golden?”

Multiple hands reached for the axe, and for a second Taylor thought this might be the end - killed, ground into mincemeat, chopped apart and stuck to his body as another set of limbs, so disassembled that Potiphar couldn’t reassemble her. She braced… and no strike came. Godrick simply lifted the axe a little off the ground, and slammed it back down. It was a soft blow, and somehow it still generated enough of a shockwave to make her legs shake. His voice bellowed, a hoarse roar that overwhelmed her senses.

“I command thee, kneel!”

Taylor knelt. She felt the skin on her knees splitting a little on the hard stone floor, but adrenaline washed any pain away. Her heart was pounding out of her chest, her forehead was streaked with cold sweat, every breath felt hurried and painful. Potiphar hid behind her back now, curling inwards to protect himself from Godrick’s gaze. The Lord said nothing, and her heart somehow beat faster, feeling like it was slamming against her ribs with each pump. Her eyes were still forwards, and she hurriedly brought them to the ground, lowering her head. She was a moment away from prostrating completely when Godrick… laughed. It wasn’t a very pleasant laugh. It was disbelieving, incredulous, and completely, utterly, arrogant. She’d made him feel powerful. And he was having the time of his life. She wasn’t sure if this was good or not - easily flattered, did that make him easier to convince, or too unpredictable to trust? Maybe both. She kept her eyes fixed on the dusty floor as she heard Godrick return to his throne with a thump. Best to remain still until he gave the order. The shining edges of that axe were sticking in her mind, warning her against any sudden or impudent moves.

“So, the supplicant knows how to show respect to a Lord! Very well, my mercies are great, my patience is infinite, speak!”

She cleared her throat to speak, and Godrick’s voice abruptly roughened in tone.

“I said, speak, stinking wretch!”

“Sorry! Uh, I mean, sorry, my lord.”

Was that the right term of address? He wasn’t killing her, but he was starting to make impatient grunts again - she bit the bullet.

“I wanted to ask - no, beg for a job. My lord.”

“You wish to pledge yourself to mine service?”

“Yes, my lord. Humbly. Please and thank you.”

She might be overdoing it. Godrick hummed thoughtfully.

“Look up, whelp.”

With difficulty, she obeyed. Once more the grotesque mass of limbs swam into view.

“Do you see the divine form before you? The grace of my shape, the power of my godly body?”

“Yes, my lord. Graceful and powerful, my lord.”

He was lapping up the ‘my lords’ like a cat with milk, each time she said it his smile went wider and wider. One part of her hated being this subservient… and the other parts wanted to live. As usually happened, the survival instinct won out.

“I earned this form, little creature. By my own strength, I claimed these hands by right of conquest, as noble Godfrey claimed his title and kingdom!”

He vaguely gestured to the huge statue behind him.

“I was not given power, I was not granted it. I took it! So why, little creature, should I offer you… charity? Thy limbs are too spindly even for my Scions, too weak to be used in battle, unfit for any purpose at all.”

“I could be a cook, or a maid, or… something!”

“I have no need for cooks or maids. Dost thou think I underfill my halls, that I must beg for servants? Dost thou think me a poor Lord? Dost thou?”

“No, no, I don’t! I… I have other things to offer!”

She hesitantly reached for her bag, drawing out her books.

“I come from a foreign country - I have some of our knowledge here, if you’d like it.”

Godrick peered at her high school Chemistry textbook. Images of atoms, compounds, complex formulae, and… photos. Explosions. Fizzing, hissing, steaming reactions. Metals by the dozen - his eyes widened at the sight of gold, widened further at a photo of a rocket taking off into space. He looked more interested… and far more wary.

“Your tribute is accepted. By way of thanks, you may leave without incident - I forgive you for wasting my time with your pointless requests.”

Shit. Time for plan B. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t take offence to this and kill her on the spot.

“Wait! I’m the only one who can read these books - I have more, with more information inside.”

Godrick growled.

“You dare command me to wait? And you give unto me… tainted tribute, books that only you can read? Treacherous sow, loathsome beggar, sidling to your betters with honeyed words dripping from a poisoned tongue!”

Shit, shit, shit.

“No, my lord, I didn’t mean to command you, I’m sorry for my mistake. I… can show you what’s in these books, the things my country discovered!”

This was a desperate plan. Godrick was clearly a raging narcissist - he could see this as a slight, kill her without hesitation. She had nothing else to offer him. Her observations on the condition of his castle were… pointless, not if they only served to insult him further. Rapidly, she’d gone from wanting to work for him and gain shelter to just trying to escape with all her limbs.

“...what manner of discoveries?”

She’d known this question was coming. Been thinking about it as she scrambled up the hill to Stormveil. She had textbooks full of modern-day knowledge… but the extent to which she could apply much of it was limited. Computer science, for instance, was probably incomprehensibly arcane to Godrick, and completely useless in her current situation. Likewise, anything too volatile probably wouldn’t be the best idea - not with this lunatic.

“Uh, advanced wound care, food preservation, some medicines which can cure a whole range of illnesses, engines which can power machines without any need for a human…”

An idea struck.

“I’ve also brought some literature from my home country, with some… speeches, some of them the best ever written!”

Now Godrick was interested, intrigued by the idea of a body of literature he could exploit for quotes with no-one else the wiser. Was she overhyping things a little? Yes. Without a doubt, yes. ‘Advanced wound care’ was limited to using alcohol to clean wounds, and she thought vinegar might also work as a disinfectant. Plus, some tourniquet technique - well, if she was able to remember that long-ago first aid course the Union had run. Food preservation was limited to pasteurisation, which seemed easy enough. Medicine was limited to penicillin, which she really hoped she could make properly. And the steam engine seemed to be simple enough to work with, the concept was simple if nothing else. She wasn’t expecting to revolutionise anything… to be blunt, this was her absolute last resort. She had literally nothing to offer. No skill in combat, no suggestions that wouldn’t insult Godrick, no talents she could really exploit. All she had were some books with knowledge that veered between useless, impractical, unprovable, and maybe a few scraps of some genuinely useful information.

She just needed to stay here long enough to get home. Throw a steam engine their way, impress them with a pair of Magdeburg hemispheres, then milk those until she was able to get her power back under control. As much as she hated to admit it… Emma was helping here. Even before everything, she’d had a vain streak. And Taylor had learned to play into it. Godrick was worse than Emma had ever been, at least she didn’t chop people up and collect their limbs for self-augmentation. But the principles were the same. Literature he could steal quotes from. Scientific curiosities he could show off to his fellow lunatic warlords. A pet scientist-magician who could bolster his reputation. Simply saying ‘my lord’ had been enough to make him grin like a madman, the opportunities she was presenting were… enticing, she imagined, to someone like him. Godrick hummed, hawed, thought deeply and considered the matter with due diligence. More books were flicked through idly, and his eyes hovered over pictures of nuclear explosions from a Physics book, soaring capes from Parahuman Studies, marching armies and rolling fields of tanks from History. She felt like she was going to pass out when he finally spoke.

“You promise me miracles?”

He gestured to a picture of an Endbringer marching - Leviathan, though she couldn’t be sure from this distance.

“I… well, not that one specifically, but I can-”

“What of this?”

A rocket launcher clutched in the hands of a Vietnam-era G.I.

“Not quite, but-”

“Then this, surely this?!”

Atomic fire.

“Not really, it’s not really my fie-”

“Then what good are you, spineless cretin?! You promise me mountains one moment, now you insist on molehills. Medicine, food preservation, what does a divine such as myself need from mortal tinctures?!”

He snorted derisively, and threw her book back down to the ground.

“And literature, what do I appear to be, an idle noblewoman with too much time on my many, many hands? I am the Lord of all that is Golden, I am an heir of Godfrey and Godwyn both, and you speak to me of literature? My business is with demigods, not with idle distraction!”

The plan was going out of control rapidly. Her mind, driven by panic, had retreated to the familiar - Emma, people she knew, things she understood. And by leaving the unfamiliar, the foreign, the alien behind, she had failed to understand it. Godrick was someone she’d never met, how could she have counted on his reactions? A malformed stump formed from half a dozen feet crashed into her, and she sprawled across the floor with a wheeze of pain. Godrick hopped down from his throne and started to pace around the room, grunting and snarling like a wild animal. She’d made a mistake. She’d made many mistakes. Potiphar came closer, shivering slightly, and she desperately gestured for him to stay hidden, to stay still. No point in him getting shattered for nothing. Godrick stumped round to her side of the room once again, to deliver another vicious kick.

“Bah! I have no time for your empty promises and poisoned tribute. Guards!”

The two knights came closer, metal boots clanking loudly, the eerie brightness of their torches washing over her.

“Take this one…”

He paused, and Taylor could vaguely see a malicious grin crossing his face.

“No, your brilliant Lord has conceived a better fate. She claims to be a miracleworker, does she not?”

The knights were silent, and Godrick giggled madly.

“Nay, nay, take her to the Crucible Knight, take her to that traitorous creature! That decrepit hound hasn’t been fed in some time, I believe. As a humane Lord, I ought to throw a toy to my mongrels once in a while, hm?”

He bent down, staring her in the face - his skin was the colour of old milk, his teeth were from multiple different people and rarely fit correctly, his breath stank of things she didn’t want to try and name.

“Remove him from my castle, miracleworker. Show us these brilliant discoveries you were so enthused to show, like a travelling peddler! Well, peddler, time to show us your goods. Perform this simple duty, wretch, and I’ll give you a job - oh, in the eyes of my forefathers and my gods, in the light of the radiant Erdtree, I promise that I’ll give you a job if you accomplish but this humble task which any miracleworker could perform. Take her!”

Panic was overwhelming her, this had spiralled ludicrously far out of control. But a few words spilled from her mouth before she could be removed, a tiny fragment of the mass of desperation and terror that was currently filling her.

“You promise?”

Godrick cackled.

“Oh, I promise, on every forefather I can name! Go on, miracleworker! Consider this your trial, a little test to enter my service!”

She felt metal gauntlets gripping her beneath her arms, hauling her to her feet - Potiphar grabbed onto her heel and held tight, a tiny weight dragging her incrementally down. The knights didn’t even pay attention to him, hauling her out into the howling winds while Godrick continued to laugh uproariously in his empty throne room. The grey gale consumed her once more. Confusing moments passed, a flurry of lights and sounds… and then the feeling of falling.

She couldn’t even manage a scream before her head smashed down

Chapter Text

Taylor felt her nose crack as she struck the hard ground, felt blood rush downwards and over her lips in a matter of seconds. A desperate gasp for air to slow her racing heart only led to a throatful of blood, and she coughed wildly for a few moments to clear the gathering clots. The gale rushed over her, the taste of copper filled her mouth, her knees were scraped, her arms were bruised, her side was aching from Godrick’s kick. The closest she’d felt to this was the moment of her first arrival, when she was covered in filth and completely alone. A rocky hand clapped down on her back, trying its best to clear her lungs. Well, at least she wasn’t alone now. It took a minute for her to just return to a state of functionality, where she didn’t feel like curling in on herself and sobbing for a while. No - she pictured Godrick cackling, and for a moment his mane of grey hair was replaced with vibrant red. She imagined traipsing across Stormhill again, this time without even a clear goal in sight. And, of course, she thought of never returning home, of dying here again and again until she sagged to the ground like some of the soldiers she’d seen, murmuring prayers for a proper death forever. With a grunt, she heaved herself back to her feet, trying to dust off her hands. With a wince, Taylor found that her palms had been half-skinned by the fall, and brushing them against each other hurt.

If she ever managed to see that invisible woman again, she was going to positively deck her. So what if she got stabbed, that woman had sent her here without mentioning that Godrick was a mutant abomination and a complete lunatic.

As she followed that train of thought - intentions, future plans - she found herself reaching an unpleasant realisation. She wasn’t alone down here. This was the edge of a cliff, a howling abyss lying beyond. The castle towered above, and she couldn’t see any routes back up. No guarantee that there were any, Godrick hadn’t seemed particularly confident in her ability to succeed. This might as well be her prison cell, even if there were no bars or walls. Scrubby blue-grey grass shivered in the relentless gale, worse now that there weren’t any shelters. Someone was down here with her - a… Crucible Knight, whatever that meant. A traitor. Someone she needed to take care of. Rapidly, Taylor ran through her options. There were no knights in her immediate vicinity, but the path led some ways away, disappearing under a half-ruined archway. No routes for escape that she could see - and that knight could be anywhere, maybe under that very arch. Depressing as it was, the option of suicide was still very much available. Kill herself, let Potiphar stuff her remains away, find his own way back. No - no guarantee that he could. And she had no tools to perform the act, not unless she was willing to either thrown herself over the cliff and hope Potiphar could find her, or to pick up one of the larger rocks and set to work. And that seemed… slow. And painful. No, she didn’t have any other options. Necessity drove away panic, bloody minded stubbornness kept fear at bay for a little while.

If the knight killed her, which seemed likely, Potiphar could recover her remains. If she succeeded, all was well. And if she could, she’d try and escape past the knight, and… well, she’d think of what to do when the moment came. Thinking too hard made her freeze up, paralysed by too many options and too many possible disasters. And, of course, dread. She needed to keep moving, hope for the best. Wasn’t like she had any other choices here. She bent down and looked Potiphar in what she assumed was his face.

“Stay here. If I die… you know what to do.”

Potiphar hesitated for a moment. He gestured with his arms, miming riding on her back like he’d done a few times already. Taylor shook her head.

“No, I don’t want you to get broken. Stay.”

The jar seemed to hover between being disappointed… and a strange kind of surprised gratitude. It didn’t look quite sure how to deal with being treated like a valuable partner. Hm. Were these jars… expendable? Did most people burn through them like copy paper? Either way, Potiphar sat down with a thumb, curling his arms around himself. When he remained still like this, he looked like just an ordinary piece of pottery. Good. Less of a chance that he’d be hurt. With a sigh, she moved on. The arch loomed, the wind howled. She scrambled along a piece of land where the cliff edge came terrifyingly close, clinging tightly to the stone walls with cold, scraped hands. The wind was making her numb, at least - could barely feel her myriad little injuries. A moment later, she was back on more solid footing. She must look a fright - blood dripping from her nose, scrapes, bruises, and filthy clothes. Nothing to do about it now, though. The archway was from a crumbled section of castle, she saw - yet another piece of evidence that Stormveil was crumbling away. Grass rustled around her feet as she came closer, and the wind made the rustling grow louder and louder with each passing moment.

Wait.

That wasn’t the wind.

Footsteps, heavy and certain, approaching rapidly. Taylor squeaked as she jerked backwards, and a man in armour emerged from a nearby patch of rubble. He was huge - Christ, was everyone in this world massive but her? His armour was a material she couldn’t quite recognise, and decorated with ludicrously elaborate patterns. An ornate helmet stared blankly at her, and the knight came closer. A wickedly sharp sword glinted in the dull sunlight. He stood between her and the arch, an impassable roadblock. Taylor surveyed the situation, and acted appropriately. She lunged past the knight, surprising him with her sudden movement. A desperate scramble later, and she was back on the narrow section of path. Her boots skidded alarmingly, but her sore hands clung tight. She moved faster than she thought she was capable of, rapidly squirming her way across the gap and to stable ground. The knight’s footsteps pursued her, and she ran faster. Was this a good idea? Probably not. But the narrow path had been barely wide enough for her to squeeze past, surely someone as large as him would have no chance. She heard the footsteps come to a halt, and her hopes soared.

Taylor turned to see the knight standing there, staring at the gap blankly. He looked up to her, and seemed to be examining something - her eyes, probably. Checking if she was a Tarnished. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed, maybe… oh no. He was still moving, a little faster now in fact. She called out to him desperately - if he was still sane, maybe he could listen to reason.

“Don’t! The path’s too narrow, you won’t-”

The knight ignored her. He leapt into the air, and for a moment she thought that he’d fall into the gap, plunge out of sight and out of her life. Maybe he was insane, and she was about to have the one piece of luckiness she’d been saving up for all this time. He soared higher… and fuck. The bastard had wings. How the fuck did he have wings, what kind of bullshit bad luck had she been cursed with? She couldn’t even muster the willpower to run, too busy staring in awe as he sprouted a set of ethereal wings which shone in a whole range of colours. If the knight wasn’t about to kill her, she’d find them beautiful - after all the horror of Godrick’s additional limbs, these looked effortlessly natural, positively vibrant with life. The knight plunged across the gap, gliding on powerful wings, and Taylor was sure this would be the end. His feet crashed down barely a few feet in front of her, and she knew this was the end, she’d be chopped up, stabbed, gruesomely beheaded, and would be sent back to that peaceful darkness before being expelled from a bunch of cloying roots. Thinking of that darkness, though… maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The knight came closer, and she remained still. No way back, no point running. Her misadventure to Stormveil was about to come to an end.

The knight paused, and she involuntarily shut her eyes. Didn’t want to see the sword before it killed her. There was the sound of something rustling, and… she coughed and spluttered. Something was being shoved under her nose, wiping brusquely. Her hands came up as she flailed away, and an enormous gauntleted hand caught her on the shoulder. Taylor’s eyes opened, and she saw the knight… holding a handkerchief. A very old, dusty handkerchief. A handkerchief stained with the blood from her cracked nose. She froze in surprise, and the knight seemed to take this as an invitation, continuing to brutally wipe her nose clean of blood. It only took a few moments, but it was an unpleasant few moments. The knight was an overwhelming presence, and his work was rapid and unmerciful. She somehow felt more sore afterwards. With a dismissive grunt, he pointed at her now fairly clean face.

“Blood. Bad. Un-san-itary.”

His voice was deep and gravelly, and he clearly had to force his words out. He didn’t even pause for her reply, instead turning and stomping away back to the cliff edge. With a flurry of ethereal wings, he crossed the gap and crunched his way across the grass in the vague direction of the archway.

What.

She had no idea how to feel about any of this. On the one hand, he’d clearly recognised that she wasn’t a threat. Maybe it was her lack of a weapon, her golden eyes, some combination of the two. Thoughts whirled through her head. Why was he down here? Why did Godrick want him taken care of - he seemed sane, if a little strained, so why lock him away and send someone to kill him? Too many questions. Practically speaking, the situation hadn’t actually changed all that much. The knight was still here. There was still no way back up. Getting answers to her questions was a luxury, getting out of here was far more vital. The narrow path was no obstacle, not after two crossings, and she found herself walking back to the archway with a little less trepidation than before. She could vaguely see him, kneeling at… something. A low rock with a few objects resting on it. An altar of some kind? Looked homemade. Taylor walked over to him, her gait shifted from tip-toes to more obvious strides - last thing she wanted was to surprise him and get kicked off a cliff. This close, and without the fear of immediate death, she could see more of his armour - it was a red-gold colour, and was engraved with images of spreading roots and branches, a great tree emblazoned on the breastplate. His armour looked old from this close. His cloak, too. Everything was covered in dust, speckled with grime, or chipped by innumerable conflicts. The cloak was worn down almost to a loose scrap of cloth. Her hope went higher still at the sight of the engravings. Was that the symbol of the Erdtree? If so - maybe he was in cahoots with the leaders of the Lands Between. But again, confusion mounted. Godrick’s Lordsworn had the image of a tree, so did this ‘Crucible Knight’... why the enmity?

“Uh, excuse me?”

No answer, just a huge bowed head reverently murmuring to the altar. No time like the present. She tapped him on the shoulder, and this time he briefly paused.

“Sorry, can you… talk?”

He grunted.

“Talk.”

OK, he could say single words. That was nice.

“Why are you here?”

“Trapped.”

Oh. Shit. So he couldn’t get out either - that didn’t bode well for whatever lay past the archway.

“...why does Godrick want you gone?”

He seemed confused by the question, and remained silent for a few long moments before answering.

“God-rick?”

Hm.

“You know, the Lord of this castle. Lots of arms.”

He shrugged blankly. Things weren’t adding up. If he didn’t know who Godrick was, why was he trapped? Maybe his memory had faded over time, or maybe he’d been sealed by Godrick’s men automatically - perceived as a threat and locked up before he could do anything else. For a moment, she studied the objects on his altar - just three tiny statuettes made from chipped ivory. A pair of trees, one identical to the Erdtree, the other coniferous. And… a man. A bearded man roaring while brandishing an axe, a stylised lion draped around his shoulders. Wait - Godrick’s throne room had a statue very similar to that, though obviously a lot more detailed. What had he called the man… hm.

“Do you know the name ‘Godfrey’?”

The knight perked up, and stared at her intensely. His eyes were a faded gold colour, but there was something… ancient about them. Something completely exhausted. It reminded her of the more dejected soldiers she’d seen at that camp, the ones barely willing to stand up even when a Tarnished attacked. How long had he been alive? His armour looked like a relic, and she’d assumed that he was wearing some old hand-me-down… but maybe this was his armour, and he’d been wearing it for an ungodly amount of time.

“Godfrey.”

He mulled the word over, and his eyes brightened.

“Godfrey! Lord Godfrey!”

Oh, great, they were up to two words.

“Where?”

He stood, and advanced on her, eyes still bright, entire body quivering with eagerness.

“Where?”

And now the situation was spiralling out of control again.

“I don’t know where he is, I just know the name-”

He advanced closer, and now his eyes were darkening a little, what little she could see of his lips curling into a scowl.

“Where is my Lord?”

Four words, splendid.

“I don’t know, please, I-”

She paused as her back struck a wall - the knight was right in front of her, towering high above, sword twitching in a hard grip. Godfrey, Godrick said that he was a forefather, this knight must have served him in the past. That statue in the castle looked old, this guy must be ancient. No wonder his speech was so stilted, his eyes so tired. How many times had he been resurrected?

“Godfrey… here?”

“No, no, he’s not. Why… why would you think he was here?”

The knight’s face was crossed with sadness, nostalgia, and… intelligence. His voice was clearer now, emboldened by a flood of vivid memories she could practically see dancing behind his eyes.

“Lord Godfrey took this castle from the Storm King, and I was at his side, as were all my brothers and sisters of the Crucible Order. We surmounted the battlements with our winged aspects and put the defenders to the sword, burned them, impaled them on horns. Lord Godfrey slew the King himself in single combat, one of the last battles of the war… the victory howls of Serosh rose high into the night, louder than even our cries. We feasted well, drank the cellars dry, made the pages work for days to satisfy our appetites, dined on stewed hawks from the Storm King’s personal aviary. Sir Ordovis spent the entire feast picking feathers from his teeth with his knife.”

A full-bodied laugh bubbled up… and then died away as the knight seemed to struggle to find the next few words.

“...and then… and then I don’t… I can’t. The fog won’t clear.”

His eyes went hazy, then refocused on Taylor’s own.

“...where is he?”

And suddenly this day had shifted from terrifying to simply sad. This man was clearly old beyond measure, his memories were fading, his ability to speak was degrading rapidly. Maybe this was why he’d been sealed away, locking up an old man for being too useless seemed like something Godrick would do. But… no, things weren’t adding up. Godrick had called him traitorous, and she’d seen soldiers in worse conditions than him. The knight was starting to lose his concentration, mumbling to himself, turning back to the altar with its tiny objects… wait, maybe there was something there. She recognised Godfrey and the Erdtree. But what was the third one, the conifer? She pointed to it, speaking loudly to attract the knight’s attention.

“What’s this?”

He pondered the object for a few long moments, running his hands over the chipped ivory surface. A flash of recognition went through his eyes, and his hands started to caress the delicately engraved pines.

“...Crucible. Primordial. Life.”

Hm. Was there… another Erdtree? Or something similar to it? She’d seen no other icons of a coniferous tree around, not on any surcoats or banners. This man was clearly ancient… maybe he was worshipping something he shouldn’t? Godrick had sworn by the Erdtree, but he hadn’t mentioned a thing about the Crucible. Her working theory was that this knight worshipped something heretical, and the rest of the castle despised him for it. A pang of sympathy went out to him… and a small flush of irritation. Damn it, she was told to get rid of him, and here she was sympathising. She hadn’t managed to actually find a way out, and she desperately needed one. Ideas flashed past in moments. Killing the knight wasn’t an option - no weapons around here, and she didn’t think much of her chances at killing him with a rock. Unless she could do it in one strike, no chance to react, the knight would certainly fight back and win in seconds. A little exploration behind the arch revealed a large tower, and a gaping hole surrounded by ropes. An elevator of some kind, brought up to prevent the knight from escaping. His mind must have seriously decayed for him to fall for that kind of trap - this must have been an old prison, then. Seemed like a good spot. No need to build walls, just drop prisoners down here and let them huddle on the edge of the cliff.

Ideas came and went in seconds, almost all of them immediately dismissed. Wait - Godrick hadn’t said to kill the knight. He just wanted her to get him out. Sure, he had probably meant killing him, but she was willing to read the letter of the agreement and not the spirit, especially if following the letter meant fighting a knight with magical wings. Maybe… hm. She considered telling him that Godrick was Godfrey’s descendant, and then imagined the poor, confused knight being led to Godrick’s throne room and facing nothing but a mad cackle and a descending axe. And then she’d probably be killed for daring to bring such a threat into the lordship’s presence. No, not an option - morally or practically. She returned to the knight, and knelt by his side, watching carefully for any sign of hostility.

“What’s your name?”

“Telavis.”

“I’m Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

“Hm.”

Silence reigned as she struggled for more questions. Wait - maybe she could get him out of that armour, into something less conspicuous, then sneak him out through the front entrance. That armour was far too recognisable to ever go through the castle unnoticed. It would be difficult, but maybe she could convince someone like Gostoc to let the elevator drop down - if he represented anything like an average of the servants in Stormveil, it seemed achievable. And at the end of the day, greed was always a powerful motivator.

“If removing your armour would help you escape, would you do it?”

Telavis looked offended.

“No.”

“Godfrey’s not here! He’s gone, there’s nothing here for you. If you take off your armour just for a little while, you can leave and keep searching for Godfrey.”

“No.”

“OK, what if I promised to give your armour back after you escaped.”

He leaned closer.

“No.”

“What if I promised on… on all my forefathers and the light of the Erdtree? And the Crucible?”

He paused, and sized her up. He took in her filthy clothes, her scrapes and bruises, her nose that was rapidly turning purple… and snorted.

“Urchin. Honourless.”

Oh, great, Telavis was being a dick - Christ, couldn’t she meet someone nice. Wait - ideas were forming again. He’d placed emphasis on his own lord, displayed enduring loyalty even after all this time. Communicating with him in a language he understood would be a start. Wasn’t like she had many other options. She straightened to her full height and tried to puff out her chest a little, contorting her face into something resembling haughty pride. Her voice became louder and more indignant.

“You think I’m an urchin? I’m a servant of Lord Godrick the Golden himself! I swear by the honour of my Lord that I will do as I say, now get up and get moving! Come on, you’re not wanted here, get going!”

Silence. Telavis stared at her. A bark of laughter broke through his helmet.

“Bold! Like me, when I was young. But…”

He slapped her on her arm, leaving yet another bruise.

“No muscle. Not like me. Hm.”

Fantastic, more insults. Though his tone wasn’t mocking - he sounded innocently amused, there wasn’t a trace of cruelty in his voice.

“Well? Get up!”

He mulled over her words… and with a grunt, removed his helmet. Black hair tumbled out, surrounding an incredibly old face with a massive, unkempt beard. She blinked, then blushed and looked away as the rest of the armour came off. He removed it startlingly quickly, the metal pieces clicking away. He was just as large under the armour, apparently.

“One moment, just… got to check something.”

She dashed away from a bemused-looking Telavis, who was standing in a set of very old underclothes, armour piled in a heap around his feet. The tower awaited, and she shouted up through the shaft.

“Hey! Anyone there!”

A familiar face poked over the edge, peered down, and grinned malevolently.

“Oh, so that’s where you ended up? Wondered why there wasn’t any screaming from the throne room.”

She resisted the urge to insult him, one-armed, pale-faced, deceitful bastard. Couldn’t believe she’d given her sword to him - actually, if he’d been telling the truth about her being killed on sight for stealing a Lordsworn’s sword, maybe he’d done her a favour. Not going to thank him, of course. That’d be silly.

“I need to get up, I can pay you!”

“With what, hm? Lord Godrick has all your little books, what are you going to trade? Your clothes, all covered in dust and blood?”

“No, I can do better. Armour. High-quality, too.”

Her plan became a little more vengeful. She’d manipulated a knight into taking off his armour and trusting her… and now she had a chance to manipulate Gostic into doing what she wanted. She wouldn’t lie, the feeling of control after so long without was a little addictive.Gostoc had helped get her into this mess, she had no qualms whatsoever about cheating him. Sure, she had nothing else to offer… but she had no doubt that Gostoc would break in a moment if he found that the only way to keep the armour was to oppose someone obviously stronger than him. The man struck her as a massive coward… and a greedy one, too. Easy to predict.

“Hm, armour eh? What kind?”

“Can’t say, but it’s old and good. I just need three things in return.”

“Ooh, three she says, three things for one measly suit of armour? Well, tell all, tell old Gostoc what you desire.”

“Lower the elevator. Escort me out of the castle. And… a cloak. A very, very large one. Largest you can find.”

Gostoc mulled the proposition over, weighing up the cost of a large cloak compared to an entire suit of armour, God this man was irritating. The vengeful element of her plan was seeming more pleasant with each passing moment. Sure, this entire thing could go catastrophically wrong. If she was noticed on the way out and stopped, she was dead. If Telavis was recognised, dead. If Godrick decided she was reneging on her deal? Dead. But she hardly had another choice. The gatekeeper grunted.

“Ah, very well. Where’s the armour?”

“Everything else first. Then armour.”

“Bah, if you’re going to be like that, you can rot down there.”

For a moment, she could see. The way his personality determined his actions, the way that he could be manipulated. Everything clicked - he hesitated a little, and she couldn’t hear him walking away. So, she pushed down on the vulnerability she sensed.

“OK, sure, I’ll rot down here with all my lovely armour. Which you can’t have. Maybe I’ll offer it to the next person who minds the tower, I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

A look of outrage crossed his face, visible even from this distance. Gostoc grunted.

“...bah, fine.”

He stumped away, muttering vile things about youngsters and their suits of armour. Probably planning to kill her if she betrayed him… or kill her anyway, once he had the armour. And that was where Telavis came in. She turned, and she almost broke her nose again, this time on a pot held in front of her face. Potiphar squirmed slightly in Telavis’s tight grip, tiny legs kicking helplessly. Telavis stared at her from behind his absolute mane of hair, and his pecs quivered slightly whenever Potiphar struggled - no, bad Taylor, no ogling the ancient knight with severe memory issues. Focus on his numerous ugly scars instead, those patches of pale white tissue, stretched and distorted by the passage of time… yeah, that did it. She felt her brief fluster passing.

“This… yours?”

Potiphar tried to reach around to grab the knight, and Taylor noticed that his top was off, and his interior was crammed with several loose pieces of armour. She felt oddly insulted by this.

“Yes, that’s Potiphar. Did you-”

“Need place to put armour. Found pot.”

He frowned.

“Pot moved.”

Potiphar moved once more, and the knight’s frown deepened. Taylor scowled and grabbed Potiphar, almost staggering under his new weight.

“Potiphar, are you alright?”

The pot jittered a little, seeming almost embarrassed that he’d been caught so easily. He shrugged.

“Hm. Well, keep hold of his armour. Where are your-”

She was going to ask about his weapons, but realised that maybe asking him to surrender the huge sword and shield (which had a giant horn protruding from it, for some reason) was a step too far. He was already looking a little distressed at the feeling of the gale on his bare, ludicrously muscled skin. Taking his weapons might provoke him to violence, or maybe sheer panic. Best to play it safe. She’d already gotten this far. Moments passed in awkward silence, and at long last, the elevator started to descend. Gostoc cried down:

“Better have that armour!”

Telavis frowned, processing that little bit of information, and Taylor yelled back in a desperate attempt to distract his attention.

“Well, you’d better have that cloak!”

Indeed he did, and Telavis’s suspicion over the armour situation was momentarily dampened by the arrival of a thick, black cloak - looked like a repurposed tablecloth, honestly. She could even see a few wine stains. Telavis hardly minded, swinging it on and fastening it tight around the neck, pulling up the makeshift hood with a sigh of relief. Fair enough, she had no idea how long he’d been trapped in that suit of armour, for all she knew it’d been centuries. With their final bit of business concluded, the elevator began to rumble up. Thoughts occurred on the ride up - her books were stuck with Godrick. All she had was what dwelled in her head. She’d need to play it safe with any future claims of ‘miracles’ then... but to be blunt, she wasn’t anticipating having to entertain Godrick much longer. The moment she was out of this fortress, she’d be on her way, Potiphar in tow. Find somewhere else to hide, ideally with fewer multi-armed abominations with delusions of grandeur.

The elevator slid to a halt, and Taylor had one of the best moments in an otherwise awful day. Gostoc’s grin turned into a terrified grimace. He saw the huge man wearing the cloak, the pot stuffed with red-gold weaponry, and put together the pieces in his head. He backed away, shivering slightly.

“You… you…”

Taylor leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder, a smile that could be politely described as ‘shit-eating’ crossing her face. She wasn’t much for smiling mockingly, but she was riding high for the moment. She’d been thrown down to get killed by a knight, and she’d gotten out, she was finally on top, finally in a position where others were weak compared to her after days of terrified hiking, after months of torment. The experience was indescribable. Better than sex. She assumed.

“This is my friend, Gostoc. My friend also wants to leave the castle. So, how about you help us both, hm?”

“I… wha- you, you…”

“Yes. Me. Now start walking.”

She could see where Godrick was coming from, being in a position of power was intoxicating. Seeing Gostoc jump to attention in a way she had predicted, acting in a manner that further her own goals was… a hell of a high.

Chapter Text

Taylor should probably have been a little concerned at the involuntary shiver of enjoyment that ran through her when Gostoc cringed and scuttled away, leading them through the labyrinthine castle. She could really see why Godrick was such a lunatic… no, she clamped down on the impulse. Thinking of Godrick’s mad cackle made her think of Emma’s mocking laugh, and that tended to put a damper on… well, anything. Her clothes were still stained with the remains of her last prank, still stank in a way that she knew she’d never forget. It was interesting walking backwards through the castle, using corridors instead of courtyards, always evading the main thoroughfare of Stormveil. A pleasant kind of interesting, certainly. And all those irritations were turning into a sea of relief - Godrick had placed his guards poorly, concentrating them in the wrong areas, focusing them on half-made defences. It meant that these corridors were practically deserted, save for a few servants who scattered from them with startled yelps. They were all dressed like Gostoc, the same white-gold robe, the same strange handcuffs hanging around their necks. Most were men, but she saw a few women scuttling from place to place. Based on the general state of decay and the mounds of dust, they weren’t doing much work - in fact, she quickly realised that they weren’t even running from the enormous musclebound man. They were running from the sight of someone who could tell them to get back to their duties.

Again, her dad’s blood was pulsing angrily, and she felt an urge to do some ordering around. Hm. She wasn’t sure if that was coming from her dad, or the days of terror and weakness that had preceded this moment. As they walked through dusty corridors, passing dilapidated rooms, she spoke - confidence gave her a voice, and she had questions for Gostoc dearest.

“So, Godrick’s a ‘Shardbearer’? What exactly does that mean?”

Gostoc clearly wanted to ask her to pay for that information, but a quick glance at the mass of muscle that was Telavis convinced him otherwise. Good. Just as she’d anticipated.

“Godrick has a shard of the Elden Ring.”

“And what’s the Elden Ring?”

Gostoc shrugged.

“Don’t know, never listened in chapel. Somethin’ special, I guess. Probably a ring. Old one. Big ‘un.”

Telavis rumbled disapprovingly at the idea that he had ‘never listened in chapel’, but otherwise offered no comment. She wondered if even he knew what the Elden Ring was - his memory was damaged enough, maybe he honestly couldn’t remember. She assumed that it wasn’t an actual ring - unless it was a very large one. A normal ring couldn’t be divided into many shards before you reached pocket lint sizes… hm. Worth investigating, but unimportant for now. Godrick was clearly a lunatic, and based on his castle, not a very smart lunatic either. She was getting out of here, and as long as Telavis remained by her side, she had the ability to bypass all of Gostoc’s bullshit. Might as well try to get some information on the other strong people in the Lands Between. The invisible woman’s advice still had some power over her - it felt like every advancement she’d made was because of harnessing the power of someone else. Whether that was Potiphar punching a skeleton, the invisible woman giving her directions, Nepheli accidentally giving her access to vital supplies, or Telavis getting her out of this crazy place. Godrick was a dead end, maybe there were others who’d be more reasonable. And ideally have fewer arms.

“And are there other Shardbearers?”

“Yes, of course. Bunch of them. Where are you from that you don’t know this? Are you simple or what?”

“Nevermind that, just keep answering. Who? And where?”

Gostoc’s eyes suddenly adopted a more cunning aspect, and she could see the greasy wheels in his brain turning, generating a scheme of some variety. Hm. Not good.

“Oh? Turning from Lord Godrick so soon? Think you might find employment elsewhere, hm?”

She could feel Telavis’s eyes on the back of her head. Shit. He thought she worked for Godrick, she’d fucked up, empowered by the heat of the moment. He seemed honourable enough, if he thought she was betraying her boss, he might think that she had designs on his armour. She didn’t, she had every intent to let Telavis take the armour while Gostoc cringed in a cowardly manner. Had to salvage this somehow, though, before anything bad happened. The look on the gatekeeper’s face was giving her the shivers.

“No, no, just… curious. I don’t know much about this place, that’s all.”

“Hm. If you say so. Well, let’s see… Godrick’s got one, which leaves… hm. Starscourge Radahn, Morgott up in Leydell (damn him and his bloody armies), I think Rennala in Liurnia has one… hm. Oh, there’s the Lord of Blasphemy, of course.”

His tone dropped, and filled with a mix of hate and fear. The ‘Lord of Blasphemy’ sounded like someone to stay away from at all costs. Though… Gostoc was a spineless creep, and these people hated the ‘Crucible’ that Telavis worshipped, even if he also revered the Erdtree like everyone else. And he’d seemed reasonable enough, if a little addled. Maybe the Lord of Blasphemy was some kind of rebel against a corrupt order. God - she shouldn’t be thinking things like this, she was dealing with mad warlords in a world she barely understood, projecting any kind of understanding onto them was probably doomed to failure. She put him into a definite ‘maybe’ on the list of future employers.

“...then you’ve got the pox-ridden slattern Malenia, her brother Miquella, and… I think that’s it. Might be more, but I don’t know them.”

“Alright, alright. So, let’s say I wanted to visit any of them on business for Godrick, which ones are the most reasonable?”

Gostoc gave her a look. This was definitely a bad idea, but at the same time, the moment they reached the gates Telavis would be gone. And suddenly Gostoc would be able to make her pay for every scrap of information he offered. She only had a brief interval to milk answers out of him, and she was going to exploit that interval ruthlessly. She returned his look with her own look, one that she hoped indicated her willingness to let Telavis paste him into the wall. Wasn’t sure if she could follow through on that promise, but Gostoc didn’t know that.

“...Radahn’s a rot-crazed cannibal out in Caelid. Eats anyone, last I heard. And to get to him you’d need to go through Caelid, and…”

He shivered.

“We don’t go to Caelid anymore.”

Alright, Radahn was off the list. Rot-crazed cannibal sounded like a bad thing to stand near, even if she probably barely qualified as a light snack.

“Malenia’s the one who made him a rot-crazed cannibal, and both her and her brother are gone. Albinaurics keep moaning about how they’ve vanished. Silvery idiots, no hope for them, none at all.”

Alright, so both of them were off the list. Impossible to get to.

“Morgott fought Godrick, no chance of visiting him. And he’s up on the Altus Plateau, no way up there anymore. Grand Lift’s been down for centuries.”

Shit. The list was wearing dangerously thin. Shame about Morgott - sounded like a reasonable guy if he’d fought Godrick. Another person impossible to get to.

“OK, what about Rennala? Or… the other one, the Lord of Blasphemy?”

“Rennala’s mad. Crazed harlot snapped after her husband left her, stays up at the top of her academy. No way in, not without a key. And if you wanted to visit her…”

He snorted a cruel laugh.

“You’re heading the wrong way. Only road to Raya Lucaria is through Stormveil.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“What about the Lord of Blasphemy, then, you haven’t said anything about him.”

“Can’t get to him either. Lives up on Mount Gelmir, on the Altus Plateau. And…”

Oh. Oh dear. Taylor felt her steps slowing a little, could even feel Telavis’s breath on the back of her neck. The list had sounded so large when he’d first read it out - seven Shardbearers, seven possible employers strong enough to protect her while she worked on her abilities and tried to get home. The nature of that strength was completely unknown to her - she’d thought of them like traditional warlords, or maybe parahumans at a stretch, but… Godrick, the Fell Omen, Telavis, the sheer age covering everything… she had no idea what they were, how they became so strong, or why their abilities took their particular shape. All she knew was that they were strong. And even if the woman in the catacombs had failed to mention that Godrick was a complete lunatic, her advice to seek strength still seemed… well, faintly reasonable. Taylor’s only amendment to it would be ‘seek strength and sanity’.

Insane, inaccessible, or unfindable. As she saw the huge front gates of the castle loom high, felt the rush of air devoid of the scent of dust, she realised that the world beyond was even more hostile than she’d ever guessed. The idea of wandering the Lands Between aimlessly, finding somewhere to hide until she could master her abilities struck her as insane. She couldn’t forage for food, couldn’t hunt - hell, she didn’t even have a sword anymore. Not that it would have helped. All she had was a living jar - and a lovely jar he was too - but he didn’t seem too capable of telling her which rivers were good to drink from, which mushrooms were edible, how to tie a snare or gut a fish. She assumed. She didn’t even have her books anymore, her powers weren’t working for the time being, she had nothing to her name. Gostoc noticed her nervousness, and laughed lightly to himself. Where had that terror gone? Why had his nervousness shifted to her? A sense of foreboding washed over her. The gate loomed, the final bridge leading to Stormhill, where she’d felt the pressure of the Fell Omen weighing heavily on her. Telavis strode forwards, taking a deep breath. His beard twitched, his fists clenched and unclenched. His eyes were cloudy with uncertainty - she hadn’t really wondered what he was going to do after leaving Stormveil. Part of her wanted to be altruistic and full of guiding wisdom. The rest of her wasn’t willing to give someone advice on how to live their life while she was still desperately trying to figure out her own.

Gostoc coughed, and his face was covered in smug confidence.

“So… I’ll be taking that armour now, as agreed.”

Telavis whirled, his eyes turning furious. Eyes that focused on Taylor. He growled.

“You sold my armour?”

He stepped closer. Shit. She’d hoped Gostoc was remain terrified for a little longer.

“You violated my trust?”

“No, no, I- Gostoc, you don’t want to take the nice knight’s armour, right? You’ll give it back to him for free?”

Her plan was falling apart. She’d hoped Gostoc would remain silent, that he’d let Telavis walk away with his armour. The man struck her as a coward, not the sort to provoke someone obviously stronger than him. She understood that this was really her only option, that she had no way of getting that elevator or a guided walk to the exit that didn’t involve surrendering something… but she’d hoped that Gostoc wouldn’t have clocked her vulnerability for a few more minutes. They were right here, the rest of the world was looming invitingly. She had been so close to succeeding at something.

“Oh, well, maybe you break your agreements, but I don’t. I was promised armour. And I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

Telavis came closer, and she realised once again just how huge he was, how easily he could crush her skull between his hands. Taylor backed up, almost returning to the interior of Stormveil - the one place she wanted to escape. The knight growled, and anger seemed to give him a little clarity, enough that his next words were surprisingly lucid.

“That armour was granted by Lord Godfrey. And you sold it, like some honourless tinker, besmirching the name of your own Lord by taking it in vain.”

Gostoc clocked this, his eyes widened, and he cackled.

“Oh, did she say she works for Lord Godrick? I assure ye, there is no agreement. No job. No protection.”

She was going to die here. She was going to die at the hands of an angry knight. Potiphar would drag her back to a set of catacombs, and she’d have nowhere else to go, no more goals to pursue. She’d sink into despair, be like those half-dead bodies which murmured prayers for final death. All she wanted was a job, a place to rest and recuperate, to focus on her own powers and try to get back home. And for some reason Godrick had decided to throw her… to throw her…

Oh.

“Wait, I am working for Godrick, actually!”

“No more lies, girl, dear sir knight doesn’t look too gullible, hm? No, sharp as a whip, this one. Too sharp for ye! Heh!”

“Godrick said I could have a job if I got the Crucible Knight out of the castle. Which I have.”

Telavis looked down. He was, technically, standing outside of the main gate. It could be argued that ‘out of the castle’ meant completely out, wandering the wastes of Stormhill. But there were no soldiers out here, the signs of Godrick’s rule only manifested within the gate they had just passed. The knight came closer, and his eyes had… changed, in a way. He looked almost pitying, reproachful instead of furious. Strangely enough, this almost annoyed her. She’d betrayed his trust, he should be angry - she’d be angry in his position. But those pitying eyes came closer still, unrelenting in their disappointment.

“You lied to me in the castle. You gave me your word. Why?”

Her mind raced, trying to ignore the tone of hurt in his voice. She briefly remembered Alan, Emma’s dad - lawyer, good with picking apart words. Insisted on subjecting her to some legal humour once or twice. She tried to emulate him a little, even adopting his little hand gestures, the way his head instinctually turned in the direction of a jury. She tried to inject some confidence into her voice, but all she achieved was being louder in a vague attempt to sound assertive. Telavis looked honourable enough, he’d shifted from resisting her suggestions to following her just because she swore on her lord. She felt bad for exploiting him, but… she needed to get out of this situation.

“Uh, well, you see, I promised to take you out of the castle when I was still unbound to Godrick. So, I was a liar, a thief, all of that. But, now that you’re out of the castle, according to the promise he made, I now serve him. Which means that his allies are my allies, his enemies are my enemies. My priorities have changed, my loyalties have changed, everything has changed, really. Any promises I made outside of my service to him mean nothing now. So… my promise was null and void the moment we stepped outside of the castle. I… think.”

She finished weakly. God, she hoped that sounded convincing. Her slightly aimless rambling came to an end, and Telavis stared down at her with disbelieving pity. She felt like he was seeing through her, seeing someone else standing before him. And whoever that person was… he felt no hatred towards them. Just a strange pity that made her blood boil a little. Taylor braced herself to run - he had his sword still on him, but maybe she could get some good distance. She had boots, he was walking around in nothing but underclothes. Ideally, he’d die of exposure before he - no, he had glowing wings, he could definitely catch up. She could run back inside Stormveil and hope that the ballistae took care of him… she’d seen a dozen holes in their defences, but maybe Telavis wouldn’t. Maybe she shouldn’t be planning someone’s death like this, but to be fair, she’d already died once, and it turned out that death was both rather nice and completely temporary. So… well, she felt marginally less guilty about the prospect. Feel guilt later. Survive now. She started to back away.

“I want my armour back.”

“Come on, Gostoc, just give him his armour.”

“Nah. This stuff’s good - and if I went back on deals, what kind of an honest merchant would I be?”

The knight sniffed.

“You stink of the grave.”

Gostoc twitched nervously, the knight’s attention bringing him back down to earth.

“Ah, well, not, ah, polite to comment on a fellow’s smell, hm? Now, this armour is mine, see. Bound by promise and everything.”

“Did she swear in the name of Godrick?”

“No, she just… gave it over. First thing she offered, actually.”

Taylor interjected, trying to cover her own back.

“And I’m under Lord Godrick’s protection now, I work for him, so…”

She braced to run. Telavis considered this… and turned to Gostoc once more.

“I am a man of honour. You took my armour only after another lied, you have acted honestly. And you are sworn to your Lord.”

“I am, yes indeed, Lord Godrick the Golden, long may he reign.”

“I have been swindled. I will not repeat this sin on another. How much?”

Gostoc grinned, a little of his slimy cunning shining through once more, even behind the sheen of sweat he was developing. Taylor cursed inwardly, why couldn’t Telavis just kill Gostoc and take the armour back? Why did he have to be honourable?

“Oh, lots, I’ll need lots in exchange for this, very nice armour it is.”

“Hm.”

Back to Taylor, who had backed up a good few feet. Those reproachful eyes fell onto her cringing form once more.

“You. You lied. Need my armour back. You pay.”

The steel in his voice suggested that resistance was… well, foolish. She’d come down from being killed in a fit of vengeance to simply being asked to pay for some armour. Which was a pretty good step, in her mind. Still, one practical problem came up.

“I have nothing to give to him though, nothing! Godrick took my last possessions.”

“Loyal oathsworn. You get paid?”

Gostoc shrugged.

“We get a little here and there.”

“Hm. When you can, you will pay. Until…”

He stomped closer, hand tight around the sword hanging at his waist. His voice was slowing a little, becoming less clear and more simplified. The lucidity that his anger and pity had given him was fading, returning to the almost monosyllabic state he’d been in before. His years weighed heavily on his face.

“I keep my eye on you.”

She blinked.

“Oh, no, I might not be working for-”

Gostoc cackled.

“Not working for Godrick all of a sudden? Ah, twice a liar, twice a liar, what do you think of that my large friend?”

Telavis calmly placed his hand on his sword, and the message was clear. If she didn’t work for Godrick, she’d be killed like a common criminal (which, in the end, she was). The only thing that protected Gostoc from being killed and robbed was Telavis’s own honour… and she’d be excluded from that honour if she lost the Shardbearer’s protection. Taylor could have cried. Oh God, oh fuck, she’d managed to saddle herself with a mad knight who wanted her to pay for his armour. The same knight she’d been instructed to get out of the castle. Her predictions hadn’t quite worked, she was still learning apparently - but she’d been so close. Now, he’d follow her everywhere, torment her, distract her from her attempts to get back home… wait.

“You’ll follow me? Everywhere?”

“Hm.”

“And protect me, right? I mean, if I’m going to pay you back, then I’ll need to be alive and still working for Lord Godrick, right?”

“Hm.”

She very much hoped ‘hm’ meant ‘yes’. Telavis was back to looking fairly blank, but the faint undertone of pity lingered still. Gostoc was giving her a look. No other way - had to keep going. She was being manipulative, sure, and she’d taken advantage of the knight’s honour. But that was the only way she’d gotten out in the first place. If being a sneaky, manipulative sod got her home, she’d happily be all of those things.

“Alright then. Gostoc, do you have any clothes for my bodyguard here?”

Gostoc had gone from nervous, to confident, to nervous, back to confident, and now he was furious. She could guess why. He knew that there was no guarantee Godrick would accept her service, and if he kicked her out, he could kill her himself, or press her into service to him given her complete desperation. Or, Godrick would do the deed and he could watch with a grin on his face. Now, though, she had a bodyguard. A huge bodyguard that was also a loan shark, claiming anything she ever earned to pay for his armour. It was a delicate balance - Gostoc could just write off the armour, let Telavis have it back, and she’d be defenceless. But… that armour was sublime. Gostoc’s greed would be overwhelming. She assumed. She hoped. He might treat this as a chance to deprive her of any money or goods she might earn, theoretically forever if he kept the price on the armour high enough. Not that she cared. She just needed to get home, at the end of the day. Didn’t need whatever passed for money here to do that.

“...I suppose I do. But it’ll cost you!”

Telavis calmly reached into Potiphar and pulled out a tiny ring - a slim band of gold with a green crystal protruding from its surface. He flicked it over, and Gostoc greedily tried to catch it with his one arm. Surprisingly, he actually managed to succeed, and he promptly bit the ring to check its quality. Taylor idly wondered how many trinkets like that Telavis had… another thing for her to pay off, she guessed. Either way, Gostoc stumped into his gatehouse and returned with a few bits of old clothing. Taylor could see what Telavis meant - these clothes stank of damp earth. Graverobber, she guessed. Made sense, graverobbing seemed like something Gostoc would enjoy. Telavis gladly accepted and pulled his new garments on. They were… a mixed bag, certainly. Baggy dark brown trousers, and a heavy wool shirt that had perhaps once been navy blue, but was now an indeterminate shade of grey. Boots that were a little too small, though Telavis hardly seemed to mind. Too tough, she assumed. In a matter of moments, he went from being a nearly-naked murderous knight to a… clothed murderous knight. Who was also her loan shark.

If her dad knew that the first thing she did on arriving in another world was try and work for the local despotic warlord, and then swindle someone out of their armour (which she hadn’t intended to do), and then get hilariously in debt to someone as trustworthy as a boat made from crackers… well, she’d probably be grounded for life. As long as she was grounded in her own home, with her dad, she was completely fine with that particular punishment. God, she’d been an idiot. For every clever thing she did - getting to civilisation, hiding from the Tarnished, escaping from that pit, getting the Crucible Knight out of the castle, thinking of using her books as a valuable resource - she’d made far too many errors. Failing to see the signs that Godrick was a monster. Going straight to the lord out of sheer terror of the wilds. Latching to the first piece of advice she’d been given. Handing over her sword. Making Gostoc aware of the fragility of her position. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Some born of naivete, others of desperation, others of panic. And some of complete, unabashed, stupidity. Of course she’d been stupid, what could she expect? Same idiot that let herself get victimised over and over, same idiot that couldn’t fix her damn life, same idiot that had no control, entirely by her own fault. As matters spiralled to an unpleasant conclusion, and she reaped the reward of yet another mistake, she made a tiny commitment.

No more. From now on, she did things to the best of her ability. Set aside animal desperation, set aside the caged creature that had been trapped in the locker. She had powers, she had a chance to get back home. She’d been afforded opportunities, and she’d squandered them. No more. Telavis would be a permanent reminder of her idiocy, and he’d remind her to play things smarter from now on. Her eyes sharpened, and her mind felt clearer than ever.

Telavis glued himself to her side, and she got the feeling that nothing short of death would remove him. A tiny, deeply cowardly part of her considered doing just that - get the soldiers in the castle to attack him, let them know that he was the Crucible Knight they’d imprisoned down below. But… no. Morally speaking, it was simply impossible. She couldn’t quite get comfortable with the idea of killing a man that she’d swindled, even if she hadn’t meant to swindle him… or, well, didn’t expect to get caught. He was a good reminder of what she shouldn’t do, and how she could improve. Useful, in his own way. And, in the end, she’d be gone soon. Gostoc glowered.

Taylor didn’t particularly want to do this. But she had no other options. No way of surviving outside this castle, not the way she was now, not without condemning herself to death after death, maybe even a permanent death or worse - she imagined being crucified, or locked away, or in some way prevented from resurrecting. Every experience in her young life had told her that authority was a corrupt, corroded thing which she couldn’t put her trust in. But… at the same time, she had no other options. She had no connections to this world, nothing that she was particularly attached to. Back home, she’d developed a very healthy distrust of authority. Here? She’d died. And she just wanted to get back to her dad, before something ugly happened. This world was totally unfamiliar to her, and every part of it seemed capable of killing her - and most parts were willing to kill her. She knew she could resurrect, that ‘Shardbearers’ ruled things, but she couldn’t find an underlying logic to cling to, had felt unsettled ever since her arrival. She wouldn’t let go of her hostility to authority - it sharpened her, kept her mind clear. But just because she disliked authority didn’t mean she was reluctant to exploit it. Hell, that hostility might make the exploitation easier.

Stormveil, for all its holes, for all its failings and despite its monstrous overlord, was still the most secure place she’d been so far. It felt halfway functional. Who knew how many other places were like this, how many had the Fell Omen protecting them? She had to think like she was in an apocalyptic world, where there was nothing good to cling to, just shades of grey where she could shelter for a while and take what she could before moving on. Maybe once she’d have been reluctant to be so… mercenary. Now? Not so much. Death tended to do that to a person. If she could set aside her idiocy, her fear, everything which had fucked her over thus far… she could turn this to her advantage. Stormveil was stable, Godrick owned this entire area. No safer place. And if she could tap into that same clarity which had let her manipulate Gostoc into freeing her, Telavis into handing over his armour, without fucking it up for herself by making some stupid error, she could survive long enough to get back home. There really wasn’t a choice in the matter.

Anyhow, Telavis wouldn’t let her wander into the world beyond, not until she paid him back. No other Shardbearers were available as protectors, according to Gostoc, and he had no reason to lie to her about this particular issue. Plus, Telavis hadn’t interjected at any point, and he seemed old enough to know anything, memory issues or no. Old history seemed like the one thing he could remember clearly. Radahn and Rennala were insane, Morgott and the Lord of Blasphemy were inaccessible, Malenia and Miquella were nowhere to be found. And that left…

“Take me to Godrick.”

Gostoc’s glower turned into a grin of anticipation. She shivered, and kept reassuring herself that this was, really, the only option she could take. Godrick was a monster… but he’d talked to her, had seen reason in his own way, hadn’t immediately set his men to kill her. He’d seen the advantage in her books, she’d seen the intrigue in his eyes. His anger had been a product of that intrigue, in the end. That gave her an in, a point she could exploit just a little. He was a monster, but he was a very human monster, with vices that she understood. In a fantastical world, vices were still the same. Cruelty was still the same.

And she’d seen enough of those in her life, they were practically old friends. Enough so that the idea of working for a monster like Godrick wasn’t quite so inconceivable. Easier to work for something she actually understood and could predict to a degree. Easier than surviving out there. Easier than facing the knight she’d royally pissed off.

It was just for a little while. Right?

The castle had come alive while she was gone. It had taken some time to remove the armour from Potiphar and stash it securely in the gatehouse - though she’d argued her way up to keeping the helmet, just as proof. The guards were more alert, the few servants more watchful and attentive, even the lion watching her carefully from half-lidded eyes. She felt ballistae trained on her and her loan shark - were they aimed at her, or did they want to keep an eye on this enormous stranger. She should probably feel insulted at that, but… well, the idea that she might not be the target of some vicious attack was frankly pretty soothing. The main courtyard opened up, and she saw huge eagles perched on every available roof, staring daggers at them. More trained beasts - Godrick had a fondness for them, she supposed. To her surprise, she saw a few knights scattered around, watching from windows, or standing in doorways. A faint flare of irritation came back - these knights looked competent, proper battlefield commanders, larger and stronger than their fellows (even if the codpieces were a bit much), and she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them when she first entered. This wasn’t an ego thing, she assured herself, this was a meaningful criticism of a poor defensive strategy. Put all the best troops far away from the fighting, that way they can’t be hurt against the people they train their lives to win against.

Gah. She kept moving, led by Gostoc, trailed by Telavis. A squishy, vulnerable filling enclosed by two pieces of bread that hated her. Great. Fantastic. Truly splendid. And now she was going to Godrick to ask him for a job. Her day was truly wonderful. Onager was on his feet when they approached, cleaver slung over his shoulder, and he grunted at Gostoc.

“More visitors, if you can believe it. Growing out of the bloody woodwork”

A pair of dogs snarled at Telavis, and Onager scratched them on the backs of their ears, relaxing them just a little.

“Down, Margit. Down, Mohg. Go on then. And be quick about it. Lord’s in a foul temper.”

He grunted and sized up Taylor.

“Good luck.”

The dogs continued to growl softly as they walked past, and Taylor gave the huge man a quick smile, one that he didn’t return. More guards, and a grey giant that stared impassively down at them from on high. A long bridge with a vicious gale - she was tired, and found herself drifting a little to one side, only to find huge hands clamping around her upper arms, lifting her up, and placing her roughly back into the centre. She blinked rapidly as Telavis stared straight ahead, boredom evident on his face. With his enormous beard, it was actually very difficult to tell what he was thinking. At least with the helmet, there’d been a kind of solid confirmation that she had no chance of reading his expressions. With a little of his face exposed, her brain wanted to try and read something from it, but the beard made that task basically impossible. It left her in a very awkward inbetween state. A state made more awkward by being picked up like a stumbling puppy.

Godrick’s throne room awaited, and Gostoc cried out for the doors to be opened. Two knights, still clutching the same eerily bright torches (in the middle of the day, no less), gladly obeyed. She could vaguely see the grotesque shape of the Grafted Lord writhing on his throne, but… he wasn’t looking at them. He had barely even noticed the door opening. Instead, his attention was occupied with a young woman at his side, who wore a strange type of robe she’d never seen before. The woman, whose face was concealed by a kind of veil, was frantically gesticulating at an array of books set on a high desk… and as Taylor came closer, she could hear the conversation.

“My Lord, this is a foreign language, in a foreign script, and I can’t find a trace of influence from the Lands Between’s scripts, not even pre-Unification - I’m sorry, my Lord, but I can’t translate these. A trained scholar would struggle.”

“Unacceptable! If a young whelp could read them, surely thee should be able to!”

“But-”

“No excuses, translate with haste! I must have these secrets for my own, I-”

He paused, and an expression of irritation flickered across his face… and opportunity.

“Ah, and our little miracleworker has come marching back to the Lord of All that is Golden - a failure? A miserable wretch, begging for clemency?”

His many fingers began to twitch to his axe.

“Were my knights insufficient? Must I send you down the cliff myself?”

Taylor held up her hands in surrender, growing pale at the thought of being handled by this… thing. She needed to be more solid, less easily kicked. Both figuratively and literally.

“No, no, I’ve done it! Crucible Knight’s gone!”

The helmet was withdrawn from a threadbare sack kindly provided by Gostoc under the condition that she pay him back later (which meant she was in debt to two people at once, which was delightful). Godrick blinked as the ornate helm was set on the cold ground, and his eyes flicked to her disbelievingly. Belatedly, he noticed Telavis, and reared up to a greater height, using some of his lower arms to stabilise himself. Hm. Insecure. She’d already known that, but seeing it so obviously was… well, it helped anchor her a little, bolster her for what was to come.

“Hm. Very well. ‘Twas a simple task, hardly complex. And who is this? Another supplicant?”

Telavis was silent, staring entranced at the statue of Godfrey behind the throne. She knew he wouldn’t say anything stupid. If he made it known that he was a Crucible Knight, they’d both be killed and he might never get his armour back. Thus, he remained taciturn, and Taylor spoke for him.

“This is… my bodyguard. He arrived recently, just got delayed a little.”

Gostoc kept his mouth shut, thankfully. She’d become his prize cash cow, and he had no reason to get her killed. Well, until he’d started making money from her. She could count on his greed, if nothing else. Godrick waved dismissively, ignoring the seemingly mute man now helping her - Taylor’s guess was that he didn’t see Telavis as a threat of any kind, or wrote him off as unimportant. Arrogance. Another vice she could tap into. He began to turn away, when Taylor called out with as much confidence as she could possibly project, without sounding accusatory, pathetic, or angry. It was a delicate balancing act, and she could barely stop her knees from shaking.

“My lord, you promised me a job.”

Godrick froze, and very, very slowly began to turn around. Telavis stiffened, and Gostoc backed away very slightly. Godrick the Grafted strode out from his throne room and into the dim sunlight. His flesh was mottled, his robes were frayed, his posture was stooped… but he still seemed like a giant in her eyes, one that held her life in his many, many hands. But she’d been thrown over a cliff and had wildly improvised her way back up, simultaneously rising up and digging herself deeper. Fear was so constant that she barely noticed its presence. The enormous axe dragged slowly across the ground, bringing up sparks. The young woman who’d been scrutinising the books backed away behind the desk, seeming to crouch slightly as she prepared to run. Godrick came closer and closer, and the expression on his face was completely inscrutable. She had no choice but to come back here, that was what she kept telling herself. If she thought it over and over again, she almost believed it - every part of her wanted to run for the hills, but she knew that all that awaited her there was a constant gale and an unpleasant death. The giant, multi-armed monstrosity before her… was somehow her best chance of staying alive. And that said something very damning about her situation.

“You want…a job.”

“Yes, my lord. You promised that if I removed the Crucible Knight, I’d be given a job. My lord.”

She tried to stare firmly at him. Subservience had gotten her tossed over a cliff - but active resistance would get her killed immediately. The best bet seemed to be a quiet firmness - a certainty that she wouldn’t take any nonsense, but nothing resembling a real threat. Combining a stern eye with the appearance of physical weakness, coupled with access to greater knowledge… it might work. Subservient enough to be trusted. Solid enough to not be kicked around like a mangy dog. Clever enough to be useful. A more complex response, its value taught by the experience of plummeting from a cliff. Godrick studied her closely.

“Hm.”

He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Gostoc was staring warily, Taylor was doing her delicate balancing act, his two knights were watching impassively, the young woman was wide-eyed and staring, and the mute bodyguard was examining him closely. He paused, and Taylor held her breath. What was he thinking? The best way to kill her, or maybe how useful she could be, or maybe how it would look to betray a promise so openly… the castle was more active than ever, after all. Perhaps wondering how she’d removed the Crucible Knight, reassessing her abilities, considering why she’d returned. She could have poorly predicted him, made another stupid mistake, she could… no, the die was cast. If she’d done it right, she’d be fine. If she didn’t… maybe this was the end, and if it was, she’d survived for a surprisingly long time. She should, by all rights, have died in their first encounter. Instead, she’d lived, found a knight, become indebted to that knight, and was right back here with more experience than before, a greater sense for how he ticked and how he could be moved. Hell, if he killed her, maybe Telavis would ensure her successful resurrection until she reclaimed his armour for him. Failing upwards, she supposed.

“Very well.”

OK, she needed to run, maybe try and throw Gostoc in front of - wait. Did… did something good happen? Did she succeed at one of her goals? Holy shit. Holy shit. She’d done it. She had a job! She had safety, of some kind! She’d predicted successfully! Now all she needed to do was stay put until she could master her ability and get back home. No more hiccups, no more random threats, she had a clear, straight route to the finish line. Telavis’s hold over her was nothing if she could get back home, as was Gostoc’s. Godrick? She’d love to see his shocked face when she vanished completely and never returned. As soon as she got back home, she’d be right as rain, immune to all of this terror. She’d have won. She knew what victory looked like, and it was getting closer and closer. She froze as the edge of the enormous axe touched her lightly on the shoulder, held with surprising delicacy for such a huge weapon.

“Speak your name.”

“Taylor. Taylor Hebert.”

“Dost thou, Taylor of Hebert, promise to uphold my claim to the throne of Elden Lord?”

“I… promise.”

“Dost thou swear to maintain my rule, to bring honour to my name, and glory to my cause?”

“I swear.”

“Dost thou reject, for now and forever, the profane madness of General Radahn? The degeneracy of Praetor Rykard? The pox-ridden slattern Malenia, eyeless, legless, armless, cripple and bastard harlot?! The foul, treacherous, unfair mind of Morgott the false, Morgott the moronic, Morgott the usurper, tyrant of Leyndell, prison-warden of the Erdtree, too shameful to show his face, bastard of the Golden Lineage, graceless, consortless, throneless, honourless?!”

His tone was rising, and his axe pressed down a little harder than necessary, almost cutting into her skin.

“Dost thou reject that mad whore Rennala, proprietress of a den of star-crazed snakes, broodmother of the insane and the imperfect?! And dost thou reject Miquella the immature and idiotic, Miquella the shameful?! And dost thou reject Ranni, four-armed and lack-witted, blue-skinned whore, self-murderer, schemer, plotter, wretched sow and upjumped spawn of a concubine?!”

“...uh. Yes. I reject them. All of them.”

“Dost thou?!”

“Definitely. Rykard, Radahn, Morgott, Malenia, Miquella, Rennala, Ranni, all of them.”

“Especially Morgott?!”

“Especially Morgott.”

Godrick coughed, seeming a little ashamed at his outburst, and Taylor realised with a shudder that she’d sprayed spittle everywhere during his little tirade.

“...Good! Consider thyself Oathsworn!”

Godrick raised his many arms to the sky dramatically, looking around to his small audience.

“Bear witness, one and all! Lord Godrick the Golden is not without mercy, even to stinking wretches such as this! Thou shalt give me the knowledge imprisoned in these books, thou shalt work miracles, miracleworker. Know thyself as mine, and mine alone, my salaried minion. Angharad!”

The young woman scuttled out of the throne room, wringing her hands nervously.

“Ensure that she performs well. By my right as Lord, I proclaim thy fates joined. Rise together, or fall together - consider thyselves grafted, ha!”

He laughed uproariously at his own joke, and Angharad looked at Taylor in horror. Taylor perceived none of this, of course. She was just happy to be alive, happy to have a chance to focus on her abilities and get back home. Sure, her stomach turned at the idea of submitting to more corrupt authority… but in its own way, corrupt authority felt familiar. One of the few familiar things she could see in this world. Everyone in this castle seemed to be self-serving and spiteful. She’d seen enough of that in Brockton, enough that it was almost reliable. Godrick was a selfish prick, not to mention insane, but as long as he thought he was gaining something, he’d leave her alone. Gostoc was a prick as well, but terror or bribery could make him pliable as putty. In a strange way, seeing Godrick acting like she’d hoped he would, or seeing Gostoc squirm as he was confronted with someone stronger than him… it gave her a sick thrill. If she had been able to do this back in Winslow, maybe none of this would have happened. In Godrick’s laugh, she saw Emma’s hateful spite, and in seeing him acting like she intended, she felt a definite pang of satisfaction. Finally. Control, something she’d always lacked back home, had never experienced in this place until now.

She had no idea how to work in the world beyond these walls. Her experience had been short and miserable, marked by death, aimless wandering, and a steadily growing paranoia. Out there, she’d be eaten by another wolf, chopped in half by a Tarnished, brutalised by a skeleton, or hung on a cross by some mad idiot. In here? She had a lunatic that she’d predicted, and had manipulated, in her own way. After a succession of failures and poor decisions, she’d finally set a goal, and achieved it. The books, the knowledge within, the way she acted… how could Godrick have resisted? She’d gone from being thrown from a cliff with nothing but the stained clothes on her back, to being employed, with a bodyguard, a keener sense for people, and a clear route back home.

But her experiences had taught her a few valuable lessons. This place had no friends for her, no-one she could trust as an ally. Just threats she could either succumb to or rise above, people who would either victimise her or be predicted, accounted for, and overcome. And in its own way, she understood this state of affairs very well. It’d been her life for the last few years. Corrupt authority, selfish pricks, casual violence. God, she felt almost at home. And surrounded by chaos and uncertainty, she was taking chances she never would have back at Winslow, and sure, she’d lost more often than not. But she’d gone higher than she’d been before. She was in control, finally. As she was guided away by Angharad to a room where she could finally collapse, she was still riding high. She fell into a dusty bed, and realised that she hadn’t slept in a bed since she arrived here. Hadn’t been sheltered from the elements properly, hadn’t felt secure, hadn’t felt like she had a lick of real control over her surroundings and her fate.

Telavis waited outside her door, and she barely paid him any mind.

Sleep consumed her in seconds, swaddled by blankets and warmed by a tiny fire burning in the corner. There were no gales, no wolves, no worries. Potiphar settled down near her bed, curling in on himself and basking in the heat of the fire as much as she did. Darkness enveloped her.

And she welcomed every moment of it.

Chapter Text

Taylor woke up, and for a moment simply relished in the fact that she had a bed. Slightly depressingly, it was better than her old bed back home - genuinely luxurious, in fact, if a little dusty. In fact, the general impression of the room was ‘dusty’ - everything was higher quality than anything she was used to, she couldn’t see hide nor hair of any cheap materials or cut-price designs, but nonetheless a thick layer of dust covered every surface. The room was decently sized, though she noticed with a shiver that it was cold. Without a fire burning, she was left with a room that was really quite draughty - no windows, just a pair of wooden shutters that could be drawn across a long slit in the wall through which occasional gales howled through. Despite the opulence, this was still a military base… and windows were probably a rare luxury. That, or someone had broken the window and it had never been replaced. Now that she could think clearly, she thought she might be in something of a Dark Age - Shardbearers ruling as glorified warlords, some of whom waged war against each other, and if Godrick was any indication they weren’t exactly the most advanced sort. She couldn’t imagine Godrick building this castle, or the huge tower she’d seen on the way in. Maybe the others were different, but… she wasn’t going to hold out hope.

The morning was a long, drawn-out affair where she struggled to perform basic functions in a vastly unfamiliar context. Bathing was a long procedure involving large pots of boiled water being deposited into an old wooden tub, the entire process taking some time to complete. The soap was fatty and felt raw on her skin, the brushes were wiry and harsh, shampoo was nowhere to be found (and she wasn’t going to start experimenting with the dark-coloured bottles a few of the servants had left for her). By her old standards, it would have been a pretty shoddy bath. Now? It was one of the best things she’d ever felt. As grime drifted away, as dust and blood were cleaned and she could finally feel warm… she felt like a human again. Emerging and wrapping herself with a towel, she reviewed her few remaining possessions. The books were nowhere to be found, presumably still with Godrick or that woman who’d been with him - Angharad, she thought her name was. Her old clothes were completely ruined - dust, blood, unmentionable substances, water… nothing to be done for them. One of the pale-faced servants took them away to be burned, at her request. They were reminders of her home that she was happy to discard. The large, heavy wardrobe that sat in the corner of her room contained a variety of clothes, covered in dust, many too small or too large. The dresses looked… complicated. And expensive. Last thing she wanted was to get thrown down another cliff wearing one of those. In the end, she settled for clothing that she would have shirked back home - baggy, dark, just a loose shirt and a pair of loose trousers. Her boots remained. She’d become rather fond of them.

As she went through the room, she realised something odd - everything felt handmade and hard-wearing. Sure, that made sense, but it was odd to go from a world of mass production to… this. Her clothes were hand-stitched, clearly tailored to their old owner, no brand names or labels to be seen, and they were warm. Thick in a way that only a world without central heating would make. The furniture was hand-carved, tiny imperfections and chips showing where the carpenter had been a little clumsy. She knew, full well, that any one of these bits of furniture would command a high price back home. Idly, she imagined taking everything some of this stuff back home, maybe a few of the dresses, and selling them to a museum or a collector. She’d already promised herself to buy a mobile phone when she got back, for pictures if nothing else, and this room alone could easily pay for a high-quality one. Hm. Something to keep in mind.

When nothing else happened, no-one coming to fetch her or serve her food, she started to idly wander. Telavis joined her in seconds, completely impassive. Did he sleep at all? She considered asking him, but… well, it was a little awkward talking to someone she’d cheated out of a suit of armour and now intended to cheat again by teleporting out of his universe. If she mastered her ability, she’d consider bringing him something nice. Maybe. Could always just run away and never look back, of course. Potiphar trotted obediently after the two of them, and a strange trio they must have made. Her impression of Stormveil as a skin-deep stronghold was already well-established, but now she found herself relishing the stability of it, the safety. Up here, surrounded by a yawning abyss, only a pair of bridges connecting them to the mainland… she felt safe. The wolf-winds were barely visible from this distance, and none of them strayed over the gap to the castle. Guards watched the world beyond, and even thinking of folk like Onager or the grey giant made her feel safer - they weren’t standing against her, now they were standing well in front while she ran in the opposite direction. Even the idea of having a mad many-armed abomination scuttling around was oddly comforting. Godrick was insane, but she’d figured some of him out, enough to land a job here at least. And if she could get him to charge at any Tarnished who so happened to wander past the Fell Omen… well, that’d be just grand.

Her thoughts on what the hell the Fell Omen actually was came to an end as she reached what she thought was a dining hall. Feelings of security vanished in moments. Soldiers were here in large numbers, chewing mechanically away at huge piles of food. She’d only seen the soldiers here wearing chainmail veils, without them… they looked much the same as everyone else. Tired. Old. For a second, that was all - soldiers eating food at large tables, ones that she’d ideally be joining soon enough. Then she looked up.

Arms. Dozens of them, of all shapes and sizes, some coming from humans, others from animals, some clearly from bizarre creatures like Onager or the grey giant. They hung from heavy hooks pierced through cold flesh, and she noticed dark stains on the floor where blood must have been dripping until fairly recently. No-one else glanced at them, no-one but her. Was this Godrick’s… what, body shop? Did he come in here to swap out old arms, graft new ones? How many people had he killed to get these? One vague consolation was that all the arms were larger than her own - and these were the spares. If these represented the basic standard of arms suitable for grafting, she was probably fine. Not that the thought helped much in soothing her rapidly beating heart. The sight was horrific, the smell was unpleasant, and the apathy all around her was disturbing. Telavis gave her a look, and Potiphar bumped into the back of her legs as she stood rooted. They didn’t think it was strange, or at least, not especially horrifying. Potiphar was probably intrigued, lots of body parts for him to eat. Not that she’d let him do that. Some of the soldiers were starting to glance suspiciously in her direction, and she hurriedly sat down at one of the tables, drawing a spare wooden plate in her direction.

Meat. Bread. Porridge. Simple fare, but filling, warming. Few, if any, spices… but there was a strange taste to everything. The porridge was made from oats, but they were clearly different to anything she’d had before. A little crunchier, the edges a little more jagged. Even the milk was a little odd, for some reason tasting oddly citrus-y. Cold sausages were stuffed with meat dappled pink and grey that tasted especially gamey. Bread was strange here, the texture more stringy and fibrous, though the quality was better than anything back home - freshly made, she guessed. A part of her wondered where the food was coming from - were there farms outside the walls that shipped to Stormveil? How did Godrick protect them from Tarnished? Questions, questions. Either way, she enjoyed her meal in silence… right up until a panting servant threw open the doors and told everyone to leave. Immediately. Apparently the ‘Scion’ was coming for his daily meal, and didn’t want to be disturbed. She grabbed a few slices of bread and ran out of the door with the soldiers - Scion, meaning part of a noble family. Did Godrick have a son? Did Stormveil have a nobility? Either way, she worked for them now, and was happy to get out of their way. Remain beneath notice, stay out of trouble. Telavis seemed a little eager to remain for a while, probably excited to see if this Scion was worth fighting. A moment of conflict raged in his eyes - stay and fight something, leave and keep an eye on the scrawny girl that had stolen his armour.

In the end, he obeyed the latter, and Taylor heard his huge footsteps rapidly approaching. They were standing in the central courtyard, watching the soldiers disperse to their positions on the various ballistae, some of them settling down for a mid-morning nap, others walking away to train in pairs or groups… the lack of standardisation bugged her. They were just… doing things. Who was telling them where to go or when to do it? Some of the barricades weren’t even manned, some gaps were completely unguarded. Nearby, Onager was deep in a nap of his own, his dogs kicking their legs idly as they joined their master in slumber. Dammit. She knew she wasn’t in charge here, but seeing these problems that simple common sense would solve was infuriating. She’d managed to get some control over her life, had schemed her way into getting a nice, safe job here… and she had a vague suspicion that these punks would mess up her entire operation. Part of her continued to be annoyed, the other part suggested that maybe it was a little strange for a fifteen-year-old to be thinking this sort of thing. She politely ignored that part. Fifteen-year-olds didn’t generally get teleported to another world and then killed by wolves. After a few minutes, another servant came to fetch her, dragging her by the wrist to the ‘perfumer’s workshop’.

A rational element of her stressed brain suggested that maybe ‘perfumer’ had a different meaning in this place. The irrational, emotional parts were deeply insulted by the idea that a random asshole had insulted her smell. She’d just bathed, for crying out loud.

The perfumer’s workshop was a cramped little set of rooms underneath the castle, clearly not very well maintained. Tiny red briars seemed to be forcing their way through some of the bricks, and for some reason she could clearly smell tar on the air. A few holes provided rudimentary ventilation, but even so, a single fire burning was enough to make the air a little thicker than she’d have liked. Books were stacked on tables, reaching almost to the ceiling. Bottles, beakers, jars, crucibles, tongs… she felt like she was in an alchemist’s lair. It had the appearance of a scientific lab, but everything had a layer of mysticism wrapped around it. A simple glass beaker had an engraving of a complex geometrical pattern for no conceivable reason, a crucible had markings resembling a magnetic field on its surface, even a simple thermometer had the symbol of the sun, the moon, and an enormous Erdtree. The books were leatherbound, but she could catch a glimpse of something more… modern, which a faintly familiar was staring at with great intensity. The sound of the workshop’s door closing alerted her, and watchful dark eyes flicked up to stare at Taylor. She was still wearing that strange white veil, only a thin letterbox showing her eyes. For a moment, there was an unspoken tension between the two. And then, those dark eyes filled with a slightly desperate eagerness, and she rushed round the table to frantically shake Taylor’s hand. Telavis stiffened, and his hand automatically went to his sword.

“Sorry it took so long, very sorry - you must be the new oathsworn, then?”

Taylor tried to puff herself up a little - project confidence, make sure that no-one saw her as a lost puppy that could be kicked around at will.

“Yes. That’s me. New oathsworn. You’re… Angharad?”

“Yes, yes, Angharad of Liurnia. And you’re Taylor of Hebert.”

Hm. Godrick had made that same mistake. She couldn’t really muster the willpower to correct her - ‘Hebert’ sounded nice and foreign as a place name, based on the names she’d heard thus far. Should help give her more credibility as a mysterious foreigner with strange information.

“That’s me. This is Potiphar, and that’s… my bodyguard.”

Angharad afforded them only the most cursory glances - Telavis warranted a quick stare, and Potiphar a curt nod. All her attention was rooted on Taylor, who she started to drag round the table, where she could point frantically at a photo of an atomic mushroom cloud.

“Now, Lord Godrick is very eager for one of these - could you translate the relevant section?”

Taylor briefly imagined Godrick with a nuke.

“...it’s called a nuclear bomb. Or a nuke. And I can’t make them.”

Angharad’s eyes widened, and a faint hint of fear entered them.

“...what?”

Admitting weakness was one thing, she needed to make sure that she didn’t simply look incompetent. She started to bluster as best as she could, glancing down at the relevant page every few seconds.

“Well, unless you have uranium, plutonium, the capacity to refine them properly, a grasp of atomic fission… uh, and a flying machine capable of deploying the bomb, and an… agitator.”

Angharad looked lost, a little overwhelmed. Good, very good, set things off to a splendid start.

“My apologies, could you… start from the beginning? Uranium?”

Damn.

“It’s a very rare metal which kills anyone who gets too close. It… glows, too. Anything like that over here?”

“Is it related to glintstone, perchance?”

Shit.

“I’m not sure if we have glintstone - could you describe it?”

“Ah, one moment… I believe I have an illustration of it. Ah, here. A crystal, typically various shades of blue though occasionally red, which comes to earth in great rains from the stars… and which grows like a plant, consuming living matter to sustain its expansion. Glintstone sorcerers make a habit of using it in combat, or to comprehend the stars, I believe.”

…Angharad had just described something faintly terrifying. A rock that came from space and grew by eating things? And could somehow empower people to the point that they were considered sorcerers, and could be used in warfare? Christ, she thought Angharad could be overwhelmed by too much information, drowned by impracticabilities… she’d been right, but she’d underestimated the weirdness this world contained. Again.

“No, uranium isn’t glintstone. You know, this whole process is very advanced, maybe we could start with something more simpl-”

“No, no, really, Lord Godrick very much desires one of these weapons - his enthusiasm for using one on Leyndell was… substantial.”

She never wanted to think about an enthusiastic Godrick. Angry Godrick was bad enough. Happy Godrick was probably terrifying. Hm. What to do… ah, a plan.

“OK, I’ll teach you the basic principles, and we can work from there. But… wouldn't Lord Godrick want some results? Immediately?”

Angharad looked nervous.

“...Lord Godrick has a certain heroic boldness and decisiveness which some confuse as recklessness.”

That sounded very much practised.

“Alright, well, I can’t make a nuclear bomb quickly. Maybe we should work on something more… simplistic, just for now?”

A moment of silence, and then Angharad grinned beneath her veil.

“...simplistic might be best, yes. I do apologise. I’m… excited, is all.”

Taylor tried to force a smile. Angharad seemed enthusiastic, but ultimately consumed by nervousness. It was strange - she’d expected someone startlingly competent, this lab looked old and those books looked thick. But Angharad was almost naive, willing to believe her bluster, not remotely questioning her assertions. Easy enough to prod into a favourable direction, thankfully. A question came to mind, and she wanted to distract Angharad’s attention any way she could.

“...do you have a boss? Or a master, I guess?”

Angharad froze, then let out a strangled sigh. With a huff, she flipped the veil up, revealing a pale, wide face, clearly affected by spending time underground with little sunlight. She smiled, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth.

“Is it that obvious? Sorry, you must be used to working with a proper perfumer - Master Hispid hasn’t been well for some time.”

She leaned closer, her voice becoming conspiratorial.

“We were retreating from Leyndell - I joined up around that time, in fact. My last master entered Raya Lucaria and never returned, so I joined up with Godrick’s army on their retreat. Anyhow, Master Hispid was the resident perfumer, and he took me on as his apprentice.”

She sighed.

“But we found a profusion of St. Trina’s Lilies some time ago, and he claimed to be able to create a tincture capable of inducing permanent, perfect sleep - and an immunity to needs such as eating or drinking. Godrick wanted to use it on Radahn out in Caelid, but… well, Master Hispid drank the only sample and hasn’t woken up since.”

Her mouth curled into a scowl.

“Godrick had him bricked up in the old catacombs years ago. He didn’t seem to mind, though… bastard left me with all his work. Had to learn on the job.”

Taylor felt a pang of sympathy for someone else thrown far outside of their comfort zone far too quickly. And… well, because she understood that mindset, she also understood how to manipulate it slightly. She felt bad about it, of course. If she was able to, she’d take Angharad with her back to Earth Bet… hm. On second thought, maybe the medieval alchemist who worked with alien crystals coming to a modern world scarred by Endbringers wasn’t such a good idea. She’d give it some thought. Either way, she could see a route out of this, a way to make sure that Angharad didn’t get too impatient… at least for now.

“...alright, I understand. So, let’s start from the beginning, then go from there.”

She flicked to the very front of the book, and started wracking her brains for what she’d heard in her lessons. Though… wasn’t like she could be disproved, she could say anything. Angharad was watching attentively, practically enraptured. No, best to stick to the truth, don’t go too far. Angharad lacked a teacher and had been thrown into a situation where she definitely needed one. Her panic at the idea of failing Godrick, her sheer desperate eagerness contrasting to the faintly hostile suspicion that everyone in Stormveil shared… they suggested a lack of experience and a willingness to cling to someone smarter than her. Taylor most certainly wasn’t, but she had access to 21st century knowledge. Or, well, some of it.

She very much hoped this would work.

“So, the basic building blocks of matter are atoms, you can see a diagram here, and if you break the atom down, then you get neutrons and protons arranged into a nucleus, and electrons orbiting the outside. Now…”

“Goodness, I had no idea matter was so… strange. It is quite apart from what many philosophers argue, are you certain?

“Oh yeah. Trust me, the nuclear bombs rely on this. Can’t understand it without understanding this.”

“And you’re sure that most of this ‘atom’ is empty space?”

“Yep. Definitely. If you made a nucleus the size of a football and put it in the middle of a football field, the electrons would be right at the edge.”

“...what is a football?”

Shit.

“Oh, sorry, it’s a game from my home country, just… yeah, empty space. Mostly empty space.”

“Is football the game they used to play on the Weeping Peninsula with the inflated bladder?”

“...maybe?”

Minutes passed, and they had circled through a dozen topics, dipping into one just long enough to provoke questions from Angharad before using those questions as a springboard to something else. Taylor had never been an exceptional chemistry student. Or an exceptional student in general. The sciences weren’t really her field - literature had been her favoured subject, mostly at her mother’s dogged insistence. Turned out that being compelled to read good books from a young age gave her a head start in school, and that being good at a subject tended to foster a kind of enjoyment. And literature was escapism, it reminded her of better times, took her away from the miserable state of things. She couldn’t build a nuclear bomb, she barely understood the theory behind it. But she knew literature, and she knew how to tell a story. She had plans - invest Angharad in pointless asides, get her wrapped up in knowledge that was ultimately useless. Distract her from the mad request to build a nuke. Godrick would start requesting results soon enough, she had no doubt about that… and if push came to shove, she’d start providing a few little things that she knew about. If things really got out of hand, she’d start delving into some of the things her book suggested that were a bit more… offensive. A tiny excerpt on the history of gunpowder, which mentioned old methods for making it. Fulminate of mercury, possibly, based on a single paragraph of information in her textbook. Not yet, though. Not until she was forced. Giving a mad warlord the capacity to make guns seemed… silly. And she’d done a number of silly things, she had a firm acquaintance with what they looked like. Likewise, making explosives without any real knowledge seemed beyond silly, even if she could come back from death. This area - the realm of the silly - was where Angharad came back in, ceased to be an obstacle and became an opportunity.

“Sorry, just before we continue - mind if I ask about medical care over here? I just want to compare it with my homeland.”

Angharad blinked, and just as Taylor had anticipated, she grinned widely with her deeply crooked teeth, happy to teach the teacher.

“Oh! Well, perfumers were originally specialists in providing aid to the wounded and the sick, we only shifted to warfare during the years of the Shattering.”

Shattering? More questions. And unlike before, she had someone ready and willing to answer. For the moment, she let Angharad continue.

“Well, incantations are popular for wounds - if one can find an approved cleric, of course. Many common sicknesses, too. Perfumers handle that which clerics cannot reach, or that incantations cannot reasonably effect. Incantations rely on the teachings of Marika and the Erdtree, but we follow a more scientific method.”

She flipped open one of the huge books.

“The fundamental component of our work is the conception of miasma, whereby foul odours released by decaying creatures, imperfection within the earth, lingering heresies before the age of the Erdtree and so on are brought into the air…”

Oh. Wow. Taylor’s work would actually be easier than she thought. More excited recitations of information that had been outdated centuries ago… Taylor felt the urge to be excited, but clamped down on it. This world had bullshit she couldn’t imagine, she couldn’t dismiss their theories out of hand. Plus… well, if she dismissed their theories and was then proven wrong by some more space rocks or something, she’d look a fool. And that would undermine her credibility… and thus, her safety. Had to be careful. And her care was rewarded - a little probing revealed that the perfumers had committed themselves not only to healing, but to warfare. More probing, and Angharad reluctantly spoke about their nastier arts. Aromatics which could allow one to spew fire from their mouth, poisonous gas, acid, even turn their body into steel. This. This was why she played it safe, why she had committed herself to avoiding any future mistakes. If she had dismissed miasma as a silly theory, Angharad might have vomited fire in her direction to prove that, no, apparently miasma worked here.

Great. Still, a pitfall had been avoided. But it paved a road - Angharad showed no knowledge of using alcohol to sterilise injuries, and the notion of using mould to cure disease seemed to faintly offend her. There - an opening. Penicillin would be… difficult, she knew that much. But given that all she really needed was mouldy bread, maybe she could muddle her way through with trial and error. Surely the hardest part was simply knowing that mould could cure disease. With that knowledge, she could work her way backwards to a workable sample. More interrogation - and Angharad noted that there weren’t any permanent healers in Stormveil. Just her, and she was being used for more warlike purposes. Taylor could guess why there were no healers, but it still irritated her. If soldiers could resurrect perpetually, why not just kill the wounded or the sick, let them come back in their own sweet time? Still…

“How long does it take to come back to life via Erdtree Burial?”

“Oh, goodness, days. Weeks, if the death was particularly, ah, destructive. Even ashes can be brought back, though it may take years for that to be accomplished. It’s a burden, but death is somewhat heavier, don’t you think?”

And there she was. Back to being annoyed at Stormveil’s inefficiencies. Sure, resurrection was great, but it was clearly having a negative effect on their mental state, and it took time. No wonder she’d never seen one of Godrick’s knights guarding the front gates, he was probably terrified of losing them and being forced to wait for a lengthy resurrection, during which time he’d be defenceless. Well, as defenceless as a many-armed abomination could be. He seemed like enough of a coward to want to surround himself with the very best of his army at all times, never letting them work properly. Gah. Angharad proved to be good company for the rest of the hour, and her companions settled down to their own devices. Telavis rested on his sword, staring blankly into the middle distance. Potiphar promptly hopped into Angharad’s fire and started baking (Roasting? Cooking?) himself - he didn’t seem to be in any pain, so she assumed this was just something living jars did.

It was… strange. The initial tension that had prevailed, the constant feeling that Angharad was another threat that would sell her out in a moment slowly faded down to a low ebb. She was still cautious, still suspicious of any question the perfumer posed to her, but she wasn’t quite as paranoid as she’d been the previous day. Servants brought them food and drink, and the two talked well into the early evening. Taylor was, in her own way, happy to talk to someone who wasn’t armed with a giant weapon. Even if Angharad could ruin her life… well, the two of them were bound together, according to Godrick. Rise or fall as one. Grafted. And that gave Taylor a kind of control, control intensified by the feeling that she understood Angharad in some way. Once again, she succeeded in her goal - she had entered this place with no idea what to do, immediately asked to build a nuclear bomb… and she’d spent the next few hours gathering information while doling very little of it out, and yet it seemed as though Taylor and Angharad were both entirely satisfied. Was this healthy? Was this something she should be doing, thinking of people as units to be manipulated, threats to be avoided, opportunities to be exploited?

Should didn’t really come into it. She simply had to. Necessity demanded that she do everything in her power to survive. Evening came, and she found herself back in her room. Where she engaged in an activity she fully anticipated to engage in for some time. She sat, cross-legged on top of her bed, and focused. The feeling of being dropped from the sky, the feeling of crossing worlds… it was hard to catch hold of, all she felt was a glimmer of comforting gold, perhaps an early glimpse of the Erdtree. She seized on the distant light and pulled, trying her absolute hardest to control it, to force it to send her back home. The memories sharpened, she remembered the hard earth, the cold of the water, the terror of seeing a skeleton charging at her, the feeling of Potiphar riding on her back. No, beyond those… back to the gold. Thinking of the Erdtree helped a little, guided her thoughts in a direction she assumed was productive. She couldn’t tell how long she sat there, focusing, trying to access her power. Did all capes go through this? Did Alexandria have a few days where she had no idea she could fly? Did Armsmaster not realise that he was a tinker until he started idly building tiny halberds? Doubt muddied her mind a little, concealing the gold in undulating waves of concealing shadow. No, no - she reached out, tried to grasp hold again.

No.

The gold was gone. Doubt had muddied everything, turned progress into regression. She lay back with a huff. Was she making progress? This was the first time she’d really tried this in a secure environment… the only other time had been while curled in on herself, basically just clenching her abdomen and hoping something would happen. Certainly, this felt like it had gone better. Brushing against gold, sensing a little of its calming light… it had drawn her to something, even if she couldn’t understand it. She had made some progress. Tiny, barely perceptible.

But progress nonetheless.

And when she went to sleep, she had a shit-eating grin on her face.

Chapter Text

Her first day as a salaried minion of Godrick the Grafted was… uneventful, in the grand scheme of things. The second day was less so. Sure, she woke up the same way, and even a passing familiarity with the rituals necessary to living in this world (drawing a bath, managing unfamiliar clothes, getting the fire going) made them pass with hypnotic smoothness. A smoothness that was abruptly broken by the clanging of a bell. Bodies ran past her door, crying excitedly to one another, and she poked her head out to see what the commotion was. Telavis was looking unusually interested, and the sight of a positive expression on his face made her feel a twinge of guilt. Still couldn’t forget how she’d swindled him.

“What’s going on?”

“Omen.”

One word. And she understood precisely what he meant. The Fell Omen. The presence she’d felt on the bridge, the one who had recommended she ‘keep her wits’. The one that slew any Tarnished that came close. The one that made up for the holes she saw in Stormveil’s defences. She barely managed to shove her boots on before she sprinted out of the door and followed the other servants down to the slits facing out to the front of the castle, peering down at the bridge below. Few soldiers, they seemed to be busy guarding their posts. Mostly servants, almost all of them with the same strange handcuffs around their necks, staring out wide-eyed. She hadn’t learned to recognise most of them, but she noted Gostoc’s absence - oh. He was a gatekeeper. A small, cruel part of her imagined a Tarnished breaking through and cutting him down, freeing her from her debt. They were both servants of Godrick, what was his was hers, especially if he couldn’t stop her. She tried to see past the others, but the crowd was too thick… she turned to Telavis.

“Could you make a path?”

Telavis was already moving, and the look in his eyes suggested that he wanted to see this fight for himself. Servants scattered, and she followed behind the disguised knight to the front. The view was much better here, and she squinted as she tried to see as far as she could. Her glasses were still a little stained - water could only do so much, what she needed was real cleaning fluid - but they served their purpose. She saw the storm-lashed bridge covered in mounds of swords, piles of armour. A small group was starting to cross. Tarnished. Must have been. No way the Omen would appear otherwise. From this distance, they were hard to tell apart… but it seemed like there was a central knight, a man wearing clothing straight out of a Renaissance fair, and a woman dressed like…

Oh shit. Nepheli Loux. The first Tarnished she’d ever seen.

She shivered, feeling the power pulsing from the woman even at this distance. And she leant forwards, eager to see what would happen. This woman had planted serious fear in her, been part of the reason she was driven to Stormveil and the protection of a Shardbearer. In those taut muscles, she could see the terror of the wilds and the unknown, the fear that an overly powerful lunatic would come out of nowhere and cut her down to feast on her strength. Sure, Godrick probably counted as an overly powerful lunatic who gained power by killing others, but he was predictable. And better the devil she vaguely knew than the devil she barely understood and couldn’t anticipate. The trio crossed the bridge cautiously, heads twitching as they surveyed every corner. And… there it was. The presence. The pressure. The feeling of having a force bearing down on her shoulders, making her ears pop. Unlike last time, she relished in the feeling. A golden aura bloomed on a half-crumbled tower… and he emerged.

The Fell Omen. A tattered brown cloak covering a body the colour of wet ash, riddled with enormous horns. Just like Onager, but… his had been filed away. This man stood with his horns on display, only a few of them cut away. A facsimile of a crown sprouted from his forehead, and his bearing was distinctly regal, in a way that made her realise just how low Godrick really was. Just looking at the Fell Omen made her fear of the grafted lord diminish a little, and each moment reduced it further. What could a many-armed freak do against something effortlessly royal? A gnarled staff clacked sharply on the ground, and the three Tarnished looked up.

“Foul Tarnished.”

They braced for combat, readying weapons, and in the Renaissance man’s case, brandishing a small staff of his own. Looked pathetic next to the Fell Omen’s.

“In search of the Elden Ring.”

There it was again! Elden Ring - what the hell did it mean? Something to ask Angharad.

“Emboldened by the flame of ambition.”

He leapt down from the tower in a smooth motion - he was huge, larger than any of the Tarnished, and his impact sent up waves of dust, blown away in seconds by the ever-howling gale of Stormhill. The three stepped back, raising hands to their faces to try and shield themselves.

“Someone… must extinguish thy flame.”

The staff was raised into a fighting stance, and though it was made of wood, to Taylor it looked like the noblest sword she’d ever seen.

“Let it be Margit the Fell.”

She had a name. Margit. The one who was assuring her safety as much as Godrick was. Without a second word, battle was joined. Despite his size, he moved terrifyingly quickly, his staff lashing left and right. Nepheli charged at full pelt, clashing her axes together, howling at the top of her lungs. The same howl that had made Taylor pressed herself to the ground like a crawling snake didn’t faze Margit one bit, and his staff lashed out faster than she could see, flinging her backwards with a nauseating crunch of bone. The knight was next, and he was smarter, raising his shield and doing his best to avoid Margit’s blows, ducking and weaving around the strikes. Margit grunted, and flung daggers made of light at him - beautiful, golden light, reminding her of the Erdtree which shone down on the whole spectacle. The stick had impacted off the shield with dull clangs, but the daggers? They splashed across the shield, light rippling outwards and through it - the force had been broken, but some power still lingered. Enough to make the knight flinch and smoke rise from gaps in his armour. Enough for Margit to land another blow, crumbling his defences and sending him to the ground - one more strike and he’d be impaled. Taylor felt a surge of confidence in her situation - she was fine, the spectre of Nepheli that night was just a bad dream which had needed. Stormveil was safe, and her abilities could blossom in its walls.

That’s when things began to go wrong.

The Renaissance man had been patient this whole time, and now a bolt of purest blue flew from his staff - fucking magic - and impacted Margit in his side. She recognised that shade of blue - Angharad had described it well, the blue of glintstone. Well, now she got to see what ‘glintstone sorcery’ was. And it was… something. The bolt slammed into Margit’s side, and the Omen stumbled in his movements, hesitating for just a moment. It was enough. Nepheli was back, her skin pulsing with unnatural vitality - that damn flash she’d drunk from that night, it must have healed the cracked sternum and shattered ribs Margit had judiciously delivered. Her axes slammed into his staff, pinning it down while the knight plunged his sword upwards into the Fell Omen’s chest. Silence reigned. The Omen was still. Taylor’s breath was frozen in her throat. Everyone around her was staring, some with open mouths. Was this… it? Her defence, gone? Every weakness in Stormveil stood out with terrifying clarity - Nepheli could cut through barricades with no issue, the knight could weather assaults and drive forwards inexorably, the sorcerer could rain death on even their elevated ballistae, clearing a path for the others. A jagged spearhead pushing deep into the castle, putting everyone ‘to the sword’ as Telavis had put it. Godfrey’s conquest repeated.

And that was when things began to go right.

“Trickery… is no substitute for strength.”

The Omen growled, visible even from up here. With a roar, Margit summoned a hammer of pure light into his hands, slamming it down to release a shockwave that pushed the three away. His chest, the one which had just been impaled, looked absolutely fine - just a tiny dark hole where his flesh had been split, barely weeping a few drops of blood. The three Tarnished stumbled backwards, formation dissolving… and Margit descended. The hammer spun round, clearing more distance, and the Omen sprang into the air to bring his staff down on the sorcerer. The man had no time to react, too stunned by the Omen’s survival, and the stick stabbed through his forehead down to his groin, crushing him downwards into the earth with a wet squelch. Nepheli roared in anger, charging blindly - she dodged smoothly around a single strike, moved in exactly the same way she had when Taylor had first witnessed her. The difference was her opponent. Margit swayed around her axe strikes, not even bothering to fight with his staff for a few moments. He made her look like an amateur - even when then knight approached, he barely altered his strategy. A sword of light shot outwards, slicing Nepheli’s arm and causing her to drop one of her axes. A kick sent her careening to the edge of the bridge. A flung dagger finished the job, and she plummeted down, screaming herself hoarse. The knight was the last Tarnished remaining.

He stared at Stormveil. He stared at Margit. There was a moment of peace, right before the knight ran desperately for the castle. She could imagine his thought process. Hide, find shelter in hallways where someone Margit’s size couldn’t adequately operate. Good move. One she’d have made - no, that was a lie. She’d have run in the opposite direction, away from Margit. But then again, she wasn’t a knight that grew stronger by killing people. Maybe he intended to butcher his way through the servants, gain enough strength to renew his assault. It might have worked. But Margit was Margit, and another light dagger was flung into his back with dismissive ease. Margit slowly walked over while the knight tried to get back to his feet. He was close to the castle now, maybe he could find his way in through the hole in Gostoc’s wall… she scanned the people around her urgently. Nothing, nothing… there. A loose brick, lying just below the window. She picked it up, aimed, and dropped it. Didn’t need strength to drop something, gravity did all the work for her. The brick fell downwards… and as much as she would have liked to have it smash the knight on his helmet, it only landed on his toe. Enough to make him freeze and groan in pain. It was enough for him to stop running. Enough for Margit to finish his approach and dismissively grab the knight by the scruff of his neck. His growled voice reached her once more.

“And cowardice is no substitute for victory.”

With a tiny grunt of exertion, he flung the knight into the abyss. He screamed in a high-pitched voice as he fell, vanishing out of sight and out of mind in moments. The castle was silent… well, almost silent. The sight of Tarnished being felled, the sight of that achingly beautiful gold, the feeling of vindication in her choices… it stirred something in her, unbound a knot of tension she’d been carrying around ever since Nepheli had butchered that camp, and like an atom splitting in two there was a tremendous release of energy.

“Woo!”

It was a halfway involuntary sound. If she had killed Nepheli herself, she’d have howled savagely to the sky. If she had seen Nepheli mown down by ballistae, she’d have smiled blearily and sat down for a very, very long time. Seeing Nepheli get her ass handed to her - and two of her allies - by one person, the person she’d heard so much about yet had never truly seen… it inspired an animal sound which burst out of her mouth with frantic speed, an animal sound vaguely resembling ‘woo’. Everyone around her stared incredulously, and her mouth slammed shut with a shameful snap. Margit glanced up, and his golden eyes narrowed in recognition. His body was already starting to dissipate into golden particles, floating away on the wind… but he gave her a quick nod, almost embarassed, just before he vanished into nothingness. Telavis hummed at her side, and she glanced to see that his eyes were cloudy with nostalgia.

“No substitute for strength. Hm.”

He seemed to be thinking. She left him to it - a familiar voice was bellowing from below the gate, Godrick whipping his axe around in a savage display. He shrieked up at them:

“You evolutionary rejects, get back to work! Move, you vermin-spawned wretches! Move, lest I feed ye to the tree spirit!”

That seemed to do it. The servants scattered, and she followed them downwards. Breakfast was a few chunks of bread smeared with butter, no time to sit down for anything else. Had to eat perched on a low wall, sheltering her food unsuccessfully from the wind. She made a commitment to get to the hall earlier from now on, the Scion seemed to get dibs on the hall whenever he went in there - and based on the way the soldiers ran at the mention of his name, she didn’t particularly want to meet him. Or her. Who knew. If the Scion was Godrick’s son or daughter, she definitely didn’t want to meet them. Godrick was bad enough, but someone with Godrick’s genes raised by Godrick was probably a shambling nightmare of insecurity and rage. Not a good person to meet, in short. Potiphar was down at her feet, engaging in an experiment of sorts. He’d captured a few rats, and had stacked bricks around them to form a makeshift arena. Now he sat, arms folded, and waited for them to fight each other. She could guess his intentions. Let them fight, and then consume the survivor. She’d tell him to stop, but the rats were actually getting along rather well. Some of them kept trying to escape, and Potiphar had to smack them back inside with the pot equivalent of an irritated huff (which came across as an anguished rumble).

She glanced in Telavis’ direction. He was sitting quietly, chewing on a loose crust, content as could be. Two emotions ran through her. Guilt, and envy. Guilt, because she’d swindled a good man out of his armour, and now had him stuck here, in a castle that would gladly kill him. Well, she hadn’t forced him to stay - but he’d had nothing but his sword, his shield, and his cloak. What else could the man do? Wander into the world in his underclothes? She’d messed up there, wildly tried to get out of her grim predicament at any cost… and had dragged someone down with her. It made her cringe internally when she remembered how she’d exploited his honour, one of his best qualities, and had turned it to her own advantage. Felt wrong. On multiple levels. She sighed - wasn’t willing to confront that particular beast, not quite. Soon, she promised herself. Soon. Envy was also there - he’d been stronger than her. He’d been imprisoned, betrayed, robbed, and he was suffering from a fate she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy - the slow decay of his memories. And yet here he was, staring idly at the clouds, happy to watch their movement. He was stuck to her, in this place, and he was… as content as ever. What was his secret? Why did this knight not express anger, irritation, or anything that a normal person would feel in this scenario? Why wouldn’t he berate her for her actions?

She bit into her bread with more force than necessary, and Potiphar glanced up as her teeth clicked loudly. Concern shone through on his stony non-face. Her attention was distracted from the little jar by the sound of huge feet approaching - for a moment she shrunk in on herself, imagining Godrick striding out, or the grey giant. But… no. It was Onager. Telavis gave the man a respectful nod, which the man blinked at, a little surprised. His mangy dogs were pawing at his legs, whining a little - was he taking them on a walk? The idea was strangely funny to her, but… it made sense. Dogs needed walking. Even a giant’s dogs. The man came to a halt in front of her, staring in the vague direction of the front. Words came from his horn-scarred lips, deep and rumbling, barely audible over the gale.

“Did ye see him?”

“Uh.”

“Margit. The Fell. Ye see him?”

“Yeah. I saw him. Three Tarnished tried to attack, managed to wound him a little, but… well, one of them was impaled, the other two were thrown over the cliff. One tried to run past him into the castle… I distracted him with a rock. Enough to freeze him, let Margit throw him over.”

Her voice was turning a little wistful by the end, remembering his regal bearing. Onager sighed happily, and his dogs - Margit and Mohg - licked eagerly at his hands, happy to see their master pleased. With a grunt, the giant sat down next to her. Potiphar jumped, and some of his rats were able to escape, only for the dogs to greedily snatch them up. The jar crossed his arms, offended. The dogs just sniffed at him, to his increasing consternation. Taylor felt odd, next to the giant. He was clearly unnatural, a huge sign saying ‘you are not on Earth’, but she felt no aggression. It was interesting to be next to such a physical presence, of course. His breathing sounded like bellows, the rising of his chest was pronounced, even the air was suddenly filled with a scent rather like hawthorne and vanilla - not unpleasant, but definitely odd. His horns were raw, pale cores exposed to the world. Looked painful. He was silent, scratching behind the ears of his dogs. Taylor felt the urge to break the silence, to ask a question of the man.

“...are you an Omen?”

He glanced sharply at her, and for a moment she feared that he’d take offence… but instead, he laughed loudly.

“Ha! What kind of question is that? Are you an Omen… ‘course I’m an Omen. Got Omen where you come from?”

“No, none.”

“Huh. Erdtree might want your address.”

“...why?”

“Hates us, it does. Chops our horns off, sends up underground, sends Omenkillers to hunt us down. Bastard Golden Order. It’ll get what’s comin’ to it.”

She felt conflicted. On the one hand, everything he’d said sounded awful. On the other… the Erdtree looked beautiful, a point of perfection around which everything orbited, more constant than the sun or the moon. Maybe it only looked beautiful from a distance.

“How’d you end up here?”

Onager grunted dismissively.

“Could ask you the same.”

“...nowhere else to go. Other Shardbearers are mad. Can’t survive alone.”

“Heh. Got that right. Scrawny as a runt eaglet. Puppy with mange, that’s ye.”

Taylor frowned at the huge man in faint irritation. Maybe it was a bad idea to frown at the man who could probably kill her with a casual backhand, but… well, she’d stolen from a knight who could do the same, this was barely a shovelsworth of dirt out of the hole she’d dug herself into.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

A pause.

“...so, why are you working for Godrick?”

“I like him.”

Taylor had expected a few answers. Enslavement, press-ganging, maybe bound to him from birth, maybe in a similar boat to her and willing to shelter under the wing of anyone strong enough. She didn’t expect that, and a new question burst from her without any conscious thought.

“Why?”

“He’s a freak. Degenerate freak, complete weakling. Weakest of the Shardbearers. Has an army of exiles and madmen. Born a starving rat of a Lord, stole his power, wasted his opportunities and now stews here surrounded by his failures. You know, he challenged Malenia, just outside of Stormhill. Lost. Licked her golden feet, he did, just to be spared. Woman probably didn’t want any of his blood on her sword.”
He chuckled darkly, and his dogs panted happily.

“And there’s the time he snuck out of Leyndell by dressing as a woman and hiding with the womenfolk. Couldn’t pull it off anymore, but I hear he was a real looker when he was young. Looked like a woman, that is. Child-bearing hips, he had, before he covered them up with troll flesh.”

The chuckle escalated into a hoarse laugh, and Taylor stared. She’d never repeat any of this to anyone who might tell Godrick, any one of those insults would be enough to warrant an execution. She’d known he was weak in character, but to know that he was so physically weak… Christ. Though… Onager’s tone was oddly soothing. For once, someone was just being dismissive of him, uncaring of his rages or his pettiness, laughing off his vices like they belonged to some ordinary person. It helped with her still-present fear of the man, dampened some of her nervousness. Sharing a castle with Godrick the Grafted, lunatic and power-hungry warlord, was frightening. Sharing a castle with Godrick, he of the child-bearing hips and adept crossdressing, foot-licker and degenerate freak, was… well, a tad bit more bearable. Certainly not as immediately terrifying.

“...and you like him.”

“‘Course. He’s a freak. I’m a freak. Why serve one of those arrogant perfect pricks? In their golden palaces? Nah. Freak like him with the power he has… makes the world seem better. If he can do it… anyone can, hm? Hopeful, I reckon.”

He had a point there. A weird, weird point, but a point nonetheless.

“Be bloody fitting if he became Elden Lord. Erdtree hates anyone who isn’t perfect, so we put a monster on the throne. Petty, spiteful monster. Fitting. If the Erdtree had a face, I’d love to see it if Godrick ends up in charge. Serves it right for all the shite it’s pulled. And… Omen’s protecting him. Fell Omen, bloody legend. Maybe he sees something we can’t, I don’t know. Either way, I know where I’m throwing my lots.”

“I… guess.”

More pauses.

“Sorry, mind if I ask, why’s your dog called Mohg? I mean, I understand Margit, but…”

Onager leaned closer, the smell of hawthorne stronger than ever.

“Let me guess, Godrick made you swear against all the Shardbearers?”

“He did.”

“Remember their names?”

“...Rykard, Rennala, Malenia, Miquella, Morgott, Radahn.”

“You missed one. Godrick doesn’t talk about him. No-one does. Only us Omen, only the outcasts and the rejects. Folk like yourself, I suppose - just with more feathers, horns, and no gold in our peepers. Stink as bad as you did, though. Guess we have that in common.”

He grinned.

“Mohg. Lord of Blood. Omen himself, apparently. Building an army of Tarnished. Legend. Stronger than Godrick, no doubt. Stronger than anyone.”

Taylor processed that. Her conclusions hadn’t changed - anyone called the ‘Lord of Blood’ was probably bad news, and an army of Tarnished? How insane could he get?

“Huh. You know, if he’s so powerful, wouldn’t working for him make-”

“Nah. Doesn’t want us Omen yet. Only Tarnished, or people who can drink cursed blood and stay alive. Oh, when he wants a proper army, when the last Tarnished is killed by the last Bloody Finger, then. Then I’ll take my dogs and leave this place, let Godrick rot. He’s a squirming rat… biggest freak I can serve now. Soon as Mohg comes back, sends up the call, I’ll be on the front lines. Godrick’s just the biggest, pettiest freak in the room.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“What’re you going to do, tell Godrick? He’ll kill you if he knows you know the things I said. Thought you’d have figured out that you don’t want to be a bootlicker with him - he’ll just decide to kick you around. And…”

He tapped his cleaver menacingly. His dogs growled. And Taylor understood that if she tried to sell him out, she’d be ripped apart before she could say more than one word to Godrick. And at the end of the day… why bother? Onager wasn’t going to leave, not until his other lord ordered him to. He was another barrier standing between her and the outside world, another Omen keeping her safe. His casualness suggested that he’d told other people this - maybe the whole castle knew about Godrick’s old exploits. This… could be a show of camaraderie, a bond formed by mutual servitude. Or she could be being tested, given the opportunity to brown-nose Godrick. Concern pulsed in her chest - if Onager was so overtly disloyal, what did that say about the others? How many would keep serving Godrick if he lost some major battle, or if the Fell Omen stopped guarding them? Gostoc seemed like someone who’d sell Godrick out in a heartbeat if he thought he wouldn’t get killed for it… hm. That’d be an idea.

“OK, I get it. Won’t tell Godrick.”

“How nice. That’s all my worries sorted.”

He sighed wistfully.

“Ah, Mohg. Bloody fitting, I think. Erdtree, Queen Marika, that whole pack of scum, they shat on the Omen their entire lives. Now… Godrick’s a Shardbearer, his rule is propped up by an Omen, and another Omen stands to change the world. Reap what you sow and all that shite.”

“Sure.”

Onager had confused her at first, but now she felt like she had a good handle on him, on his personality. Spite. That defined him. Towards the Golden Order, the Erdtree, basically anyone associated with the old power that ruled this land. Looking at his filed horns and scarred body, she could see why. It was… nice, admittedly, to have someone so candid working beside her. She didn’t feel a need to deceive Onager, no need to manipulate him into doing what she wanted. Yet, at least. He was honest, blunt, seemed to see things as they were. Maybe it said something that she found a kindred spirit in a spiteful Omen who liked Godrick, but she wasn’t willing to dwell on the ramifications there. Not for a good long while.

Silence endured until Angharad sent a servant to fetch Taylor and her companions for more lectures. She bid goodbye to Onager, who was already sneaking a quick nap in a rare pool of sunshine. Now that was someone with his life sorted out. Somewhat. Angharad was as simultaneously eager and nervous as ever, taking off her veil the moment Taylor entered and breathing in a way that suggested it was quite stuffy behind that layer of cloth. Books were scattered, as per usual, and Taylor could see huge piles of loose scrawlings all over the place, some of them containing crude diagrams of the things she’d been explaining the day before - to her satisfaction, they were unfocused notes, at least from what she could see. Nothing dangerous. No diagrams of a medieval nuclear bomb, just… crude atoms, scribbled explanations, and nothing more. Good. The plan was working with her, and a quick conversation confirmed it. Angharad was eager to learn, and she was largely an open vessel - few questions, few doubts, just open-minded acceptance. Which made her incredibly easy to distract from core topics. Damn good thing, that, given that Taylor’s knowledge had a very firm ceiling. When they started to run out of chemistry she understood and could explain convincingly, she’d contrive an excuse to talk about elementary physics, biology… high school stuff, sure, but stretched out and unfocused until it meandered its way into oblivious nonsense. She could sustain this for a while, she thought… but in the end, Godrick would need results, and just ‘learning’ wasn’t going to cut it. As she explained the concept of ‘charge’, she considered a way out of that particular predicament. She needed to be able to offer something to Godrick that could satisfy his curiosity, convince him that she was worth keeping around, ideally until he lost interest in her and turned to someone else to get his sadistic kicks.

Margit. The Fell Omen. Thinking about that ‘bloody legend’ as Onager would eloquently put it gave her some ideas. Sure, he’d defeated those three Tarnished, but there were definitely more than three in this land. A map of the world was stuck on Angharad’s wall, and a quick study revealed that… well, Godrick was practically the first damn stop for Tarnished of all stripes. Caelid was a mess of muddy reds, and apparently people tried their best to never go there. The only route north was through Stormveil. Tarnished would come here continuously, challenging Margit until someone got lucky. He’d been wounded today. What if the next time they used something more damaging than a sword? This was a world with magic, they could definitely cook up something capable of truly hurting him. They couldn’t die either, which meant they’d have theoretically infinite chances to learn over and over from their mistakes. Even if Margit was unbeatable, what if someone snuck past? Clambered over the cliffs, stayed out of sight, infiltrated the castle and set about their bloody work?

The sight of that knight running for the castle had reminded her of every flaw, every gap, every hole. For crying out loud, he’d been this close to Gostoc’s gatehouse and the hole in its wall. Gostoc would definitely sell them all out for a quick buck, if he knew a way in, he’d probably hand it over to the Tarnished for only a nominal fee and the rights to strip everyone’s corpses bare afterwards. Kill two birds with one stone - highlight some of Stormveil’s problems, and convince Godrick that she was actually useful. Plus, delay the realisation that she barely understood what was in the latter parts of her textbook. Her lecture slowed to a halt, and the perfumer narrowed her eyes as Taylor deviated from the topic, her fingers tapping in irritation.

“I’m sorry, but I need to ask. Do you feel… safe here”?

Angharad let out a strangled laugh.

“Safe? We’re surrounded by Tarnished, the Shattering ruined everything, and our lord is a many-armed freak. No, I don’t feel safe. Haven’t in years.”

“How do you cope, then?”

“I stay down here. People forget about me, just so long as they get their aromatics. Even Godrick does… unless he has books he wants me to translate.”

“Sorry.”

“...I don’t quite accept your apology. I’ll accept it if we survive the next few years. Otherwise, I’ll happily curse you.”

“That’s… fair.”

She peered at Angharad - nervous, apprentice thrust into a position she wasn’t prepared for, easy to push into a position Taylor could understand. Servant to Godrick, and a cowardly one. Telavis might be honourable, and she wouldn’t do anything truly horrific, not while he was around… but Angharad could ruin her life. She had to act here to survive, that was all.

“What if you could make yourself safer?”

“How, exactly?”

“Well, this castle is full of holes. Fell Omen keeps people out, but what if someone gets past him? Or defeats him?”

“...hasn’t been defeated yet.”

“But he could be. He was wounded today. What would happen if dozens of Tarnished showed up, not just three?”

Angharad looked a hell of a lot more twitchy.

“I… I don’t know. I’ll hide. Go deeper. Hope no-one finds me.”

“Alright, but what if they find you? Wouldn’t it be better if they were just… kept out? Permanently?”

“What are you proposing, exactly?”

“Stormveil is full of holes. Feels like someone should repair them. Getting to the point where we can build any of the technology from my home will take a while. Godrick might get impatient in the meantime, is all I’m saying. And if he wants me to help him, I’ll help him.”

Telavis hummed in vague interest. Killing two birds with one stone - seemed like a good move. If she was permitted to focus on other things, more common sense things, she could avoid letting Angharad come to the conclusion that she was, in fact, a barely intelligent teenager with no capacity to perform miracles of any kind. People here didn’t look like they were centuries old, maybe Angharad simply assumed that she was older than she looked. Nuclear weapons, any advanced tech… it was all beyond her. And, of course, she could see obvious areas for improvement. Margit had made this place seem more like a home than anything Godrick had done - he’d actually fought off the Tarnished, given some credence to the stories she’d heard. Stormveil had, officially, become a place where she could stay, recover, feed herself, and sleep knowing that a Tarnished wouldn’t slice her head off with a casual swing of their enormous axe. And now that staying in Stormveil for an extended period seemed like a reality, she couldn’t ignore the weaknesses and vulnerabilities. If she was going to stay, if she could see the problems, and if she could conceive of solutions… what kind of person would she be if she didn’t try to improve her situation? What kind of helpless, weak, broken creature would she be if she scuttled around this castle and hid from anything a little frightening? The kind of weak creature that couldn’t control her powers and had wound up bound to Godrick, indebted to a knight she’d betrayed, and chained to an apprentice perfumer she was trying to deceive. Seeing a man in nothing but a cloak, using nothing but a stick, fighting off three Tarnished… it inspired something in her. A desire to act.

The fear was slowly dripping away, and what remained was determination to do something. It was the same determination that fuelled her desire to get home at any cost. The two emanations were bound to the same emotion that she clung to with every muscle she had.

“...you’re suggesting fixing Stormveil. Somehow.”

“Lord Godrick wants miracles. Those will take time. In the meanwhile, I want to help however I can. Given that we’re bound together, might be worth helping each other out here. No point building a castle if our foundations are sand, huh?”

Hm. Surprisingly nice to quote literature from back home without anyone getting the reference. Angharad shrugged.

“If you want to, ask Lord Godrick about it. I won’t put my neck on the line for this. Though.. if these miracles will take so much time, perhaps your plan is best. I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

Perfect. Behaving just as Taylor anticipated. Ultimately willing to give way to someone more proactive, that she perceived as more intelligent. Cowardly. Fearful of Godrick. Desperate to survive. Angharad’s eyes turned a little sorrowful.

“...but please, keep teaching me. Your home sounds… wondrous.”

“Sure. And… thanks. So, anyway, electrons have a negative charge, and protons…”

Taylor collapsed into bed, her muscles aching like hell. After Angharad had absorbed more information on atoms, before being easily sidetracked into discussions of nuclear disasters (the woman had gone pale when she talked about Chernobyl), she’d managed to get away for a little while. She felt like she’d accomplished something, like she’d finally set out on the right path. All she needed to do now was… convince Godrick that she should be allowed to fix some of the issues in his castle. Well, she’d already convinced him to accept her service. Her, a scrawny know-nothing kid with no real talents to speak of and an enduring desire to escape from him permanently. Hm. A problem to deal with some other day. She’d need to pick her moments carefully, strategise properly… that being said, the sight of Margit had dispelled many of her worries, replacing them with new ones in turn. One worry that endured, though, was Telavis. He was waiting outside her door, the bastard seemed to never actually sleep. Lucky for some. Though… come to think of it, immortality without sleep sounded pretty damn miserable. Either way, the knight endured, and she felt the same twinge of guilt every time she looked at him. She wanted him to do something, wanted for Telavis to show some of his own pettiness, if only as a tiny reminder that he was still human, still a vice-ridden, petty creature like everyone else - like her.

But no. He had to be honourable, had to be calm. Christ. The man was probably the closest thing to an ideal knight she’d met, close to being a hero from back home, and she’d exploited him. In a way, she was glad that he was hanging around. Reminded her of what she’d done, and what she’d do to survive. Kept a sense of urgency hanging overhead. Her mind was buzzing with so many thoughts that she barely managed to focus on the distant light, trying feebly to grasp for the power that could get her back. She needed to commit to practising this, no haphazard attempts, genuine regulation at all costs. Couldn’t get back home by being lazy. She felt tired, after a long day of lecturing, talking with giants, seeing excitement that made her blood rise and her spine stiffen.

The light came a little closer, the same colour as Margit’s constructs. Why was he here? Why had he decided to protect Godrick, of all people? Was it out of loyalty, or something more strategic? Was he trying to stop Tarnished from getting to Liurnia and beyond? Whatever he was doing, it was working. And he’d looked at her, acknowledged her presence with a nod. God, she wondered why the punk couldn’t have jumped down when she arrived, he seemed like he’d be a much better boss than Godrick. On second thought… maybe not. He’d probably get her to help guard the bridge, if he accepted her at all. And there was still the whole question of how he appeared - more magic, apparently. Christ, she lived in a world where magic was a thing. This was her existence. How profoundly delightful. Her mind drifted to smaller things - get some stones to block up the hole in Gostoc’s gatehouse, get him away from the gate and replaced with someone more loyal, or less knowledgeable about the castle’s weaknesses. Redistribute archers and ballistae, maybe take gravestones from the bridge leading to the throne room and use them to form more powerful barriers, higher and stronger than wood. Confirm that their food supply couldn’t be severed… No - stop focusing on minutiae, focus on the light. It washed over once more, beautiful, calming, every memory turning purposeful and perfect in its glorious rays. Relaxation spread throughout, and she smiled vaguely as the light continued to emanate downwards from her mind into the rest of her body. The bed was ever-so-soft beneath her, her muscles craved a rest, and the light was guiding her-

No, goddammit, she didn’t want

to

rest.

Taylor fell asleep and snored loudly while Potiphar calmly withdrew a blanket and tugged it over her, before settling down for his own kind of rest. Inside a lit fire.

Chapter Text

Morning was good. For a time. Then, it was rapidly the opposite of good (‘bad’, ‘shitty’, ‘godawful’, ‘batshit fucking terrible in a manner that would make her shudder for some time to come’ as the kids would say). Shame, too, because it really had started quite well. Uneventful waking, purposeful dressing and bathing, increasingly getting used to the strange rhythms of medieval life. She didn’t even mind the draftiness, and the fire was blooming to life faster every other time she tried her hand at it. Potiphar was a delight, as per usual - she’d definitely try and bring him back home, there was an innocent charm to the living jar. Even if he was currently doing push ups. The jar didn’t even have muscles, what good were push ups? And why did he insist on doing them inside the fire? Either way, wasn’t going to interrupt him. No desire to get a handful of flaming jar. She dressed dully, the motions quickly becoming automatic (though she was going to have to figure out how laundry worked here at some point. The brief image of being forced to scrub everything viciously over a boiling pool for hours on end made her shudder a little). No mishaps. Nothing that suggested an unpleasant day to come.

She even navigated down to the dining hall without a single pause or nervous glance around to confirm that she was going in the right direction. She’d been scared for long enough, she wanted to adjust to this new way of living as soon as possible. Similar fare to yesterday, and she remained interested in where that food was actually coming from - could Tarnished cut it off at some point? Though, maybe starvation wasn’t quite so useful here - people would sicken and die, but they’d get back up again soon enough. It’d weaken their forces, but if Godrick was remotely clever, he’d start arranging things to ensure that weakened troops wouldn’t be too much of a problem. The hall was more crowded, this was clearly closer to the soldiers’ usual breakfast time. She found herself forced to sit between two red-clad soldiers, who chomped relentlessly at their meals, refusing to acknowledge her presence. Potiphar simply hovered at the back of the hall, trying desperately to clutch at some of the lower-hanging arms while she wasn’t looking. It probably said something concerning that she had already started ignoring those things. Something to think about later.

The soldiers munched, and Taylor was content to leave them alone. No point striking up a conversation with people that probably saw her as a menial at best, an undesirable freeloader at worst. She’d probably just piss them off. She was good at that. Telavis was still hovering, and some of the soldiers were giving him nervous glances - that was a solid conversation killer right there. That the excuse she’d be using from now on, it was less self-deprecating. Not that she minded, admittedly - the dead conversation or the self-deprecation. Her intention to eat and silently leave until Angharad decided she wanted to start learning more elementary chemistry was dashed by the arrival of… well, her boss. Her first ever boss. That’d be a story for the grandkids - ‘oh, you think your first boss was bad, mine was a many-armed warlord who hated everyone and everything and also had me thrown off a cliff’. That’d shut them up. Godrick stalked into the hall, staring about with great intensity - he’d focus on a soldier, hold his gaze until the soldier started to quiver slightly, presumably afraid of getting smashed or grafted, and then he’d move to another with a sinister grin on his face. He repeated this several times during his walk, and as he passed by Taylor’s table… his eye fixed on her. She froze. She might have predicted him, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be any closer to him than strictly necessary.

“Ahh, my own little oathsworn. Enjoying your dining, hm? Enjoying the food that I, Godrick the Golden, graciously provides for thine benefit? The bounty that flows outward from the source down the great chain to your humble table?”

Taylor swallowed and tried not to imagine anything flowing from Godrick. She also tried to not to imagine his child-bearing hips that allowed him to disguise himself as a woman. Definitely was trying not to think about that. Definitely couldn’t detect a coquettish sashay to his movement, no sir.

“...Sure, definitely enjoying it. Thank you. My lord.”

One of his many hands reached out to pat her on the head, and he grinned when she squirmed in discomfort.

“Good, good. I’m glad. I’m like a father to these men, you see, a kindly parent. And I am glad at thy work entering into my little family.”

Based on the shudders that ran through the soldiers, none of them regarding him as anything approaching ‘kindly’. An idea struck Godrick, accompanied by a malicious grin. Before she could do a damn thing, he’d picked her up by the scruff of her neck like a lost kitten and had dumped her next to the high table with one of his largest arms. Shock overpowered her. Shit. Shit. Not good, definitely not good. Paralysed with nervousness, her mind immediately flicked to tiny details. Behind the arms was a huge painting of Godfrey on the wall, towering above with that same lion draped around his shoulders. Serosh, she thought - Telavis had mentioned Serosh roaring after the Storm King was defeated, maybe this was that same roarer. She saw Potiphar scrambling over, a single finger clutched victoriously in his rocky hand. Telavis grumbled and narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on his sword. Focusing on these little bits of minutiae kept her from squeaking as Godrick gestured grandly to one of the chairs. The high table was barely occupied - Godrick needed a large space to eat, and evidently didn’t enjoy having company. But her? She was small, compared to him. And fragile. And weak. Even elevated to the high table, she was still noticeably inferior, which she imagined gave him some kind of distressing pleasure. She tried to sit demurely, huddling to reduce her frame, nervous as the eyes of every soldier in the room fixed on her. Godrick shambled to his own area - no seat for him, just a long couch that he sprawled messily on, twisting his bloated torso into a comfortable position. Cringing servants dragged in an entire roasted boar, dripping with fat, stuffed with vegetables, clearly more expensive than anything anyone else was permitted to eat.

Now, Taylor had seen people eating before. She’d seen messy eaters, too. Godrick was not eating. What he was doing was pure chaos. He didn’t even use cutlery, just dug in with sharp nails and delving teeth, splattering juice everywhere, anchoring the huge carcass with outer hands while inner hands shovelled more flesh into his waiting mouth. Taylor was brought her old plate, and quietly tried to eat what she could while Godrick took perverse pleasure in making someone else feel disgusted - there was no mistaking his intentions here. His eyes flicked to her every once in a while, he’d grin when he saw her flinch, and he’d go out of his way to throw loose bones in her general direction. Telavis didn’t even come to stand behind her like usual, preferring to stay a small distance away while his eyes narrowed at every move Godrick made. Not for the first time, she wondered if it would be possible to run away from here, find a cave to shelter in, maybe ask Telavis to help her out with matters of survival… no. She looked at the knight, and remembered the silent statement he’d made at the gate. The only thing that was keeping her alive was Godrick’s protection, and the promise that she’d return his armour as soon as possible. If she left this castle, absconded from Godrick’s service… she’d be killed almost immediately, punished for swindling a very dangerous knight. His honour was keeping her alive, despite betraying him. A single shift, and that honour would become her worst enemy. Her position was stable, she couldn’t be hurt by Telavis, had wrangled Angharad’s expectations a hell of a lot lower, and had convinced Godrick that she was somehow useful. She was just doubting her own plan, that was all. She was safe, and she had a plan to improve her situation further. No point shattering that plan, disrupting the delicate balance she existed within. Even if Godrick was currently spraying grease everywhere.

“Ah - girl, oathsworn, wouldn’t you like some boar, hm? My men acquired it but this morning, my cooks do a fine job, hm?”

His tone was needling, nasal, deliberately annoying. Godrick, she reminded herself, was a complete shithead. But then again, she’d dealt with plenty of shitheads in the past. She stiffened her lip, straightened her back, and kept eating her meal (even if her appetite had long-since vanished).

“No thank you, my lord.”

His grin turned to a scowl.

“Bah. No taste. Dost thou insult thine lord’s hospitality?”

“No, my lord, not at all.”

Godrick seemed to be winding up to something, and she decided to interject before he did something regrettable.

“My lord, may I ask a question? I’m a new arrival, and I want to serve your rule as best I can.”

She tried to affect a style that very much wasn’t her own, but seemed to be in fashion here. Wasn’t going to start saying ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ of course. She had some limits left, even if she’d consider breaking them if survival was on the line. Godrick grunted, turning back to his boar with a vague shrug of affected disinterest.

“Very well. Speak, and I may condescend to answer.”

Don’t ask about Malenia don’t ask about golden feet don’t ask about his aptitude for crossdressing.

Huh. As it turned out, thinking about all those things relaxed her a little, put her into a state of mind where her voice didn’t shake uncontrollably. She’d need to thank Onager later.

“Who’s in charge of the soldiers?”

He paused, and turned to look at her incredulously.

“I am.”

“Oh. Are you responsible for their training, their positioning…?”

He grunted.

“They train themselves, interpret my will as they desire. My privilege is to give orders, their duty is to interpret and obey. Such is the luxury of a lord, and the duty of his servants.”

“...oh. So, the minutiae is left up to the soldiers?”

“Aye. Such things are beneath me.”

“Of course, quite right my lord. Very wise decision.”

She considered this new information as Godrick subtly preened at the compliment - spacing them out seemed a good idea, compliment him too often and it goes to his head, too little and he starts getting insulted. The weakness of Stormveil had been weighing on her heavily ever since that fight on the bridge. It was a good castle, well-fortified, well-equipped, full of soldiers, isolated from the mainland by narrow choke points. But it seemed like Godrick had mismanaged every detail, made it completely dependent on Margit. Before she could start relaying her ideas to him, Godrick seemed to remember something, and grinned.

“Now, little oathsworn, regarding my miracles.”

Shit. She’d known this was coming. She’d need to pull out a lot of bullshit.

“Well, Perfumer Angharad and I are working as hard as we can to develop some… uh, miracles. But it will take some time, my Lord, just to make sure that everything is working correctly, that the miracles are the very best they can be, working to stretch our limits as far as they can go. We don’t want to give you anything of poor quality.”

Combination of cringingly subservient and faintly professional. No desperate apologies, no simpering sycophantry, just the facts as they appeared. Flattered him a little by implying that they didn’t want to insult him with bad miracles, but didn’t make herself seem like a dog that could be kicked. She hoped.

“And yet, you are proceeding, are you not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There will be… weapons, soon? As the book demonstrated?”

“Angharad and I are confident that, with enough time, we could produce almost anything..”

Maybe a few hundred years while she reinvented nuclear physics, then a thousand or so years before she was able to invent computers, complex metallurgy, and the half dozen fields that were necessary to build a goddamn nuclear bomb. But she wasn’t going to say that. Godrick studied her carefully, and she saw… something in those eyes. Something that she’d always lost, given that she’d always been terrified around him. First, she’d thought that he was a titanic warlord capable of conquering anything. Then, after Onager, a shrivelled idiot barely capable of controlling his army. Now? In those eyes was a kind of low, animal cunning. He was wily. Arrogant, half-insane, sadistic, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. In fact, looking into those eyes, seeing the way his many limbs twitched thoughtfully, she thought she saw a tiny piece of herself. The same longing to survive at all costs. He’d debased himself several times, lost a hell of a lot, and here he was with a castle. It was an instinct she hadn’t quite recognised in the past, but now she had latched onto it… she was getting a better picture of the Shardbearer. Enough that she was confident in what she said next.

“...but, we thought we should produce something for you in the meantime, as gratitude for your patience.”

She leaned closer, trying to adopt a conspiratorial expression - not a simpering snitch, just a professional with information - ignoring the stench of meat and the general stink that surrounded Godrick.

“When I came to Stormveil, I saw a hole in the wall of the gatehouse. I think it leads to the castle - of course, it’s entirely your decision, but Angharad and I would be eager to volunteer to seal it up for you.”

Godrick’s eyes narrowed.

“...a weakness. Do you make a habit of scanning your lord’s home for flaws?”

Shit. Heart rate was going up again.

“No, my lord, in fact, I barely remembered it at all. But… one of the Tarnished yesterday almost got past the bridge, he was close enough to touch the gate itself. If he noticed the weakness, he could tell his allies about it, maybe if enough of them attacked a few could get through, evading our best defences through honourless trickery.”

Channelling a little of Margit and Telavis now, all ‘honour’ and ‘trickery’ and complete brow-furrowing seriousness. Don’t imply that his defences are weak, imply that the Tarnished are just cheating. Accentuates his own grandeur when he defeats them, minimises any bruising when he loses. The boar was ignored, the lord was directing his focus entirely on her. No more bellows, no more cackling. His expression was completely serious, and his limbs barely twitched at all.

“You perceived a weakness in Stormveil. Now, why have none of my servants relayed this to me? Hm? I instructed them to place a guard there at all times, would they disobey me? Do you wish to foment dissent in my ranks?”

His tone began to inch towards shrill anger at the end, but even so, it was much more controlled than she’d even seen it before. More ideas were blooming - a little more manipulation. A hint of revenge that she overpowered, just for a moment.

“No, never, my lord. I imagine it was an innocent mistake, the hole is quite out of the way, I’m sure the guards were simply busy designing better ways of defending you. And, being outside the gate is not a very glorious position. No reinforcements if a Tarnished gets through, after all, first to fight ad first to die. Maybe they wanted to serve you in a more effective position, leave the gate to someone less experienced, more… expendable. I can’t imagine any actual malice.”

She refrained from throwing Gostoc under the bus. She could imagine the fallout from that - he knew about the Crucible Knight, he could cause a lot of problems if he was on the brink of death. She’d given him an out, pinned the blame on lazy guards instead of a treacherous gatekeeper. He was a bastard, but he was cunning - he’d figure out that she’d done him a favour, in the end. It was odd - Angharad being bound to her gave her some rather interesting ideas. She was an anchor perpetually on the verge of slipping away into the deep with no chance of return. Her best weapon, ironically, was probably herself. Tie herself to others, force them to help her - because if she went down, they would too. Gostoc had screwed her, and she’d screw right back. He wanted to get her chained to a Crucible Knight? Fine. Now she was all that stood between him and a vengeful execution at the hands of Godrick. Either both of them lived, or both of them died. Godrick hummed, and an expression of faint nervousness crossed his face.

“...hm. This is a concern. Tarnished in the night… how could I protect all of you if you died in silence? Ah, it makes my lordly heart weep.”

Man, he was better at bullshitting than she was.

“And you can seal this gap?”

“Definitely. If we can borrow a few soldiers or servants…”

“Take your drones, work them till they break, but fix that gap, do you understand, little oathsworn?”

He paused, then recanted his previous words.

“Do you understand, favoured oathsworn, favoured… T… Tai…”

More pauses, and one of his more vestigial arms scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“...Thaylon of Hebaria?”

“Taylor Hebert.”

“Of course, my mind is occupied with lordly matters, the names of my serfs is so oft beneath my attention - but prove thyself worthy to me, repair this dreadful wound in my noble fortress, and I shall engrave your name into the contours of my ever-gyrating brain.”

Oh for fuck’s sake, ‘ever-gyrating’, he was asking her to think about his child-bearing hips. Goddammit, now the image wouldn’t go away, and it grew more horrifying with each passing moment.

“Of course, my lord. I’ll get right to it.”

“See that you do! See that you do!”

More nervousness flashed across his face.

“And be quick!”

Hm. Underneath all those arms, he was still a cringing creature looking to survive at all costs. Just like her. But with more sadism, sociopathy, arms, and more feminine hips no Taylor stop thinking about that goddammit Onager has infected us with a damn brain parasite. Godrick fell silent, and refused to engage with her any further - perhaps a little embarrassed at the tone of his final command, the desperation contained within it. She’d… done it. Sure, her heart was beating like a fucked clock, but it was still beating! Godrick hadn’t even considered sending someone else to do the job, she’d correctly assumed that his cowardice and his neuroses would demand an immediate solution, without spreading knowledge of the weakness to anyone else. He could have told her to get back to the miracles. Instead, he seized on the first available solution and pushed it through, ignoring anything else when his survival was in question.


The boar continued to vanish, and Potiphar started stealing bones, stuffing them inside his empty cavity until he clattered like a xylophone wherever he walked. A part of her was terrified that Godrick would take offence to the tiny jar and would kick him across the room like a heavy and incredibly friendly soccer ball. But, thankfully, Potiphar remained vaguely inoffensive… or maybe people were just used to these things. Which was odd, because she hadn’t actually seen any of them around the place. Or in the wilds beyond, either.

Her thoughts of jars and walls consumed her mind as she consumed a pile of buttered bread with as much gusto as someone sitting next to Godrick’s carnage could.

Still a fairly high amount, as it turned out. That boar smelled damn good.

“Ah, Taylor, I hoped you would - goodness, are you quite alright?”

“Fine, fine. We’re building a wall today.”

“..I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, Lord Godrick wanted to have breakfast with me, and I told him about this… hole, in the gatehouse. He wants us to fix it. Now, if possible.”

Angharad scrambled to her feet, replacing her veil, straightening her robes, swiftly packing away her writing kit. Her eyes were burning with agitation, and her hands were practically shaking - it took her several tries to squirrel away her metal pen into its case. Taylor sat down heavily in a nearby chair, and took several deep breaths. Sure, she understood Godrick better now, sure, he was a more comprehensible figure that she could see herself manipulating… but she’d also been dragged up to the high table and forced to sit next to him as he consumed something larger than her entire upper body. Christ. Her heart was beating too hard, her knees kept shaking. If he had taken that badly, he’d have every right to kill her on the spot, or throw her off the side of the castle with another impossible task. Check how deep the pit around the castle was, need to go right to the bottom to find out, though! God, she was nervous. Telavis stood placidly nearby, humming a tune she couldn’t quite recognise. Smug bastard, he hadn’t been sitting next to Godrick, his only good clothes hadn’t been soiled by flying grease and bones. And he was better at running than her. Gah. At least Potiphar was being a soothing presence, curled up in her lap like an enormous ceramic cat.

Angharad seemed to notice her distress, and paused in her motions, slowly walking over.

“Are you… quite well?”

“No, I mean, yeah, fine. Fine. Just need a minute.”

She took in the thin speckled layer of grease.

“Oh… he made you sit next to him, didn’t he?”

“Does he do that normally?”

“I was subjected to it several times before I convinced the cooks to send my food down here.”

“Does he do it to everyone?”

“Anyone who flinches.”

Taylor felt a nervous laugh bubble up, and clamped her mouth shut to prevent it from escaping. Angharad was looking concerned - dammit, stop looking concerned, she’d done what needed to be done, this was just an unpleasant aftereffect. Her thoughts ran in different directions, and settled on… hm.

“You know he dressed up as a woman once.”

Angharad blinked.

“I… what.”

“Yeah. Onager said he dressed up like a woman to escape Leyndell. Said he had ‘child-bearing hips’ when he was younger. Couldn’t stop thinking about it during breakfast, almost undid me.”

The apprentice perfumer was silent for a moment, then started to shake wildly - for a second Taylor thought she might be having a seizure. But then the chaotic, half-mad laughter started spilling out, and Taylor couldn’t help but join in with a few low chuckles that got past her rapidly beating heart. The perfumer kept laughing, wildly. There was nothing polite about it, no restrained titters or polite murmurs of amusement, she guffawed, whooped, snorted… it sounded like it had been a very long time since she’d last laughed properly, and was still relearning. It was too much for her, and she was forced to sit down for a moment, leaning back in an ancient chair as she struggled to get her mirth back under control. Taylor coughed, suppressing herself.

“...did you know?”

“I’ve never heard about the ‘child-bearing hips’, oh my, Marika’s tits that’s… that’s something. Hoo my. Pardon my colourful language.”

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s really distracting. Like a brain parasite or something.”

“...he does still have a bit of a sway, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“Grace almighty, that… that made my day.”

She started to settle down, calming her laughter. And then she spoke again.

“...you know, I’ve always thought that his hair was surprisingly well-kept for someone so mad. Do you think he had it that long-”

Taylor snorted.

“God, he has braids. He has long braids. He’d have looked fabulous.”

And the laughter recommenced. Potiphar was deeply confused, and found himself rolling across the floor after a violent laugh send him toppling from Taylor’s lap. Not that he seemed to mind - he rolled right into the fire, and had a whale of a time making a bed out of embers and ash. Telavis stared at the two with blank serenity… though his lips quirked into something resembling a smile, even if it was almost completely invisible beneath his enormous beard. At long last, they ran out of ways to make fun of Godrick (for now), and started to walk out of the workshop, down the long, dark corridors and back into the open world. They talked. They talked. Lightly. About very little. No atoms, no nuclear bombs, no distractions, just… stuff. The quality of the food. What aromatics were edible and delicious, and could be used to flavour the more dull fare on offer. How to convince the cooks to bring food directly to your room. The gales. Just… things. She was clearly happy to not be constantly thinking about building a nuclear bomb for Godrick the Grafted (which was a normal sentence that normal people thought). This was, to be perfectly blunt, the first time Taylor had talked about something light since she’d got here. Probably not for months before that, actually.

She wasn’t sure what she thought about that. For a moment, she let herself lean into the conversation, talking about nothing of value, just like… no. Her mouth snapped shut, her responses became monosyllabic. She resembled Telavis in conversational aptitude. Angharad gave her a strange look, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, but Taylor kept her eyes dead forwards. She was here to survive. And fix a wall. Speaking of which, in a matter of minutes they were back at the Gatehouse, surveying the damage. Well, they started to survey the damage, until Gostoc poked his head round a corner and suspiciously asked them what they were doing, and why he shouldn’t report them to someone for sneaking around like a couple of thieves. Angharad gave the gatekeeper a fierce glare, but Taylor was more… diplomatic. A diplomatic capacity not remotely reinforced by a slight sadistic glee.

“Say, Gostoc, let’s talk outside. Important that you hear this. Angharad, keep at it.”

“Hm.”

The perfumer kept scribbling away, marking down the thickness of the wall, the materials used, how many bricks they might need… and Gostoc accompanied Taylor outside, back into the sight of the main bridge. It was silly, but Taylor imagined that she could feel the Fell Omen standing overhead, glaring down imperiously at the two. No such thing was happening, of course, but… well, it gave her a little boldness. Just a little.

“So, Lord Godrick wants us to fix the hole in that wall. No weaknesses.”

Gostoc processed that… and paled (somehow) as he realised what that meant. His single remaining fist clenched, and he shook slightly.

“You didn’t. You know I’ll-”

“Sell me out, I know. Look, I didn’t throw you under the bu- the cart. I blamed the soldiers for posting someone inexperienced instead of one of their own. Too eager to serve Lord Godrick directly. I’ll give you some advance warning, though, you might want to pawn this job off to someone else for a while. Just until this blows over.”

Gostoc glared.

“Why? You didn’t need to do any of this. Margit keeps people out. Could have just sat in your cellar and stayed out of trouble.”

Taylor, once, would have reeled back from this, crumbled under questioning, relented and considered his ideas wise. But she had an intent, now. She’d come over the hump, won the victory over herself, and she was pissed.

“Because if a Tarnished got past Margit, he could get through that hole into the rest of the castle. Because if Margit dies, we’ll all have to pitch in to defend ourselves and Lord Godrick. Because I’m living here, and I intend to live here for a long time. Now, our relationship has been too unequal for me. You have that armour. I have this hole. You sell me out, I sell you out. We either both stay alive, or we both die. Understood?”

Gostoc twitched nervously, and rubbed the stump of his arm, wincing a little. His eyes were wary, watchful, and… strangely understanding. She saw a flash of respect in his eyes. Not much, in the grand scheme of things, but it wasn’t active hostility. It was something she guessed would happen. Gostoc was spineless, sure, and completely out for himself. Faced with someone noble or naive, he’d exploit them relentlessly, drain them to their last drop. Faced with someone weak and cringing, he’d kick them down a hole and steal their stuff once they died of starvation. Faced with someone who treated him like a rational person, respected him in one form or another, but wouldn’t take an ounce of shit? Yeah. That was someone he could work with. Similar to Godrick, though Gostoc was obviously far weaker - a fact that influenced his personality quite significantly. He raised his one hand in a vague expression of surrender.

“Alright, you’ve made your point. Call off your dog.”

She blinked, and realised that Telavis was standing menacingly behind her, his sword ready to swing at any moment. How long had he been there? How quietly could the bastard move? Again, that honour acted in her favour - she was trying to serve her Lord, Gostoc was trying to screw him over, of course his inclinations would come down in her favour. Her victory over Gostoc was faintly tinged by more guilt, a feeling like she was exploiting Telavis again. Not fair. She hadn’t even done it deliberately this time, hadn’t needed his help one little bit. She sighed.

“Telavis, he’s fine. So… yeah, stay out of Godrick’s way.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

He turned to leave, probably to find a nice hiding spot to stay in until people forgot that he was in charge of the compromised gatehouse. Before he left, though, he yelled over his shoulder.

“You’re a right bitch, you know that?”

She was aware.

She was very much aware.

Minutes passed, and surveys were completed. It didn’t take long to assess the damage - looked old, the wind and rain had worn the stones down to smooth edges. Not good for stacking, they’d need to remove some of the surviving bricks, strip some roots that had grown through, then they could get to work. The walls were thick, they’d need to dig around in the back of the castle for usable rubble. Apparently there were some half-destroyed buildings which could be used for spares. Hard work, definitely. Long work, surely. Good. She wasn’t going to stretch out the work longer than she needed to, but she was happy to use up a good chunk of time dealing with a single wall instead of teaching Angharad about atoms. They were reviewing the final notes - well, Angharad was, Taylor couldn’t read the script here, though she was determined to learn as soon as possible.

“...alright, so we’ll need a small team to do it. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Great. So… we just head back in, grab whoever’s not working?”

“Probably.”

In a matter of moments, they were back inside and staring down a fairly large squad of soldiers manning some of the ballistae. Not them - she wasn’t going to piss of Godrick by weakening his defences. Past the lion, the doors, into the courtyard… there they were. Masses of soldiers doing nothing of real consequence, guarding an area that would be the last place assaulted in a real attack. And there the two froze - Angharad wasn’t used to speaking in front of crowds, nor was Taylor. But while Angharad was an apprentice who’d been stuffed into a basement for years, Taylor had been dragged to the brink of death and had sat next to Godrick at breakfast. She had no fucks left to give.

“Hey! Lord Godrick says we can requisition workers to fix a wall!”

Silence met them, and blank stares from behind chainmail veils. Some of them didn’t even look up from their slumped positions.

“I said come on, Lord Godrick’s orders!”

Her voice was reedy and weak, her tone unconvincing. The soldiers ignored her, dismissive of her cries, ignorant to her wants. Gah. She started channelling her dad a little more, the full-throated bellow he used on some of his more… difficult colleagues.

“Alright, Lord’s given his orders, get moving! Come on, shift it!”

A few stirred, but still nothing substantial. Dad’s voice wasn’t working. Shit. That was kind of her ace in the hole, her dad was good at yelling. Then again, he’d only dealt with normal people, not centuries-old soldiers. And he was a grown adult, not a scrawny kid who’d been in the castle for barely a few days. She needed to adjust her technique. What had worked in the past? Well, she hadn’t seen the soldiers being ordered around, but… hm. Godrick had bellowed at the servants, and they’d scarpered almost immediately. And if Telavis was a good model for what decaying memories did to a person, then they’d respond quickly to things that awakened old instincts, triggered buried recollections. Mentioning Godfrey once had been enough to get Telavis back to a state of vague lucidity, invoking honour and duty had prompted him to hand over his armour. And for these soldiers… she’d hate herself for this. Her throat would hate her for this. But that wall needed repairing, and, again, Taylor was quite completely out of fucks to give. Her fucks had runneth dry. The field in which her fucks roamed was barren and empty, a pasture ravaged by internecine conflict and spectres of fucks-departed.

This was a roundabout way of saying that she screeched at the top of her lungs, already making her throat ache, in her best possible many-armed-gentleman impression.

“You evolutionary rejects, wake up and move! I’ll have the Lord feed you to the tree spirit if you don’t get moving and fixing that wall! Go on, you lazy bums, give your existence some meaning! Your Lord commands it!”

Angharad gave her a look.

Taylor didn’t particularly care.

The soldiers were moving.

Progress.

Chapter Text

“Get moving with those bricks, or do I need to see if there’s another Crucible Knight hanging around? Put your backs into it - if you won’t work your arms, I’m sure Lord Godrick will find another use for them!”

Taylor was screaming. Both inside and outside. Outside, she was being louder than she’d been in a long, long time, doing her absolute best Godrick impression. It seemed to be working, the soldiers were shuffling dejectedly from a pile of half-destroyed buildings to the front gate and back again, slowly but surely building up a pile of halfway decent bricks that could be used properly. Angharad was busying herself with preparing some mortar, and that left Taylor alone with a bunch of soldiers hundreds of years older than her that she was ordering around. That, incidentally, was why she was screaming inside. Though those screams had fewer insults and more mindless, despairing screeching. If these soldiers took an exception to her, she might just get thrown over the edge. Or Godrick could take offence to her ordering around his soldiers - no, he’d told her that she could requisition some ‘drones’ for her own use. She was being entirely obedient. And she was still on the verge of pissing herself and running away to Angharad’s workshop where no-one could find her. The fact that everything was working only caused her panic to spike. Things had been going well. Too well. She was due for some awful, awful luck. But the soldiers just kept going, and she’d scream herself hoarse at any that thought they should perhaps slow down and take a quick nap. No wonder this castle was in such poor repair, her dad would have been outraged at their laziness.

Maybe not enough to call them ‘evolutionary rejects’, but then again, this was rather a unique position.

Matters were proceeding well, and she went to investigate the buildings themselves, just to check that no soldiers were hiding out away from her ever-screeching voice. God, she was really spiralling into madness here, getting a little too into this whole ‘tyrannical command’ thing. Definitely something to work on. They were close to Godrick’s throne room, just before the large bridge, and a few ramps of crushed stone led up to the upper floors of the half-collapsed buildings. No soldiers to be seen - none being lazy, that is. She hoped to find no-one, her voice was starting to get worn out. What she found was… stranger. Potiphar was waddling ahead of her, and he abruptly threw both his hands up in the air and ran to one of the corners. Taylor poked her head up… and saw Potiphar. Several Potiphars. One of whom was larger than her. Oh goodness, that was a lot of jars. Potiphar was communicating with them, about half a dozen small jars and a larger brother that was staring down impassively at the entire scene. She froze, staring wide-eyed at what was going on. A thought ran through her mind. Could Potiphar get that big if he worked hard enough? Was that why he kept sitting in fires and trying to eat dead bodies? She couldn’t imagine little Potiphar becoming so… buff. Somehow.

Had to give him credit for trying, though. The smaller jars turned to her as Potiphar started making gestures of explosions, falling, running… oh, now he was doing a bad impression of tearing her apart and shoving her remains inside his head/body. And based on how the other small jars were slamming their fists on the floor and clapping each other on the back, they were laughing. She felt the urge to do some more yelling… when the large jar stalked over in her direction, rumbling as he did. She froze and let him approach. He was almost as tall as her, many times wider, and clearly strong enough to crush her to death with ease. Telavis stiffened, and she thanked her lucky stars that he was still around. Sure, she felt guilty whenever she looked at him, but at least he could probably defend her from an angry jar. Hopefully. It was a very large jar. She could hear faint sloshing inside, too - how many had it consumed? Warriors, soldiers, animals… did he scavenge them, or did he beat them up and then stuff them inside? It came closer, the ground quaking beneath its rocky feet. It had identical proportions to Potiphar, but was immensely more threatening - even with tiny legs and an ungainly waddle. It reared upright, legs straining, and it looked her in the eyes. She just saw a blank expanse of ceramic, but she certainly felt like she was being examined.

It did nothing. She cracked a tiny smile at it, trying to reassure it that she meant no harm. Sudden moves seemed like a bad idea. She thought her strategy might be working - no moves from the jar, no indications of violence. Telavis wasn’t reacting to any tells she might have missed. Was… was everything fine?

A rocky palm slapped her on the upper arm and sent her sprawling. Everything was not fine. She fell to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, the breath completely knocked out of her. Whatever ego she’d puffed up during her protracted screaming session drained away in seconds as everything came into sharp relief. Her arm was throbbing, her entire side felt tender, she had a few scrapes… gah. A heavy hand grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her back to her feet, and she felt smaller rocky hands dusting her off - Potiphar. He looked up at her with something close to reproach - ‘come on, man, stop embarrassing me in front of my cousins’. Oh, wow, that jar had really hit something loose. That jar was striding back to his companions, gesturing vaguely - oh, goodness, she was being insulted. The large jar gestured with his arms, indicating a bloated person strutting around with confident abandon. Then he poked himself with a sharp finger, and promptly spun around and fell over with a loud thump. The smaller jars were beside themselves with laughter.

She was being insulted. They’d heard her yelling, and wanted to check if she was all that she was cracked up to be. In the end, she was just a crock of shit. Heh. Crock. God, she’d made that joke to herself once, that strike had shaken her up. Definitely her first injury in several days. She’d almost felt comfortable, safe. And now a giant jar had slapped her. She tried to ignore the laughing jars, who had evidently decided that she was beneath their notice, and tried to get her bearings. No soldiers had seen her little… accident, thankfully. The room was empty but for the jars, littered with debris from, presumably, the first siege of Stormveil - she could see stray boulders from catapults, an enormous rusted bolt from a titanic ballista, and holes which… well, Telavis had said they’d impaled the defenders on horns. And those holes looked distinctly horn-like. She’d consider how that was possible later - more magic bullshit, she assumed. Something else, though - just down the way. A door. Well, something like a door.

It was barely visible, but she felt an urge to give it a quick look. Down some stairs, there was an arch, within there was an opening, beyond there was a room, but between her and that room was a shimmering mist. Intrigued, and wanting to distract herself from being slapped by a giant piece of crockery, she approached. The mist remained, hovering impossibly in a solid block. A hand pressed into it showed that it was quite completely solid - she could see that it was nothing but gas, but nonetheless she couldn’t get through. A shove yielded nothing more. A heavier shove just made her shoulder ache. Telavis grumbled, and she whipped around to stare at him. She was in a very fraught mood right now, she wasn’t in the mood for being judged by a knight that she’d cheated. Well, she was, but not now. The jar had judged her enough, she’d like to save further judginess for later.

“Impossible.”

She blinked.

“...oh. So, no way through?”

“Hm.”

He gestured to a tiny statue by the door - two strange animal-headed creatures, one on top of the other. One had a tiny stone sword embedded in its mouth, but the other only had a sword-shaped opening. She could guess the purpose. Keys.

“Why would this-”

“Stonesword Key. Old. Rare. One use.”

Hm. Interesting. Very interesting. New thoughts were whirling in her head, enough to temporarily dispel the jar-induced shame. Why bother sealing something away while allowing entry if a single-use key was used? Seriously, that sounded ludicrously insecure - a tug revealed that the one key present wasn’t going to budge, a suspicion that Telavis confirmed with a curt nod. So, did people unlock these and they stayed open forever? What use was that? The only circumstance it’d be useful is one where something needed to be locked away, and there was no need to check on it. Even then, being buried underground would probably be easier. Did Godrick do this? She considered asking him… but, perhaps not. She’d keep this place in mind for later. But asking Godrick about his little hideaway sounded like a recipe for disaster. Best to look into this quietly… maybe Onager would have some advice. A small, ambitious part of her wondered if she could get a leg up on Godrick by robbing his little stash… admittedly, that part of her was very stupid sometimes, but unlike most of its suggestions, she was willing to give this one a little time. Definitely something to research. As she turned from the sealed door, she saw Potiphar kicking his legs idly as he sat on a particularly large stone, and… Telavis.

Now that the shock had worn off, the guilt was back. He didn’t look angry, or remotely satisfied at her slap. His expression was pensive - lucid, too. More guilt. She’d screwed him over, she was aware of that. Completely shafted him in a way that she’d have been ashamed of back home. Reminded her too much of something the Trio would do. Seeing Margit fighting with an expression of complete nobility, defending common people against the predations of Tarnished… maybe it had awoken something in her. Maybe it had always been there, suppressed by a yearning for survival. A childish bit that thrilled at seeing Alexandria’s pictures, reading about her exploits. Seeing the stability of her position confirmed, even if it had briefly made her think of every damn weakness in the castle, gave her the security where she could think about this sort of thing. The calculation which had informed her decision to swindle him seemed… well, a little rude now. Downright unreasonable. It had been unreasonable then, but the full weight of it hadn’t quite hit. Delayed impact.

Telavis was just… sitting there, lost in his own thoughts. But he seemed lucid enough for a conversation. And her guilt compelled her to speak, just as her excitement and relief had compelled her to embarrassingly shriek ‘woo’ at the top of her lungs when Margit fought, or as her yearning for safety compelled her to talk to Godrick and shriek at these soldiers. Being slapped down to earth, figuratively and literally, by the giant jar had reminded her of her weakness, and that reminded her of shame, guilt, obligation… everything.

“I’m sorry.”

Telavis glanced sharply down at her, his beard twitching. Potiphar stared upwards in something resembling shock and horror, maybe a little incredulity, surprise of all surprises the living jar was hard to read sometimes. She barely noticed, the guilt spilling out.

“I’m sorry I cheated you. I shouldn’t have done it, it was… wrong. You trusted me, and I exploited that. I promise I’ll get your armour back, and if there’s any other way I can make it up to you, I will.”

The knight considered this.

“You lied.”

“I did.”

“Weak.”

“...I am.”

“Swindler.”

“...yeah. That’s fair.”

Telavis paused, and scratched his chin with the faint pleasure of someone who hasn’t been able to scratch his chin for a very, very long time. A long, tired sigh went through his lips, and his voice started to return to the more bombastic tone he’d had back when they’d first met, confidence born of a more solid memory. When he spoke, he seemed to be quoting someone.

“A crown is warranted with strength. No other path leads to true power, no other leads to glory. Dishonour is the realm of the weak.”

A sad smile crossed his face.

“Godfrey.”

Taylor already felt bad, but Telavis smiling sadly only made her feel worse. She’d wronged him, she’d fucked him over and he was smiling. She was apologising, couldn’t he get angry? Berate her? It wasn’t like she was fighting for her survival every moment, she could take a little tirade. Maybe even a large one. Come on, she’d hyped herself up to this, confronted these thoughts instead of just letting them stew forever. He could have some reaction, not just blase statements of fact and some rambling nostalgia. Her tension exploded outwards.

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Why?”

“I stole your armour, I sold it to a jackass, I don’t know how long it’ll take to get it back! Doesn’t that make you a little bit angry?”

She had approached as she spoke, voice rising in volume and intensity. The pause only lasted a second before the knight slapped her heavily on the back, almost making her fall backwards into the misty door, and then rubble-strewn floor in another tangle of gangly limbs. He laughed, a booming, deep laugh that made her spine quiver from the reverberations. He grinned in a friendly manner down at her.

“You’re an idiot.”

…oh. Did this count as a tirade?

“OK, I’m an idiot. Done a lot of idiotic things. We agree there.”

“Young, though. Everyone’s an idiot back then.”

He sighed.

“Been… a while since I’ve seen someone young. Everyone’s old these days. Like me.”

…how many children were in the Lands Between? Come to think of it, how did they cope with overpopulation? Did they just spread until the food couldn’t sustain them, or did people simply not have many children? She couldn’t imagine the soldiers in the castle leaving to see their families, and she’d not seen any domestic-looking individuals hanging around, no-one who looked like they were here with their husbands or wives. Maybe she just hadn’t met them yet, but she got the feeling that the soldiers here were quite alone. She was probably the youngest person here by a matter of centuries.

“Not an excuse, though. I screwed you over.”

“Mistake is irrelevant. What matters is redemption. Not angry. Just disappointed.”

God, she missed her dad. He’d been distant, but… she missed him. More than words could really express.

“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get your armour back.”

“Hm. I have time.”

She… supposed that he did. Forever, in fact, if his memories didn’t fail him before then. He seemed to vary between barely cognisant and completely lucid, for all she knew he’d forget that she owed him anything - no, that wasn’t a line of thought she wanted to follow. She owed him. His eyes were soft, still pitying, and she imagined how she must have looked to him. A scrawny kid, the first actual kid he’d seen in years, soaked in blood, nose broken, filthy and stinking, half-starved, completely exhausted. A kid that swindled him out of his armour to try and buy her freedom from an onerous assignment. He seemed like a good person, Telavis. And even with his damaged memory, he’d still clung to Stormveil as a reminder of his old life, long after anything that remembered him had passed on by.

“So… what, you want me to learn a lesson? Is that it?”

“Duty. Responsibility. Becoming better. Good lesson.”

She found herself at a crossroads inside her own head - she’d realised that he pitied her, that he thought of her as a stray kid that had messed up and needed to be taught a lesson about duty and responsibility. This could make him easily manipulated, led into doing something that she wanted, led into a situation where she could shake off her duty and… no. She could already think of plans. Try and enrage Gostoc into attacking her so that Telavis could kill him, so she could claim the armour back. Try to get Telavis to do something stupid and ergo dogpiled by every guard in this place - stage an accident, maybe. She could distract him if she needed to, learn the layout of the castle and use that knowledge to evade her loan shark. But if she did that, if she swindled her way out of her promise to pay him back… what promises was she going to keep? What kind of person would she be if she did that? Even if she was content to swindle people like Godrick and Gostoc, sods who had no redeeming qualities beyond being predictable, what would it say about her if she cheated an honourable, fairly good-natured knight? A person who did that didn’t deserve to be a hero when she got back home, no matter what her powers were like. She wouldn’t regard them as a hero, certainly.

Cheating Telavis again would feel wrong. It’d feel like cheating Potiphar. Now he was a creature with few wiles, content to follow her around for reasons she didn’t quite understand, happy with simple pleasures and occasionally stuffing bodies inside himself. Well, that wasn’t quite so fun, but Potiphar had a charm of his own. Taylor wanted to get back home, but she wanted to still be Taylor, not some cruel, conniving thing that had taken her place. She saw the jar waddling around, trying to capture a few rats for another makeshift arena, occasionally turning to make sure she was alright. She saw Telavis standing placidly, content to watch the movement of the clouds above a fortress that stood out in his memories. He was at peace with the world, solid and confident. And he pitied her. He was… well, probably the first person to really pity her in this world - no condescension, no arrogance, just honest pity for someone weaker than himself. Seeing those eyes made her flash back to the moment when Potiphar wrapped his rocky arms around her and hugged, in a way no-one had done for a long, long while. She sighed.

“Still sorry.”

“Hm.”

An idea occurred. ‘A crown is warranted through strength’ - sounded similar to what Margit had said, trickery being no substitute for strength. In the end, the reason she was here at all was because she was weak, too weak to survive on her own, utterly dependent on someone else. Telavis wasn’t weak. He was strong enough to survive for hundreds of years, to fight for Lord Godfrey in the siege of this very castle, and then to lose his armour and keep going with barely a hint of real anger. Stronger than her, physically and mentally. The latter was something for her to work on. The former…

“Can you train me?”

“Hm?”

“I’m weak. You’re right. You’re not. Can you… show me? How to fight? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I…”

She didn’t want to be defenceless again, didn’t want to be dependent on someone else for the rest of her life. Sure, she might still be weaker than everyone around her, she’d never stand a chance of fighting Godrick, she’d probably never even reach the level of one of his soldiers, but… damn it, she didn’t want to be punched by another jar, or mocked as weak by everyone she met. Especially by the people who didn’t hate her. And if this world was obsessed with swords and sorcery, she’d be stupid not to try her hand at one of those. And sorcery was magic, which was about as far out of her mental ballpark as it was possible to get. Swords, at least, operated by fairly simple principles vis a vis sharp ends and where they should be stuck. Maybe this said something bad about her - hated feeling weak, wanted to feel secure, would do anything possible to regain that security if it was shattered. Probably not the healthiest impulse… but hey, she’d only died once so far. So something was working.

She’d started building more defences, gained a protector (two, if she counted Potiphar. Which she did), had everything she needed… and a jar had made her crumple like that. It was petty, she knew that much. But… the idea of leaving this part of herself completely undeveloped, satisfying herself with only the strength of others, rubbed her up the wrong way. She wanted to get back home, was sure that she’d be able to in time. But until then, she had to grab her fate with her own two hands. How could she expect to master her own ability if she couldn’t master her life? She’d seized control of her fate once already, not just becoming another dog of Godrick, trying to do something to improve her situation in a meaningful way. She had ambitions for more improvements, too. That, for a little while, had felt like enough. The giant jar had shown her that she still had a long way to go. Christ, what was her life becoming where a jar was giving her fairly good life advice. Telavis hummed, thinking. Finally, he nodded.

“Hm.”

…that meant yes, she assumed. She hoped. With a shaky smile, she nodded back.

“Hm.”

The soldiers were working solidly, ignoring the jars as they heaped more bricks in their arms. The two sat in silence for a while longer, content with what they needed to do. This… was a good day. The winds were still howling, and she was still in a foreign world, but she had something. A jar. A knight who wanted to teach her a lesson about duty and honour, and was going to teach her swordsmanship in the meantime. A lord who, while a complete monster, was still willing to let her live here while she got back on her feet. A castle she was committed to securing. A random horned dude that was defending the main bridge against all Tarnished. Telavis wasn’t so uncomfortable to be around now, she didn’t feel the same spike of guilt after glancing at him. Curiosity bubbled up, something she’d been wanting to ask for a while but had never mustered the will to do so. Telavis was the closest she’d get to a hero in this place, she imagined - even with his peculiarities, he was honourable to a fault and had a kind streak a mile wide. Which raised the question…

“You… keep talking about Godfrey. But you don’t seem to know where he is. Or even if he’s alive. Why keep serving him?”

“Honour. Duty. Godfrey is my lord, as Godrick is yours.”

“...well, let’s not go too far with-”

“He’s your lord. You betrayed your own honour. Don’t betray his.”

“He doesn’t exactly have any honour. He’s a monster. Lunatic. Weakest of the Shardbearers, apparently. He’d kill me if he thought I’d failed him in any way.”

Telavis calmly pointed to one of the towers, where a fully armoured knight was standing watchfully. She blinked… then the point hit. That knight was doing his duty, even if his master was a monster, even if he was fighting a group of immortal lunatics willing to kill him for some kind of power boost. He wasn’t complaining, wasn’t napping on the stairs like some of Godrick’s soldiers. He was… just doing his job, probably fully aware that he could die at any second. She could imagine where Telavis was going. Godrick was a shit, but he was still her shit, the one she’d promised to serve. And Telavis took that very seriously, evidently. He’d held to his oaths to Godfrey even after possibly hundreds of years, with no end in sight to his search. He accepted guarding her for a while, confident that he could get back to his search immediately afterwards. No doubt or reticence, just full-blooded commitment to the duty he’d signed up for, and a polite acceptance of any obstacles that might present themselves. Made him stronger than her, certainly - mentally as well as physically.

But she disagreed with him on almost every front. In the end, Telavis was a soldier who’d served a warlord, one who’d waged war here, put the defenders of Stormveil to the sword (and the horn), then ate the Storm King’s favourite hawks in a stew. Which was… a little barbaric. And he thought that rulership should only come through force, which said something about his personality. But Telavis was practically the nicest person (the title of ‘nicest jar’ went to Potiphar, naturally) she’d met thus far, even if his old master was a raging warlord with strange ideas about governance.

Even so, she didn’t remotely agree with all his logic. It was faulty, and back home it would have had… unpleasant connotations. But she could see what he was trying to say. She’d made her bed. Now she had to lie in it. And he was willing to help her get better, content with the idea that he was assisting another on her path to duty. She understood the lesson he was trying to teach her, but she’d learned something quite different. Specifically, that she shouldn’t be so bound up with a single idea, like survival. Godrick was a paranoid bastard, and that made him easy to predict. Telavis was an overly honourable knight, and that made him easy to predict. If she devoted herself only to surviving at all costs, to getting home no matter the price, she’d be as easily manipulated as they were. If she wanted to actually live, to come back home someone who could, maybe, become a hero… she couldn’t just be a frightened animal, or a paranoid weirdo willing to give up all her morals for a chance at safety. The guilt was back, albeit weaker. She’d apologised. She’d expressed genuine remorse - and it was genuine - but even now it felt like she was exploiting him. She’d taken entirely the wrong lesson from him, and it was one she could never tell him about - Telavis was going to cling to her like a limpet, and she wasn’t going to try and dislodge him. Not yet.

Taylor nodded regardless. She was glad for his help. And the two sat in silence while Potiphar gathered more rats for his arena, and the soldiers went about their work. Life… felt hopeful. Soon, the wall would be completed under her direction, and she’d have taken her first step to making this place truly secure. And now she was being trained. Though… as Telavis hauled himself up and presented his sword to her, hilt-first, she felt a small pulse of trepidation.

Couldn’t be too bad, though.

Right?

The wall was coming along well, they predicted it being finished in a few days if the workers kept things up. A few alterations here and there, of course - she had ideas about sanding things down to try and disguise the fact that it was recently rebuilt, distract any Tarnished from their potential weakness. Godrick hadn’t checked up on them, maybe he’d be pleasantly surprised by their rapid progress - surprised enough to let her take over more, perhaps? She’d seen more weaknesses while working, holes that needed patching, towers that needed manning… hell, it was ridiculous to her that they could have two manned gates, and they were confining themselves to only the inner portcullis. She could work with this kind of thing - nice, common sense solutions to obvious problems. Something any idiot could do, except for Godrick or his cronies. Certainly easier than trying to build a nuke for a medieval warlord, which was somewhere between ‘completely fucking impossible’ and ‘such a bad idea it was impossible to quantify’. Either way, progress was occurring. She was doing well.

That wasn’t why she collapsed to her bed in yet another tangled heap of gangly heaps. That was because of the training. The damn, damn, training. No, no regrets - if she regretted it, she’d have wasted an entire conversation with Telavis, and she barely got any of those as it was. Talking to Angharad was enjoyable, but inhibited by the fact that the perfumer could ruin her life if she found out that she was consorting with a Crucible Knight, or that she couldn’t really build nukes (which she had never tried to convince anyone of, which was something she very much put on the record, and if the court reporter read her statements back she would find that she made no such claim to Godrick or anyone else). Telavis was a hard teacher, and had insisted that she practise the same sword stroke dozens and dozens of times, the same routine he’d gone through when he was younger. His sword was heavy, the thing he wielded easily in one hand took her two to even struggle to lift it. But the endless motions, up, down, up, down, for nearly two hours before he’d called a break… it ached her in ways she had never ached before, exercised muscles she didn’t know she had. All that hiking to Stormveil, all that jogging she’d done back in Brockton, everything, none of it had mattered. Just up, down, up, down, in an attempt to catch up on the years of atrophy she’d clearly been subjecting herself to by not training to fight from an early age. The worst part was, he was nice about it.

No brutal commands, no anger at her slow work, no irritation at her weakness. She’d screwed him over, and he was still being nice. Just gentle understanding and kindly instruction - he didn’t speak much, but he demonstrated his actions well, indicated in monosyllables where she was going wrong. It meant that the tiny courtyard they’d practised in was practically silent, save for Taylor grunting, Telavis humming indistinctly, and Potiphar trying to imitate her motions using a large stick he’d found. Damn jar was better at fighting with a sword than she was. She’d thought the technique would be fairly basic - pointy end goes in enemy - but apparently the delivery mechanism for the pointy end was heavier than it had any right to be. And with every practice strike she got the feeling that she was simply not cut out for this, that she had no real talent for sword fighting, none of the build required, none of the experience, nothing.. Still… it felt good to exercise properly, in a manner that wasn’t desperately sprinting or dejectedly hiking. Purifying. Felt like she was achieving something, scratched an itch she didn’t realise had been building up. And there was another, completely unintended advantage.

The ache in her muscles was substantial, but their unresponsiveness strangely liberated her - she could barely lift her arms, could barely feel them, and her back ached something awful. Nothing to focus on, then, but the light. Her body seemed to read any suggestion of fidgeting or distracting herself, and laughed off the impulse - too tired to move. But not too tired to think. She reached out for the light again, and this time it came easier than ever. It flowed over her wearied body, and her limbs were so unresponsive that she had nothing to do but pay attention to it. A part of her was still riddled with doubt, though. Onager’s words about the Erdtree and the Omen, and the way this golden shade resembled that same tree. Was it really that beautiful? She dove into the light and tried to navigate through it. No longer content with just experiencing it, she wanted to understand it. Probably just a weird bit of association between the golden Erdtree and her golden power, but the doubt propelled her forwards without succumbing.

Doubt gave her speed and purpose. Doubt provoked the light… and it expanded outwards with something resembling a sigh, a concession that perhaps she deserved a better look at its majesty, going beyond the glow to the thing creating it. She could see patterns in it now - delicate designs which resembled spreading circuit boards. Or were they tree branches? Hard to tell, but they were intricate beyond belief. Utter chaos, but somehow completely harmonious. Looking deeper, she could see more patterns, forming different shapes, using different styles. Flowing, jagged, circular, angular, fractals and spirals… none of it should mesh, but mesh it did, into a single tapestry of perfect order. Even the most disparate elements were brought together, when they should be all rights be at war. Realising this, everything unfolded into clearer shapes. Jagged lightning and beating wings, brought down and confined to golden limits. Delicate flowing shapes that reminded her of the shape of moonlight on a churning sea, made more splendid by the addition of gold, incorporated and accounted for. Organic traceries resembling the mycelium of some colossal fungus were gilded, their endless growth curtailed and their energies channelled. More and more came, one after the other - disparate elements made one.

Made whole.

Made harmonious.

To alloy without corruption is the validation of Order.

Her eyes snapped open. The room was dark, the fire had long gone out. She didn’t remember pulling a blanket over herself, and yet here it was - Potiphar, must have been him, the dutiful jar that he was. The memory of the gold lingered, as did the message it had imparted. A shiver of fear ran through her - was this her power? What was it? Did every parahuman go through this? She silenced the gnawing doubt which suggested that she might have found something else… this world was a strange place, magic clearly existed, maybe she was locating something other than her power? A hopeful doubt suggested that she was simply being distracted, that beyond the gold there was something worthwhile. A more pessimistic relative, a tiny chunk of black ice in her stomach, argued that maybe there was nothing. She was communicating with something other than her power. Of course she was. There was no power to communicate with. She silenced them both, pushing the doubt down, refusing to even acknowledge it. She had to have a power, it was the only thing that made sense. Maybe this gold was it, maybe it wasn’t, but it was also the only thing she’d done that yielded some results.

Sleep did not come easily, no matter how much her muscles whined. She stared at the ceiling, and felt cold.

She missed her dad.

And far across the castle, far beyond anything she had known, two forces pulsed, related yet clearly distinct. One was soft and pale, hundreds of pages bound in something supple to the touch.

And the other simply waited. And watched. And grew.

Chapter Text

Taylor groaned as she stood up. Her arms were still aching, her back was aching, her head was throbbing, Christ, what wasn't aching. A few aimless stumbles led her in the vague direction of a small basin, full of water chilled ice-cold by the exposed window. With a grumble, she splashed it over her face. The morning was a blur after that, lucid enough to be functional, sleepy enough to be bleary. Memories were faded, had the quality of eyesight after being soaked in chlorine - bright halos around every light, muted colours, a constant desire to shut her eyes and get back to sleep. No - she gritted her teeth. Had to keep going. She'd asked Telavis to train her, and she was trying to work on her powers. Couldn't give up because of some aches and pains. It'd been a good few days since work on the wall had started, and her voice was hoarse as all hell from ordering the soldiers around. She was getting pretty good at it, too. Better than she could say for her sword skills, it felt like she was making precisely zero progress there. Her arms still ached, and Telavis never moved beyond a few basic strikes repeated over and over again. Her grumbles faded into the background, muffled by weariness. She vaguely remembered, later on, that breakfast was unremarkable. No Godrick devouring a whole boar, no unpleasant invitations… the only remarkable thing was Onager striding in to scan the arms on the roof like a practised connoisseur.

She remembered that part because of the feeling of dawning horror - did Onager eat people? But then he snatched one of the scrawnier, older arms, and threw it to his dogs who promptly fought over it like… starving dogs. Huh. She'd seen that description in books before, but had never seen starving dogs fighting for food. It was… striking. Without much fat, she could see the way their muscles bunched and relaxed, jaw muscles twitching frantically as they tried to gnaw as much meat as possible from the arm. Eyes bulged, throats snarled around chunks of meat, every particle of them was devoted to the task at hand. In a way, she wondered if she'd looked like that when she'd arrived - scrawny, starving dog willing to hang on and never let go. Onager passed her by with nothing but a grunt of acknowledgement, and the dogs followed him, fighting all the while. No-one else reacted. She briefly wondered if maybe Godrick would take offence to one of his arms being taken, before sinking back into her reverie. Well, just before she sank completely back down, she vaguely noticed Potiphar gesturing irritably to the dogs, before throwing his arms up and stomping away. She got the message. 'They get corpses, why don't I?', the pot seemed to yell. A chastising glare made him sit down with a thump. And then sleepiness overwhelmed her, and all her memories became hazy.

More fuzziness, more indistinct motions… then she was back at the wall. It was almost done - Angharad commented idly that the soldiers had worked through part of the night to get the job done, though she had no idea why they were so… devoted. She gave Taylor a bit of the old side-eye at that little comment, and Taylor grumbled once more. It'd worked, hadn't it? Even if it made her voice really rather hoarse. Either way, the wall was practically finished - would be done before noon. More ideas were relayed between the two - sanding down areas where the wall hadn't quite meshed correctly, maybe getting a few cabinets and stacking them in front… just something to make it more concealed. They were continuing to talk idly when a very familiar, eerily bright light came into the gatehouse. Taylor whirled, nerves twitching, as one of Godrick's personal bodyguards walked in, scanning everything. Past him, she could see the other one, likewise scanning the environment. Their torches were, at this range, infuriatingly bright. She couldn't even tell how that was happening - hell, they didn't look like any other torch she'd seen. Golden coloured handles, spiralling upwards in a way that suggested delicate and expert craftsmanship. Fire that burned with tiny golden sparks. Not a normal torch. Once, maybe, she'd have dismissed it… but she knew magic existed. For all she knew, these were bullshit magic torches. And if so, she wondered what their purpose was. Her questions were brought to an end by the sight of a shambling servant, bent double under the weight of an enormous backpack stuffed with banners, scrolls, and… a trumpet.

A trumpet that he blew hoarsely in a way that made her tired ears ache. Angharad just flinched downwards in an automatic bow. Oh. She could guess what was about to happen. The servant cried out in a voice as hoarse as his trumpet.

"Lord Godrick the Golden, Master of Stormveil, Heir to Lords Godfrey and Godwyn, Challenger of Leyndell, Conqueror of the Grand Lift, Undisputed and Sovereign Overlord of the Realms of Limgrave…"

He took a deep breath.

"He Who Conquers, He Who Defeated the One-Eyed Winged Crone of Narlam, He Who Bestows Grace, He Who Stands for What is Right and Just, Immeasurably Wealthy, Insurmountably Wise, He-Who-Rises-With-No-Partner, and Last True Suitor to the Ancestress Marika…"

A few wheezes followed as he tried to get his breathing back under control. Wait, 'Ancestress' Marika, did Godrick want to marry his- no, no, stop thinking about that, he's bad enough without adding bizarre incest to the mix. The eponymous Lord stomped out from the castle in a faintly comical manner. He strutted confidently, then sidled carefully, glancing around with imperious command at one moment and then nervous skittishness. Hm. Clearly didn't like being out in the open. Fair enough, though the Fell Omen was probably a better bodyguard than two regular knights. Her boss came closer, stooping to enter the gatehouse. Angharad dropped to her knees, and after a second Taylor did the same - though she didn't quiver or shake, barely shifting her expression. Show too much weakness and he gets overexcited, she reminded herself. Godrick hummed at the sight of the wall, reaching out to examine the rough edges marking where the hole had once been. His eyes widened a little as he realised just how large it had been - not just a pockmark, a real gap that a human could go through with very little effort.

"This is… the hole?"

"It is, my lord. Angharad and I are almost finished with it, with the aid of your soldiers."

Give credit where credit was due, don't make it seem like she was a glory hound. Avoid any possibility of insulting him without coming across as a simpering, servile serf.

"Hm. Thou hast performed acceptably. That this weakness should have been ignored by my troops is a matter of some annoyance, and your work has been at the basic level I expect from all loyal servants."

That was probably what passed for praise with Godrick.

"You have pleased your lord, Godrick the Golden. Thou may rise."

They did so, hesitantly. The Grafted still towered above them, and Angharad was visibly shaking a little. Taylor tried to meet his eyes - difficult, but achievable. Had to stay stable. Telavis was barely reacting at all to the man's presence, just standing there as placid as ever, appreciating the view from one of the windows. Smug so and so. Potiphar, at least, was trying to act bold, crossing his arms and standing still as a statue. Wait. That might just be a defence mechanism. Hm. Godrick examined the hole again, tracing it with one of his many, many fingers. His lips were pursed, and he was clearly thinking. Taylor could imagine what was going through his mind. Here was a problem that he hadn't noticed, like a hidden infestation, and now he was probably thinking about all the others. His castle was superficially impressive, maybe he'd taken that as evidence that it was impressive, totally impregnable. By breaking that illusion, she'd made him confront reality a little more. He clearly didn't enjoy it, and he definitely didn't enjoy the next few words to come out of his mouth.

"...of course, as a loyal servant, I shall expect you to report on any remaining weaknesses. For such is thine duty, hm?"

"Yes, my lord."

She could have left it there. Angharad was clearly barely holding herself together in front of Godrick, and if Godrick left… well, they could get back to work. On chemistry she barely understood, feebly mustering distractions to get away from the fact that she couldn't build Godrick a nuke. Never in a hundred years, probably not in a thousand. Maybe she could muddle through, bring Angharad in on the game, work together to spoonfeed Godrick a few tiny inventions here and there, just until she could escape… no. Telavis had taught her, if by accident, that devoting herself entirely to a single path would screw her in the long term. This plan was better. More viable in the long term. And if she planned only for the short term, she'd be completely screwed if something disruptive came up.

"...in fact, while we were working, walking through the castle over and over, I noticed that the archers haven't placed themselves in the most optimal positions. It's possible to get through their barrages, even assault their positions directly."

Godrick glared down at her, but again she saw that cowardly, neurotic drive to survive, a drive that underlaid even his overwhelming arrogance. Probably all that had kept him alive while surrounded by people stronger than him.

"Of course, this isn't completely urgent. None of the Tarnished have broken through yet, so…"

A subtle reminder that the Fell Omen was keeping people out, not his guards or his walls. If his response to the servants staring at his fight said anything, he didn't enjoy having someone else protecting him, someone he didn't absolutely control. Come to think of it, in his position she'd be pretty damn paranoid too. The reminder was tacit enough to not be called out, but overt enough to be definitely noticed. Godrick scratched his chin, eyes twitching erratically.

"...very well. Arrange the matter at thine discretion. But be assured, young Thaylon."

Taylor, her name was Taylor.

"I am a gracious Lord. A peerless noble, blessed by the Erdtree with abundant glory. And my duty is to my men, for as the Erdtree rains blessing, thus do I. If thou should compromise their safety, why, how could I forgive thee? As a stern father chastises a failed son, thus shall I chastise thee."

The message was clear, even past all the bullshit. Fuck this up, and she'd get executed. Joke's on him, she'd get executed anyway if he figured out that she was bullshitting about the nukes. This was no-holds-barred bullshit-on-bullshit warfare, and unfortunately for him, she'd practically shat her breeches every other day, be it from terror, nervousness, or regular old violence. God, her thoughts were going to weird places these days. Either way, she nodded slowly, resisting the urge to eagerly bob her head up and down like the herald was doing at this very moment.

"Very good! Now, I must return to my lordly duties. Be sure that thou attends to thine, hm?"

"Of course, my lord."

And with that, the meeting was over. The bodyguards left, the herald departed, and Godrick vanished inside to yell at a few more people, probably to boost his ego just a little. Fair. Yelling was pretty fun, once she got past the initial hesitation. Hoarse throat was a bitch and a half, though. Angharad slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily, ripping away her veil to gulp in more thankful lungfuls. Taylor joined her on an opposite wall, using a sleeve to wipe away some of the sweat that had built up. Dammit, she'd succeeded, done everything she was meant to, and she was still nervous around Godrick. If she wasn't so committed to getting home, she'd probably start asking Angharad for blood pressure medication, Godrick was definitely taking years off her lifespan every time he came close. At least she wasn't panicking in his presence anymore, just succeeding his presence. Angharad gave her a look.

"...by the legless offspring of Rennala, what are you doing?!"

Taylor panted.

"Just trying to stay alive."

"Why can't we just get back to work on the books? I like books, books are safe. Mostly. Your books are safe."

"I know, I know. But… it'll take a while to get through them. A long while. Feels like we should try something in the meantime."

"This isn't my field! I can't haul bricks, I can't rearrange troops… I can't do any of this!"

She leaned closer, panic clear on her face.

"If you want to try and become Godrick's castellan, feel free to do so, but I am a perfumer. My work is in the laboratory, not the… not the battlements."

Taylor tried to figure out a response. Panic was overpowering her natural inclinations as an out-of-depth apprentice. Taylor really didn't want to be more assertive, she wanted to relax after that little meeting. But here she was. And this was what she had to do. Her eyes hardened, and she tried to straighten up.

"We're bound together, whether you like it or not. Both of us rise, or both of us fall, right? If you want to stay in your laboratory, go ahead, but sooner or later Godrick's going to start asking where you are, or why you're not helping."

Angharad paled.

"Taylor, you must understand, I just want to get on with my-"

"And I just want to live as long as I can. Maybe, later on, we can calm things down, slip underneath his attention, go back to what makes us comfortable. But in the meantime, I want to keep Godrick as happy as possible. Are you with me on this?"

"I understand your intentions, but you must realise that I'm not a strategist."

Taylor leaned closer, tried to do an impersonation of her dad when he was giving someone a stern talking-to.

"Nor am I. Most of the things I'm seeing are common sense issues. You're a trained perfumer, you're clever. If I can figure this out, I'm sure you can as well."

Appeal to her insecurity, make it seem like her complaints are the kind of thing a bad student would do, make Taylor's position less unassailable. Like giving a student authority, or implying that they're closer to the teacher than they thought. Some of her teachers back at Winslow had done that, just to curry favour with the kids. It had worked, largely, but was undermined by the fact that few of the kids actually respected them. Give them authority, and madness reigned. But here? Angharad was terrified of Godrick, and lived in a world where respect, duty, honour and so on were held on a bit of a pedestal. Worked for Taylor.

"...very well, if we must, then we must."

A pause lasted between the two, and Taylor felt more guilt at manipulating one of the few nice people in this place. She could have left it there, but Telavis's advice still rang true. Stop being obsessed with one goal. She had figured out a way to survive, she didn't need to ignore everything else. God, she was bad at small talk - maybe…

"He did have a bit of a sway, didn't he?"

Angharad stared at her in horror.

"...I… honestly didn't notice."

"Once you've seen it, it's very hard to unsee it."

"...why must you do this to me?"

Taylor paused.

"Trying to make small talk."

"Perhaps we shouldn't make small talk about our master who has just left the room."

"OK, fine."

A pause.

"Do you think he still keeps the dress he used to-"

"Taylor!"

Small talk aborted. She was clearly terrible at it.

The wall was basically done at this point, and Taylor decided to take a little time away from the site to get on with… more training. Hooray. Her muscles were shrieking after barely a dozen swings, and Telavis was still staring down impassively, expecting her to continue until she dropped. She tried not to doubt his methods, he was a knight, he probably knew more about this than she did. As the tip of the sword grazed the ground once more, she found her shoulders aching something fierce as she tried to lift it up again. She couldn't feel muscles growing, couldn't feel herself really toughening… hell, the biggest physical 'improvement' compared to back home had been a slight tautening of her frame, and that was mostly a product of a much leaner diet, a much less sedentary lifestyle, and several days of walking across the wilderness while stress burned as many calories as the hiking did. It was discouraging. Everything else was going well - her job had become much less immediately fatal, and the gold seemed to come closer and closer with each night, always emerging faster and elaborating sooner. Even if she couldn't control her power yet, she felt like she was making progress. Unlike here. Was she just being impatient? Or was this one of her more dumb efforts, focusing on an area where she wasn't adept and would never be adept? Gah.

Her work was interrupted by a familiar gravelly voice, and Telavis turned to give the Omen, Onager, a quick nod.

"You're a bit shit."

Taylor grimaced. She'd gotten used to this. Still stung a little. She spoke around her gulps for air.

"I… I know."

"Shit with a sword. Form's alright, everything else?"

He shrugged, then fed a scrap of suspicious meat to one of his dogs - Margit, she thought, the one with one ear. As opposed to Mohg, who had one eye.

"Shit."

Taylor gave Telavis a look of protest. The knight shrugged idly.

"Need improvement."

That was the closest he came to real, damning criticism. Made it hit harder. Onager stomped over, scratching at one of his severed horns.

"Shouldn't be using a sword anyhow."

Telavis looked a little insulted.

"Knights use swords."

"Yeah, and knights aren't scrawny kids."

"Oathsworn use swords."

"Not all of 'em, big boy. You're thinking like a proper knight. Ain't too many of those around these days, don't you know? So maybe old Onager has some insight."

Telavis grunted, and Taylor was completely invested at this point.

"Alright, so what's your insight?"

"Spear."

Taylor blinked.

"...you want me to put down the sword, and pick up something bigger?"

"Spear's easy. Point the pointy end at the enemy. Sometimes they'll run right onto it, if they're stupid. Or going too fast."

"Swords had pointy ends too."

"Yeah, but they're short. Gotta get close to use them, and for someone your size… eh, be easier to just backhand you away. It's what I'd do."

Oh, great, Onager had thought about how to kill her. Then again, she'd thought about how to manipulate most of the people she met, so… eh, she probably couldn't judge. Telavis, though, was getting oddly judgy. Very defensive of his sword, it seemed.

"Sword's sharp everywhere."

"Spear's bigger."

"A spear is heavy."

"Maybe a lance, but a spear? Nah. See, Taylor here is scrawnier than an Albinauric's legs, no bloody muscle on her. Been sitting around your whole life, eh?"

"...it's more common where I come from."

"Heh, say what you like, you're still more full of bones than a deathbed companion. A spear, just poke it at the enemy, hold a shield in the other hand. None of this swinging or chopping shite, just the same motion over and over."

"You have experience with spears?"

"On the receiving end, aye. See, my cleaver can chop anyone in half. Can't do shite if I can't get to them, though. Hard to get to people when there's a spiky stick in the way. You don't need to train as much, and you're more likely to win. You want to look good, fight with a sword. You want to win, fight with a spear or a crossbow."

He hummed.

"Aye, crossbow's your best route. No muscles for a longbow, eyes are probably too fucked for a shortbow. Get yourself something small."

Telavis grumbled, looking genuinely irritable.

"Dishonourable."

"Lord's better served when alive, eh? No honour in dying 'cause you were too braindead to win."

The knight fell silent, but his eyes were cautious and watchful. Taylor weighed up her options. On the one hand, the sword was more impressive… but it was also heavy as hell, and she got the feeling that she had screwed herself years ago. Looking at Telavis, he was burly in a whole range of places, probably trained his whole life to get like that. What was a nice, small sword for him was practically a claymore for her. Too heavy. Too unwieldy. And her muscles simply weren't developed in the same way. She remembered a vague bit of wisdom she'd read once - product of reading Henry V as compelled by her mother, to reading about the Battle of Agincourt - that to train an English longbowman, you needed to start with his grandfather. Apparently some bodies had been dug up where using a longbow had actually curved their spine out of position. She'd spent the first fifteen years of her life doing normal kid things, barely starting to jog recently. Her spine was in its correct position, her muscles weren't bulky, she was working from a different starting point to these people. She shrugged.

"Sure, I'll give a spear a go. See how it is."

Onager picked his teeth idly.

"Eh, do as you like."

Well, that was a glowing endorsement.

Holy cow, spears were so much easier than swords. Sure, it had been fun swinging a sword around like a barbarian princess, but a spear was just so much easier. The motions were simpler, and she quickly realised that it was surprisingly difficult to close any distance - someone got closer, they'd get a whack with a wooden shaft. And she imagined that if she had soldiers by her side, she'd be even harder to reach - a wall of thorns, utterly impassable. Even a knight on horseback would probably struggle to get through. She had more leverage, her thrusts felt more damaging than her swings ever did, she was surprisingly nimble for her level of experience… a tiny part of her was ashamed at having asked Telavis to train her at sword fighting, when with a little more research she'd have gone for the spear instead. Eh, no going back now. She felt good. Onager had lingered, claiming that the sun here was stronger than in the courtyard, and made his naps far more pleasant. Even so, she could see him watching from one corner of his eye.

Telavis was stoney-faced, but still helpful. He'd evidently worked with spears before, even if he preferred the sword. He adjusted her form, made it so that she was striking in a way that didn't leave her off-balance, that delivered the maximum possible punch. Sure, it was easier than the sword, but she still felt aches and pains building up. It felt good. It felt good to exercise, and it felt great to exercise productively. After an hour, Onager had even stumped away and brought back a straw dummy to work with. It made things harder, but much more rewarding. She imagined having one of these earlier in her journey… angling it so that Nepheli was sent careening from her horse, swinging it wildly to keep the invisible woman at bay, maybe even fighting off that skeleton or those wolves. Pipe dreams, definitely. Nepheli was too tough, the invisible woman too skilled, and there was no guarantee she even could kill that skeleton with mundane weapons. But it felt good to seize control of another small aspect of her life.

Time passed, and the training finally came to an end. She was sweating, her hair was a mess, and her glasses had long since fogged up into opaqueness, but she was in a grand old mood. Her mind was buzzing with new ideas for the defence of the castle - arranging more soldiers on the battlements, maybe even giving some assistance to Margit during his fights, trying to expand outwards to one of the outer gates… the ballistae definitely needed to move. And a part of her was wondering why the soldiers weren't using spears, Onager swore by them, and against Tarnished, limiting mobility seemed to be the best possible option. Ah, something to think about tomorrow, once the wall was definitely completed and reinforced. Telavis had passed by some of his initial reluctance, and was now chewing idly at a scrap of bread while watching the clouds go by. A tiny, rather dark part of her wondered if Telavis was similar to a goldfish - did he genuinely just forget where the clouds were, and seeing them going to new positions was endlessly fascinating? Or was there some deep, philosophical reason for liking clouds, maybe they represented the souls of his comrades, or reminded him of days long past for some inexplicable reason.

Or maybe the guy just liked clouds. She wasn't one to judge, she'd started developing a distressing fondness for this spear. Downright reluctant to let it go, honestly. Potiphar had taken a liking for Telavis's sword, though - he was probably better at using it than she was, for some reason there was more strength in his stumpy arms than in her longer - no, stupid comparison, he was made of rock and probably didn't even have a nervous system capable of feeling pain. Presumably. Magic was bullshit, who knew.

Angharad gave her a funny look as she returned streaked in sweat, and she looked between her and the slightly exerted Telavis with narrowed eyes. Taylor blinked. Then, she realised exactly what she was getting at and her eyes widened.

"Oh, god, no. He was just helping me with a spear."

"...hm."

Oh God, 'helping me with a spear' sounded like the most unsubtle euphemism possible.

"It's fine, Onager was helping out, it was just-"

"Hm."

Oh God the implications were rising and everything was terrible again and bye bye confidence you weren't here for long but we liked you have a nice time in your exile back to the reaches of space. Telavis, the bastard that he was, refused to intervene because a particularly delightful cloud had decided to waft by. Or, he just wasn't paying attention. Or, he found this funny. The options ranged from worrying to actively malicious, and Taylor wasn't sure which one she wanted to fixate on. Angharad grimaced, shrugged, and returned her attentions to a small book she was scrutinising - not one of Taylor's thankfully. Something local and leatherbound, written in a script Taylor couldn't quite understand. Desperate to avoid an awkward resolution to their conversation.

"So… what're you reading?"

Angharad stuttered a little. Unused to this. Probably cooped up down in her laboratory all day, she looked pale enough for that to be the case.

"Just a… well, just a primer. Fetched it from the laboratory. What you said, it made me think. I haven't really noticed any weaknesses while I've been here, admittedly I've been a little distracted with my work, but… if we're going to do this, then I should probably learn a little."

Taylor blinked. She'd given advice, and someone had taken it in a productive direction. This was new. Not entirely unpleasant.

"...uh, that's… good. So, anything interesting?"

"Not enormously. Stormveil doesn't exactly have a large library, and much of it has been poorly cared for. This is one of the few things I was able to take without worrying about the pages disintegrating. It's mostly a review of some of the earlier battles of the Shattering, which involved much larger armies than we have, with much better equipment, incantations, sorceries, generals… if anything, it's been a little discouraging."

Hm. This presented an opportunity.

"You know, I'm completely foreign to this place. I could do with more information on the Shattering. If you're willing to teach…."

Keep things short, don't expose the fact that she was a complete novice here. Always present her requests as an opportunity for Angharad to teach, to put her in a temporary position of superiority above Taylor, who had ultimately been deciding the course of the last few days. The perfumer took the bait, and a look of eagerness flashed across her face. This was territory she hadn't been in for some time, and she liked being here. Liked it enough that she didn't look suspicious at Taylor's request, and she certainly didn't ask any awkward questions that totally exposed her ignorance. She'd learned from her fuckup with Gostoc.

"Ah, well, of course! I'd be happy to! So, the Shattering started some time after the death of Godwyn and the disappearance of Queen Marika and Consort Radagon… histories are uncertain on when the wars started, the identity of the first demigod to claim a Shard of the Elden Ring is still unknown. Regardless, the first major battle between Shardbearers seems to have been between Godefroy of the Golden Lineage and the combined armies of Leyndell and Mount Gelmir…"

Taylor sat back, and listened attentively while retaining an expression of only mild interest. Potiphar was completely enraptured, though, propping himself up and acting along with the story. When Mount Gelmir betrayed Leyndell and succumbed to blasphemy, he clenched his fists and stomped around until he could cool off. The banishment of Godefroy at the hands of the one of the first Tarnished, the recovery of his Shard of the Elden Ring - though Angharad varied between the terms 'Shard' and 'Great Rune' so casually that it seemed as though there was no distinction - elicited happy drums on his wax seal. The subsequent claiming of the Shard by Godrick caused some not insignificant consternation for the little chap. The sudden challenge issued from Radahn to Malenia, a challenge that was responded to with brutal swiftness, had him rubbing his hands together in anticipation. When Radahn was driven completely mad, and Malenia vanished with nary a second word, he sagged to the ground and shook his body/head in dejected sadness, mourning the loss of a demigod that had almost succeeded in taking Leyndell for himself earlier on. And the disappearance of Malenia gave him precisely no catharsis, leaving him fuming silently.

Then, the history became rather more… uneventful. It seemed like the initial battles had followed rapidly in sequence, siege after siege, sack after sack, ruin after ruin. But after Radahn's final defeat, Malenia and Miquella's disappearance, and Godrick's disastrous siege on the capital… it all fell silent. No wars of real consequence, just skirmishes that the author recorded tersely, before cutting off completely. Dating was a mess, but it seemed like centuries had passed since the last proper battle - she imagined armies whittled down not by standard attrition, but by sheer, unmitigated despair. She could read between the lines - the battle of Mount Gelmir, where Leyndell's armies had apparently been irreparably damaged, must have been truly horrific if so many soldiers completely quit from service afterwards, succumbing to ennui after so long in the field.

Honestly, it was horrifying to imagine that the same soldiers at the first clash between Godefroy and the assembled armies of Leyndell were at the very end. Radahn had fought at that battle too - there could be soldiers who had seen him rise to full power, and then centuries later crumble completely. So many elements were totally inexplicable to her, though. Scarlet Rot consuming Caelid sounded like a damn bioweapon, Rykard's 'blasphemy' was never elaborated on beyond some vague insinuations about 'consorting with serpents', and Morgott was bizarrely absent from every battle despite being so important in the political interludes. The day had passed, and evening was starting to set - one of the soldiers had brought out a flagon of what tasted like wine, and Taylor had cautiously sipped at her cup to not give the impression that she'd never really drunk alcohol seriously. Angharad seemed too absorbed in her story to notice. Good. Just before they departed, though, one point came up - a tiny question that had niggled at the back of her brain for a long, long while.

"Sorry, one more thing. Why do they call Radahn 'Starscourge'?"

Sounded like a villain name. Hm. Maybe she could call herself 'Starscourge' when she got back home. A little villainous, but if she could dive between dimensions, maybe she could claim it. Shadow Stalker was a hero, after all, and that name sounded like someone who did elaborate rocker-style 'S' letters in the margins of her schoolbooks.

"Oh my, news hadn't breached the Lands Between? Ah, must have been very worrying, then!"

Taylor remained silent. She was close to betraying herself.

"Yes, people were rather frightened when he did it. I believe it was near… Sellia that he did the deed. When General Radahn froze the stars in the sky, and locked away the influence of the heavens on the world as long as he lived. As long as those stars remain still… I suppose he must still be alive, even if madness has taken everything else. No wonder warriors still admire him."

Taylor froze.

What the fuck.

Chapter Text

"Get moving, you repugnant regurgitations of an old and ugly mother-in-law!"

After almost a full week, Taylor was really running out of insults, that one sounded like something out of a poorly translated movie. She didn't enjoy this. She wanted that put on the record, signed by a notary, witnessed by twelve honest men and women then framed and hung up in her room. She didn't enjoy this one little bit. The soldiers were simply… reluctant to work when she spoke calmly to them. Godrick was almost certainly to blame. If that primer had indicated anything, along with the little scraps of information she could stealthily acquire from Onager or Angharad, then they'd been stuck in this castle for centuries, which… well, was horrifying on a number of levels, first and foremost, that they'd been stuck with Godrick for that long. Bored Godrick. Increasingly paranoid Godrick. Godrick whose total number of limbs kept climbing up, in defiance of nature and sanity. At this point, it seemed like most of them had been browbeaten into only really responding to screamed commands accompanied by insults. Taylor wasn't enjoying the yelling, but she was enjoying how they responded so quickly to her ideas. And a part of her worried that Pavlov would strike, and she'd start getting a little too arrogant, her head swelling to unhealthy proportions.

Well, that was where her old memories and her new training came in. Remembering the faces of the trio, cackling away, doing everything they could to make her life a complete hell until very recently… it helped. Certainly left a bitter taste in her mouth when she screamed at the soldiers. And as long as that bitter taste lingered, she felt more grounded, less high on herself. Training beat away the rest of her overconfidence. The spear was coming along… acceptably. Better than the sword, definitely. She actually felt more competent with it, and Onager gave her one of the highest compliments he could apparently bestow - that she was probably ready to serve in one of the peasant battalions. Before they were absorbed into the regular Lordsworn after most of them started lying down and refusing to fight. As she understood it, the peasant battalions were intended to tar pit larger forces, providing nice meat shields that could delay the enemy until the real army arrived… but hey, a compliment was a compliment.

The most satisfying thing about this whole experience was, ultimately, control, not the means by which control was achieved. She felt more in control than she'd been in… God, months. Not since before the bullying, maybe before even that… well, if she went too far she was practically a screaming vegetable, barely cognisant of the world around her, and that probably counted as not having any control of her life. The soldiers scurried beneath her, and she watched proudly as more defences came into play. Angharad stood beside her, jotting down notes - she'd been beyond invaluable. At the end of the day, she had a better grasp of how weapons worked around here, and was able to access the Stormveil library. Very good insight into tactics or old strategies, pointing out which ideas had already been trialled and discarded, and which were new or unusual enough to not be recorded. Taylor had been very pleasantly surprised by her work. Once she'd seen how Godrick was willing to let them do their work in peace and quiet, her mood had improved dramatically, and she'd thrown herself into her work with gusto.

And the fruits of their work were substantial. Juicy, ripe, positively delectable. After the hole in the gatehouse had been fixed, Godrick had allowed them to work on the front gate more extensively. The first task had been to chop down the trees and shrubs which dotted the area, obscuring visibility and providing cover from arrows. Second step had been to move the ballistae onto the upper walls, where they could rain death down on anyone stupid enough to try and enter, positioned to minimise blind spots. Archers backed the ballistae up, and getting them out of their old positions seemed to breathe some life back into them. Honestly, Taylor had gone to bed smiling the night after seeing two of the soldiers talking like ordinary people, not staring blankly ahead while attending to their repetitive duties. Felt like she was doing some real good, even if it was small-scale. It was good that Godrick was so willing to leave them be with their duties, preferring to concern himself with… well, whatever Godrick did during the day. She assumed it involved realigning limbs, gathering new ones, maybe yelling at anyone who came close. Anyway, his absence was appreciated - both for their moods, and because they weren't exactly doing the most flashy things.

No mounds of dead Tarnished littered the path, it was all just repositioning and reinforcing. The part of the plan they'd been working on for the last day had been building proper barricades that funnelled and slowed Tarnished, preventing them from just racing through the rain of arrows, chugging that strange red liquid to stay alive. Potholes with spikes, pit traps with spikes, crudely constructed walls blocking the path, bristling with more spikes… Godrick liked the spikes. As did she. They seemed wonderfully effective, at least in theory. Godrick had enthused about them over another deeply awkward breakfast, where he tucked into yet another wild boar and cackled loudly at every idea she put into motion. The notion of Tarnished dying in the most embarrassing possible way was damn addictive for this man. She could… vaguely see the appeal.

It was for the best that she was so busy. The alternative was, after all, truly miserable. The gold was still coming to her, but it never elaborated itself fully, only revealed the same patterns she'd seen over and over again. It refused to unfold into a proper powerset, one that could take her home. If there was one thing to thank Telavis for, it was reminding her that she couldn't just beeline to a single problem, she needed to think more broadly. That was keeping her sane, and safe. It was taking… longer than she'd like to get control of her powers, and if she hadn't started this plan to occupy her days and Godrick's attention, she'd be completely screwed. No real learning had taken place since the gatehouse, a fact for which she was deliriously thankful. The only one gaining knowledge had been her, and… God almighty. Radahn had frozen the stars in position, a feat that was incalculably powerful, and somehow Malenia had then defeated him. By driving him mad. The idea that an apocalyptically powerful man that could qualify as an Endbringer was just… wandering around, out of his mind, had kept her up. The idea that there were others like him, maybe with similar levels of power, was concerning on a level she wasn't willing to confront yet.

She still wanted to get home. But by focusing on the minutiae of castle defence, she could at least stay sane in the face of this world's unrelenting insanity. Angharad grumbled something about misaligned springs, and Taylor was brought back down to reality. Just in time, too. A bell was clanging by the gates. She'd been here long enough to recognise the sound of that bell. Omen. She walked calmly there, resisting the urge to sprint, accompanied by Angharad, Potiphar, and Telavis. Finally. It'd been ages since a Tarnished properly attacked the castle, almost a full week - nothing since the trio's attempt and subsequent defeat. The soldiers barely looked up from their duties, then settled to a more relaxed pace when they saw that Taylor wasn't screaming at them any longer. She'd need to yell at them about that later. A spark of interest went through her when she saw Godrick standing nearby, and he beckoned her over with one of his larger arms.

"Ah, dost thou see them approach? Foul Tarnished, in search of my lordly strength?"

He was on a balcony. He was in full view. For someone so utterly paranoid, this was odd. A familiar pulse of caution went into her throat.

"...yes, lord. Looks like four of them."

"Four indeed, four indeed, fine eyes! Ha, oh for the day when I may graft new eyes of my own."

He leaned closer, his stinking breath cloying and sweet, his eyes burning with a kind of… anticipation.

"I hope to see these new ideas of yours, little Thaylon. My interest is piqued. My excitement rises. And I know that you would loathe to disappoint me. For thine own sake, Thaylon…"

A large hand slapped her on the back, almost sending her tumbling off the battlements.

"For thine own sake."

And the fear was back, the determination to get back home burning brighter than earlier. Godrick chuckled at the sight of her almost falling over, and she felt the scraps of control coming apart a little. Not enough to make her terrified, but enough to make her nervous. She stared outwards, hopeful. The Tarnished exited the tunnel - and already her ideas were bearing a little fruit. The tunnel had been altered, just a little. The Tarnished were looking particularly cantankerous, holes in their boots showing where the tiny pitfalls had allowed small stakes to stab into their feet - Angharad had winced when Taylor had shown her a diagram of punji stakes from her history textbook - and they looked harried. Of course they did. Tripwires had served that purpose. Tiny things, barely intended to cause any damage… but they sent a message. The tunnel was no longer theirs. It belonged to Stormveil, and they would be reminded of it with every bruised shin, broken nose, or stabbed foot. The Tarnished slowed to a halt as they saw what had happened.

Obviously, Taylor hadn't augmented the whole castle. That was too big a job, and far too complex. She doubted she could accomplish anything truly spectacular, but common sense alterations were miserable enough for an invader. The gateway leading from the bridge to the castle had been barricaded up with wooden planks taken from the main courtyard, then reinforced with piles of stone. To get through, they'd need to slide through a small gap, slowing them and making them easy pickings for the archers that now crowded on the towers. The moment they had appeared, the archers had started to strain their longbows. Four Tarnished, none of whom she recognised - most of them were badly armoured, badly armed, probably not the strongest around. Sounded good to her. They walked forward, and already the rain began. Shields were raised by those who had them, trying to ward off the rain. Accuracy wasn't a concern… simply slowing them down long enough, demoralising them. The Fell Omen appeared in silence, and as he opened his mouth to speak…

He froze. He saw four Tarnished being peppered with arrows, some of them already suffering minor wounds. He saw a barricade behind him, denying them entry further into the castle. And he saw guards standing startlingly close on the half-ruined gate, crossbows at the ready, other weapons prepared for close combat. Taylor couldn't suppress a small smile at his admiring glances, his small nod of appreciation. His horned head flicked to the Tarnished, and he started to speak.

"Thine folly is apparent. Thy cause has no end."

Daggers of light appeared in his hand, and he derisively threw a whole fan of them at the Tarnished. It wasn't much, just enough to stun them - the light spilled around their shields, charring some of their skin, forcing them to drop their defences for just a moment. Arrows sliced into their battered armour in moments, and a second later… something happened. Something she hadn't quite expected. She'd vaguely noticed the black liquid pooled around the exit from the tunnel, but hadn't paid much attention - wasn't interfering with anything else. When the guards on the gate lowered their crossbows and hurled… pots, she understood what that liquid was. Oil. And fire burst from the shattering pots, spreading outwards in rippling waves, catching on the Tarnished in a matter of seconds. They went from simply perforated and pained to roasting and agonised. Taylor flinched as the sound of their screaming wafted up to the castle, the smell of crackling flesh nauseatingly similar to Godrick's favoured boars. She almost automatically tried to hunch down to avoid flying bones and fat. Two of the Tarnished died immediately from the arrows piercing their skulls, one more made it back to the tunnel and into the darkness, where his fate was completely uncertain. Maybe he'd burn to death, succumb to his wounds… either way, he was no longer attacking the castle. The fourth plunged from the edge of the bridge, a tiny bright comet heading straight to the interminable depths. Margit barely lingered for a moment before vanishing with a huff of what sounded like… amusement.

Taylor felt sick. Doubts piled up. Guilt spiked. She'd just done common sense things, she hadn't gone out of her way to be sadistic - the stakes were just stakes, no poison, no excrement. The fire hadn't been her idea. It hadn't been anything close to her idea. She shot Angharad a quick glance, and the perfumer looked… satisfied. Had this been her? Had she gone behind Taylor's back and set up something that would probably be a war crime back home? Was she responsible… no. Couldn't pin this on someone else. She'd arranged the spikes, the archers, and in her own way, she was partially responsible for the fire. She'd killed four people. They'd come back to life, sure, but… God. Two bodies still crackled on the bridge, hissing fat splashing on the cold stones, smoke drifting in long straggling trails.

This was just to survive, she told herself. These were people capable of growing stronger by killing people, they wanted to enter this castle to massacre everyone inside and kill Godrick to gain more power. They were not good people. A good Tarnished wouldn't even try to attack them, they were probably adept at surviving in the wilds… God, she'd killed four people. Not directly, but through her designs. The one consolation she had was that maybe they'd tell their friends, let them know that the castle was no longer accessible. Maybe four dying now would stop dozens dying… no, no. She couldn't think like that, couldn't start thinking of lives reduced to numbers. She was still fifteen, for crying out loud, killing people was not something she should be doing. Her morals warred against the still-burning desire to survive and get home, a desire that made no attempt to rationalise her actions. She was doing what she needed to survive, and that was all.

If that was all, then why did her chest keep hurting? Why did she want to throw up over the balcony?

She almost did throw up when Godrick grabbed her around the shoulders, and certainly a tiny shriek forced its way out of her mouth. He smacked his lips and cried out.

"Ah, young oathsworn, my young oathsworn, the Fell Omen may as well have never appeared! They stood no chance, no chance at all, ha! Ah, I adore the scent of fried Tarnished, 'tis the scent of ambitions turning to dust, 'tis the wonderful aroma of a victory hard-earned."

Hard-earned. They'd shot them from a distance and lit them on fire. She'd probably violated the Geneva Convention, and she was fifteen. So what if everyone else was violating it, so what if those Tarnished will rise from the dead, that didn't make it better. Didn't change the fact that her dad would be ashamed to see her now, that her mom would be outraged and disgusted.

"Do you hear, Margit? Do you hear, wretched Omen? Your services are no longer required, foul thing! I hereby dismiss thee from my service, and banish thee from my lands!"

Enormous hands grabbed her and lifted her higher, like Godrick was showing her off to the sky. She couldn't muster the will to even stiffen at the contact.

"Your replacement! Ha! Come Tarnished, come one, come all, come and look at my fortress, look upon thy gravestone! Godfrey's heir dwells here, wretched things, and his ire is raised!"

He set her down with a thump, and cackled as loud as his bloated lungs could manage. When he turned back to her, she was still pale and consumed by her own thoughts. Hesitantly, she tried to look him in the face. Godrick's tone was far too friendly, his grin far too wide. There was a wretched happiness in his wide eyes, a complete exaltation at seeing a foe humiliated and killed before him. Godrick's sadism shone through in that moment, and she felt very, very afraid at being so near. All that cowardice turned inward and became something darker, and far, far more unpleasant. He feared the world, feared what it would do to him… and relished in the knowledge that he could inflict that right back. Taylor shivered, and Godrick grinned wider and wider, teeth like tombstones.

"A hearty congratulations to thee and thine, oathsworn, your service is commendable. A moment-"

He screamed down to the soldiers manning the gate.

"Find stakes for the bodies! Let no Tarnished come without knowing the fate that awaits them!"

They rushed to obey, and Taylor couldn't watch. Angharad seemed to notice her distress, and came closer, putting her hands on Taylor's shoulders. All thoughts of manipulation were gone, all the good deeds of the day were gone.

"My… my lord, perhaps young Taylor ought to rest, she's been working ever-so-hard to prepare these defences…"

"Ah, perfumer, how you have exceeded your master! Yes, to you goes honour as well, fear not, I do not neglect my servants who have done so very, very well. Dost thou enjoy the crackling of Tarnished fat? Does it have any aromatic properties of which I must be made aware?"

A thought occurred.

"Oh, tell me, tell me if it does, I should delight in scenting myself with the corpse-fumes of Tarnished, let their noses horrify them before their eyes can get the chance!"

Angharad paled.

"...I, uh, I don't believe so, my lord. Grave wax has, ah, few aromatic properties, and fresh fat is, ah, not particularly useful."

"Gah. Curses and calamities! Well, one cannot have all. Not even I - though I accept this fact with grace and dignity, as is my wont!"

"Yes, of course my lord. But, ah, could I possibly request Taylor?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, take her. Servants! Fetch more boar! I desire to feast to my victory!"

Angharad managed to drag Taylor away, and she gladly followed the perfumer, almost collapsing into her side. Telavis stumped after them, and he had an inscrutable look on his face. Not disappointment, not dislike… God, it was nostalgia. This was reminding him of old conflicts, and it seemed to be giving him a kind of eerie happiness. Potiphar sensed Taylor's distress, and tugged at her trousers until she paused. The moment she did, he used Telavis as a mount to leap onto her back, wrapping his arms around her in a very strange, rocky hug. She didn't know how much he understood what he was doing - did he know how hugs worked? Or did he just know that she was distressed, and wanted to retain proximity? The workings of the jar's mind were an enigma. Angharad led her back into the castle, surrounding her in layers of stone that hid the sound of crackling meat, suppressed the smell… but couldn't quite get rid of the victorious cackles of Godrick the Grafted. Taylor barely recognised where they were going until she was sat down in a low chair, and she realised that she was in Angharad's workshop, and a small glass of something was being shoved in her hands.

"...uh."

"Drink up. I'm a perfumer, I know how these things work. Go on, that's land octopus liqueur you're not drinking."

Taylor sniffed gingerly - interesting smell, almost briny, but it still had the acrid burn of alcohol.

"I'm… I'm alright. Just need a moment."

She had to get herself back under control. Couldn't let Angharad see that she was, in fact, a scared, scared teenager trying to hold her life together at all costs. If she did, she'd be sold out, she'd be betrayed, she'd be dumped into a mess she couldn't extract herself from. Angharad had already downed her own glass, and was refilling it from a dark, dusty bottle.

"You need it. It'll settle your stomach, I promise."

She sipped. Just a tiny bit, just enough to convince Angharad that she was fine. As the first burning notes travelled down her throat, as warmth spread outwards, she realised what she meant. It didn't take everything away, but it dulled them just enough to keep going. Before she knew it, she'd already finished the glass, and a tiny part of the terror that currently filling her was going away. Angharad smiled shakily, and Taylor felt… something bubbling up. Concerns she'd never voiced. Things she never wanted to say to someone from here.

"Why is everything so fucked up?"

Angharad blinked. Taylor had never sworn in front of her before - a fact that Taylor realised the moment her mouth clicked shut.

"I… excuse me?"

"Why is it all so fucked? Why is Godrick such a lunatic, why are all the Shardbearers either insane or gone, why are there Tarnished? What did I do wrong, huh? What did I do? Who did I piss off?"

Angharad had no idea how to deal with this. Taylor felt like her own manipulations were screwing her. Again. The perfumer had been manipulated into seeing her as someone blisteringly competent, utterly committed, and more intelligent and qualified than her. The kind of person that didn't break down and pathetically rant about the world. The liqueur was doing something to her, enough to loosen her lips. It also stopped her from caring.

"You… ah… it's, well… I don't know. The Elden Ring was shattered. That… probably set it all off."

"Did the Elden Ring make Godrick such a colossal shithead? Was it holding back everyone's shittiness?"

"Well, no, not quite, it just… ah, allowed for them to become stronger. That's all."

"...I just want to go home."

Those last words were mostly murmured, coming from the deepest part of her chest, only emerging after her other little complaints had been voiced. A sad, trailing phrase that spilled out and pooled on the floor.

"Those bodies really… shocked you. The fire was my idea, you don't need to-"

Taylor couldn't even blame her for that. She'd been given leeway, she'd shown initiative… hell, she'd done everything Taylor had wanted her to do. Act in a way that didn't require constant contact, that didn't put her cover at risk. And by doing that, she'd helped burn four people to death. The smell of roasting meat was still on the air - was that her imagination? Or had that thick, greasy smoke soaked into the nooks and crannies of Stormveil, would she never be able to escape it? She sighed, her eyes feeling unfocused.

"I've just killed four people. That's bad enough."

"They'll be back."

"Doesn't make it better."
Angharad seemed at a loss for words. Probably hadn't dealt with anything like this in centuries, seemed like everyone here was completely comfortable with death in a way that she very much was not.

"...look, I know this must be distressing, but… ah, let me tell you a story."

Taylor glanced up, and Angharad was clearly steeling herself to relive some not very pleasant memories. Another glass of liqueur helped.

"I was with Godrick's army when they retreated from Altus. We marched through Liurnia, and… you couldn't imagine the heat, the way the sun bounced up off the water and into our eyes, the humidity, the flies, the giant crayfish…"

What.

"It was bad. Lord Godrick had already fought Leyndell, Mount Gelmir had rejected any overtures of alliance, and at the time Malenia was remaining fairly static, Radahn too - content to stay in Caelid and rally his forces. Raya Lucaria had long-since been sealed up, but there was a Shardbearer that he hadn't yet truly enraged. Ranni, the Lunar Princess. We… believed that she was hiding in the old manor of the Carian royals, and we marched there to ask for supplies, shelter, a place to recuperate and perhaps join forces. Lord Godrick was… convinced of his diplomatic prowess."

She grimaced.

"...his confidence was a little misplaced. He attempted to enter, but was barred entry - as were we all. In a rage, he tried to break in. We had heard that Caria Manor had been attacked by the forces of the academy… we weren't ready for the consequences of that invasion."

Her eyes became almost glassy, and her hands trembled slightly.

"We should never have stepped inside. Living hands from the Lord of Blasphemy grew from the ground, choking our forces to death, binding them with magic and slowly consuming them like… like spiders with flies. Sorcerers rained down glintstone from above… and worst of all were the puppets."

She stared vaguely into the middle distance.

"Lady Ranni had conscripted foul forces into her employ. The invaders before us had never left. They were… bound, chained to her will, unleashed with no care for their safety. Endless puppets, never dying for long, always rising to challenge us. Godrick saw what they had wrought, and… ran. I followed. As did anyone with sense. To be a puppet is to lose everything, but to still be quite, quite aware of the world beyond. Forced to serve a master you utterly despise. I had thought it a forbidden rite, but… to Ranni, I believe nothing is forbidden."

Her gaze sharpened, and she grabbed Taylor's hand, drawing her closer.

"We shot them with arrows. I burned them. If they are wise, they will not return. We could have done worse - turned them into puppets, let them be consumed by errant hands, tormented them until their minds bloomed with Frenzy, fed them to ravenous serpents, captured them for torture, used heretical arts to… to…"

She shuddered.

"We do what is necessary. As strange as it seems, we did the humane thing. There are worse fates than simply dying - and to any Tarnished, death is an old, old friend. Know that they wouldn't hesitate to visit worse fates upon us. And take comfort that we didn't visit worse fates upon them."

Taylor had been silent the whole time, and she remained so for a long minute. Ranni had been hard to think about - the name was familiar, but anything she'd done was hard to find. The primer hadn't mentioned a thing, her name hadn't appeared in any battles, all she really knew was that she was a 'blue-skinned, four-armed whore' according to Godrick. Another mad Shardbearer. Great. Angharad's words didn't help all that much. 'They're doing worse' was never a particularly good argument, they could have crucified the Tarnished and it would be better than turning them into living puppets. Didn't make crucifixion remotely good. But… ah, what was the point. Her situation hadn't meaningfully changed. She always knew that she was working to help Tarnished die faster, she'd seen Tarnished die at Margit's hand, and she'd seen Tarnished kill normal people without a shred of remorse. She didn't speak much, just a few polite goodbyes, a thank-you for the liqueur. Trying to act a little professional even in the face of her tiny breakdown. The terror had gone out with her outburst, all that was left was a hollow feeling that she'd done something irreversible.

Nothing to be done about it.

Nothing at all.

Her room was dark - not from nightfall, that still had a few hours left before it arrived. It was the muffled grey-blue of a room out of sight of sunlight, but barely illuminated by the bright sky. It sapped the room of colour, sharpened every edge, made her feel that little bit unwelcome. She never stayed in her room at this time, and it seemed completely unfamiliar in this new light. She didn't bother to try and light the fire, content to slump into one of the chairs and rest. Her mind was still reeling from the afternoon's activities. Only now was she trying to process what she'd done - blown her damn cover, shown Angharad that she was a kid, unfamiliar with the world. Couldn't recapture that feeling she'd cultivated, probably going to get sold out soon enough, or blackmailed, or forced into an inferior position… and after she'd done so much to raise herself to a position of safety.

Well, she'd made the castle safer than ever. The hole was patched, the tunnel was lined with traps, the gate was blocked, archers were stationed at every strategically opportune point… those Tarnished hadn't even managed to challenge the Fell Omen, practically dead before he even appeared. How would Nepheli, or her two companions, fare? Would they fall in seconds, or would they put up some more resistance? Even if Margit engaged them, they'd probably be riddled with arrows, or put off guard. Maybe a little wounded by the traps, too. Enough to slow them down, make it easier to deal with them? Were there stronger Tarnished?

She tried to reach out to the light, but it kept slipping through her fingers like droplets of water, never remaining, only clinging briefly before sliding away into the dark. Even her power was escaping her now - maybe it'd realised that she was fine, didn't need help, was perfectly secure… and had promptly decided to abandon her? It'd be what she deserved, in her own way. She sank back, eyes starting to fall shut. She'd sleep, try and get up tomorrow, get back into a routine - if she focused on the minutiae, she couldn't think about what she'd done. Sleep was evading her too, but she clung doggedly to the idea of it, almost starting to snore on purpose to convince her brain that she was, in fact, sleeping, and it should get with the programme. Her breathing was softer, and she could barely feel Potiphar underneath the chair, curled up like some ceramic cat.

She breathed. Potiphar rumbled. Another breath came.

Wait.

That wasn't her breathing.

A silky, familiar voice, one that reminded her of a cage of roots and a gauntlet gripping her chin, spoke.

"Hello, again."

Her eyes shot open.

"It's been a while."

Chapter Text

Taylor froze. She recognised that voice - the slightly indistinct accent, the cold tone, the way it brought her back to a dark, cold catacomb where she’d been resurrected for the first time. Potiphar started to unfurl himself, arms bracing for battle… and the voice spoke again, sending shivers down Taylor’s spine.

“Cease.”

Taylor quietly put a hand over the jar, warning him to stay still. Potiphar was reluctant - deeply reluctant, positively quivering with fury, but he obeyed. Taylor had no idea what was happening… had the woman come to kill her? Had she fucked up in some way? She remembered the feeling of her gauntlets around her chin, forcing her head up so her eyes could be examined. There had been no defence, no possibility of protecting herself from a foe she couldn’t even see. Even if Taylor had a spear on her, she wouldn’t be able to fight, save by flailing wildly and hoping she hit something. There was the sound of footsteps crossing the stone floor, the deliberate clicking sound almost mocking - the woman wanted her to know where she was, and that she could be silent if she wished. If she wanted Taylor dead… Taylor would be dead. She’d infiltrated her room, probably been hiding here until her target came back… the defences hadn’t been worth shit against someone like her. Probably scaled the walls, or slipped inside during construction. Maybe she’d followed Taylor all the way here from the catacombs, always remaining at a safe distance, watching with mocking golden eyes the whole while. Paranoid thoughts were spiralling in her head, and her heart was beating faster. Her throat felt like roots were slowly constricting it.

“What do you-”

“Shh. Speech is not necessary.”

A tense pause followed - tense for Taylor, she was sure that the woman was having a grand old time. The rustling of metal and cloth suggested that she was… crossing her legs, sitting as casually as could be. Taylor could barely even tell where she was sitting, there were no indents in her bed, nothing obvious.

“Thou hast been… busy. I see my advice took root.”

Taylor remained silent. She wasn’t going to piss off the woman, not unless it was absolutely necessary.


“A wise choice to come here, then. I assure thee, word hath already spread of thine work. All-seeing eyes stare at thine defences. My congratulations.”

All-seeing eyes? What? That battle had only happened this morning, how could anyone know about it? Did Tarnished resurrect that quickly? Who had been watching? From where? Was Stormveil that exposed, that she could sneak inside and someone else could watch without being seen? More paranoia. Maybe she could shriek for Telavis - he was standing outside her door, the woman talking too softly to be heard. Maybe, maybe if she was certain that he’d win… that he’d arrive before her throat was cut.

“And ‘twas a wise choice informed by… wise advice. Your fortunes, it would seem, flow from me.”

There was the sound of metal and cloth rustling once more - she was leaning forward.

“‘Tis a fitting basis for a debt, is it not?”

Shit. Shit. More fucking debts? She was already in debt to Telavis, to a lesser extent to Gostoc, and she was bound to Angharad and Godrick. And now her? Did everyone in this goddamn world run a predatory lending business? She mustered the will to speak, feeling the speech ebbing to a halt, imagining a slender eyebrow raising up.

“...what do you want.”

“Hm. To the nub of the matter, then. A habit I can respect. Thou hast accumulated a debt. A debt I intend to extract… in the form of information.”

…hm.

“What information?”

“Shardbearer Godrick dwells here. Thou shalt provide information on his dealings, his activities. Most importantly - is the Great Rune still in his possession?”

More pauses, a haze of expectation. Taylor felt… odd. She was sure that she was about to die here, or that she was going to be somehow hurt. But… she was being asked for something. The paranoid fear began to clear, and in its place was something more calculating. Once again, Taylor felt like she was being pushed to the edge, and once again, her response was to start scheming. She’d been responsible for four people dying today, if she needed to manipulate an invisible asshole who sent her to this damn castle for some damn reason, and was now trying to pressure her into giving up information… so be it. Once again, the field in which her fucks were sown was barren and lifeless - consortless, as Godrick would put it. If the woman wanted her dead, she’d be dead. She lived, so she had something. And while she could be kept silent for now, if that woman made a move that seemed intent on killing her, she’d shriek loud enough to wake the dead. See how she dealt with an angry Telavis. Taylor was angry, she had a little too much booze in her, and she wanted answers.

“Why did you send me here?”

The woman snapped back.

“Answer my quest-”

“No, no, you answer mine first. You sent me here, and you made no mention of the fact that Godrick is an insane asshole with way too many arms.”

“This isn’t-”

“Answer my damn question or I’ll call the guards.”

“My knife would silence thee.”

“And you’ll get no information from a corpse. Now. Answer.”

“...thou wished to find strength. Thou did not specify… sanity.”

Taylor twitched.

“That’s the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard, and I hang around Godrick.”

The invisible woman leaned forward again, and Taylor could faintly detect her eyes sparkling with interest.

“Ah? So thou art familiar with the Shardbearer.”

“So what if I am? I owe you nothing. You almost got me killed, or worse.”

“Thou hast developed spirit.”

That last comment was said with something resembling… well, genuine surprise. Not unpleasant surprise, either - there was a lilt to her voice which suggested amusement. Without any visual cues to go off, Taylor had to scrutinise ever part of her voice, every tone, every subtle inflection. It had taken some getting used to… but Taylor had grown up over the last week. Was she terrified? Hell yes she was terrified, she was incredibly glad that she was sitting with Potiphar on her lap. If she was standing, her legs would be shaking. If Potiphar was gone, her foot would be tapping with nervous energy.

She tried to channel a little of Godrick in her mannerisms - the Shardbearer had a talent for concealing his fear behind swaggering arrogance and erratic fury. And this woman hadn’t met Godrick before, so for all Taylor knew, she wouldn’t recognise the impersonation. Her lips tightened, her fingers clenched around the arms of the chair, and she tried to stare into the empty air as wildly as she could. Every muscle was tense. She desperately hoped it looked like she was barely restraining herself from leaping up and attacking someone. If there was one thing she’d learned over the past week, it was that the fear was the worst the first time. Afterwards, the realisation that she wasn’t going to immediately die set in, surprise faded, but the cunning calculation lingered. She’d met this woman once. And she hadn’t died then. And how could she be any worse than Godrick during breakfast, or Godrick after a victory, or Godrick… fuck, how could she be any worse than Godrick, period. The woman was silent, and Taylor found her paranoia ratcheting up even higher. What was she planning? Was she - oh no, she’d moved, she’d definitely moved, she was sneaking up behind her and - Taylor’s head twitched slightly, trying to scan the room for any rustle of movement. The woman laughed, cold and cruel. She hadn’t moved an inch.

“...but spirit cannot mask fear, as a lid may not conceal an overflowing privy.”

Did she just compare Taylor to an overflowing pile of shit. The bitch.

“Thine spirit is commendable. But, information is required. Thou shalt provide it, or there shall be… consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?”

The woman hummed idly.

“I recollect thy tirade - ‘killed, or worse’. If thou should prefer it, I may introduce thee to worse. I assure thee, final death is not in the realms of impossibility. I have delivered it many times.”

Final death? Could this woman… kill kill people? Permanently? A visceral, mortal fear spiked… but in a strange way, many other types of fear receded. Sure, immediate and violent death was terrifying. But she had anticipated the woman stringing her up on a cross for the crows to eat, or imprisoning her in a deep, dark dungeon where she’d never escape. Full-on permanent death didn’t really hold a candle to endless torment. She’d died once, and the dark was uncomfortably… comfortable. Better than being eaten alive by crows, definitely. Taylor stiffened her spine, tried to keep herself from shaking, and stared furiously at the woman. She wanted information? Sure. She’d get information.

“Godrick’s mad. He’s angry at anything that insults him. He’s paranoid. He eats pigs like a pig. And as far as I know, he hasn’t surrendered his Great Rune. I’d be surprised if he did.”

“Hm. Good. And now he accepts children into his service?”

“I’m very charming.”

“Hm. He is desperate, that much is apparent… and thou hast stirred him into action. Is it thine intention to bring chaos?”

“What? No - I, look, Stormveil had weaknesses. Holes. I offered to fix one, and Godrick asked me to fix more. That’s it.”

“The Tarnished will know of this, soon enough. By shaking the status quo, perhaps the hornet’s nest has been disturbed. Thou may not survive the swarm to come.”

“Is this relevant? You just wanted information, right? Well, you have it. Godrick’s doing what he usually does. How am I of any interest.”

The woman stood quietly, and Taylor could barely hear her pacing, something on her belt clicking softly with each step. Sword. Knife. Something that could apparently deliver permanent death.

“The Lands Between have been quiet for a long, long while. No changes. Every force locked in place, either paralysed or working silently to achieve their goals in the shadows. The time of wars and armies has long-since passed. The Tarnished either slay each other, or are slain by one of the great forces that yet linger - Radahn or the Fell Omen, usually.”

She turned - well, the sound of her voice and the rustle of her armour suggested turning.

“And now Stormveil becomes more unassailable. I predict dread. And dread may create recklessness. In a still pond, even a small stone may produce great ripples.”

Taylor sighed, curling slightly around Potiphar.

“I just… I did what anyone would do. Not my fault that no-one had thought of plugging an enormous hole in their castle’s wall.”

“Perhaps. But news of thine recent victory shall spread. Simple they may be, but thine actions have sparked reactions.”

“So does every action. It’s just that no-one’s been doing anything for the last few centuries.”

“True. For some.”

Her tone was back to the same lilting amusement. The bitch was having fun.

“Was that it? You… you came here to ask something, and that was it? Yes, Godrick still has his Great Rune, if he’s had it for the last few centuries, I doubt he’d have given it up now.”

“Thine tone is unnecessary. You have acted well, though… be assured, however, that I shall return. So long as you remain in this castle, you shall be my eyes, my ears, all but my hands. Those, I think, shall remain at mine own command. As services go, I believe this to be a light one - thou will not gainsay that my terms are unfair.”

Taylor was about to throw something at her. She was very stressed at the moment, she was wrestling with a number of moral dilemmas, she was riddled with downright panic every few seconds, and Godrick had picked her up like she was the goddamn Lion King. She was tired and emotional and not in the mood for invisible women who wanted to spout cryptic nonsense and intimidate her into giving up information. This, perhaps, explained her next few words.

“Why do you want to know any of this? Who are you?”

The woman slowly tapped her chin, the only indication that this was happening being a low, sharp noise that repeated a few times, sounding like anything from a gauntlet clicking, to a careful step advancing, to a gun cocking. Taylor decided to assume that it was the former. No point trying to run, no point fighting, might as well assume that something favourable was happening because something unfavourable could hardly be stopped. Though… if she threw Potiphar in her general direction, maybe she could try and tackle the woman, flail her to the ground long enough for Telavis to come in and finish the job. Risky. Reliant on knowing exactly where she was… and far too presumptive of her strength. Finally, the woman spoke, and her tone was… speculatory. She’d thought about this, and her words were carefully chosen. Taylor knew that tone. She’d heard it in her own head more times than she’d have liked over this last week. The bitch was manipulating her.

“My name is irrelevant. And as for why… a Great Rune is a source of strength. A fragment of divinity. The Tarnished yearn for them, ‘tis all their savage minds dream of, and Marika’s grace guides them ever-onwards in pursuing that dream. Were Godrick to die, or cast his aside (as some have done)... a new warlord would arise, a new Shardbearer. And they may not be so… predictable. The flame of ambition may yet burn the world to the ground. Unless thou should desire such an inferno…”

Her buttons were being pushed. Briefly, Taylor imagined Nepheli with Godrick’s power - the Shardbearer was a lunatic, but there was a strength to him. Probably the only thing keeping her around, honestly. That and the lack of alternatives. But for all his strength, he was static. She could imagine him being thoroughly content with sitting here, with his playthings and his fortress, for another few centuries. If grafting dozens of limbs to himself hadn’t made him capable of challenging the other Shardbearers or expanding his territory, she doubted that he ever would. Man barely had any room for additional limbs at this point. But that was good - the inactivity, not the lack of room. It made him more predictable, limited the things which could provoke him into unpredictability. Margit kept him safe here, and Taylor was starting to contribute to that same project. Nepheli, or any of the other Tarnished… they were dynamic. They had proper minds, real wills, something driving them onwards to a goal, something Godrick more or less lacked.

With power, a fortress, an army… she shuddered to imagine the consequences. For the world. But mostly for her. She’d have to relearn everything, probably have to flee the castle after vengeful Tarnished took over. Back to square one. The woman was manipulating her, but she’d done it in a fiendish way - pointing out truths that Taylor recognised as truths, simply providing evidence that would lead her to a conclusion she’d have come to anyhow, had she found that evidence on her own time. The Great Rune needed to stay here, where it was secure. Godrick couldn’t lose it, not while she was here. Status quo kept her safe. But… she wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t going to start abandoning her work because it might annoy some Tarnished. Her mind was made up - she’d keep improving the castle, no way she’d just let weaknesses pile up because she was afraid of rocking the boat. Hell, if a hornet’s nest had been kicked, she’d be an idiot to stop fortifying the castle.

The fortifications would continue until the Tarnished got the damn message.

“Why not get all this information yourself? You’re invisible. Better than anything I can do.”

“My business takes me far and wide. I cannot shadow Godrick at all moments, nor do I wish to. I am content with thee as an informant… that is, if thou continues to work well. Lie, and I shall know it soon enough.”

“Why shouldn’t I tell Godrick? Get him to station a few guards here.”

“They will see nothing. I assure thee, there are ways of killing which are impossible to evade. I have no grudge with Godrick’s army. And my sisters are innumerable. Thou would need to succeed a hundred times… I need succeed but once.”

Innumerable sisters. That was new. And worth considering - if there were hundreds, then maybe someone would have heard of them. Invisible assassins seemed like something people would be alarmed about. Hm. She’d been given an opening, and she was content to let the woman think she was still subservient. Well, defiantly subservient.

“Are we done?”

“...hm. I suppose we must be. Remember my words. I do not enjoy repeating myself. And remember the consequences of failure.”

And with that, she was gone. Taylor didn’t even hear her depart, couldn’t see a damn thing. One second she was here, and the tension was still present. Then… gone. The tension dissipated. Taylor remained perfectly still for a few more moments, afraid that the woman would return, or that she was hanging around silently. Potiphar squirmed in her lap, twisting around to try and catch sight of the woman. She sighed, and curled slightly around him, unsure if she was sheltering him or if he was comforting her.

“No point looking for her. Thanks for staying still.”

The jar reached up slowly and patted her on the back of her head. For an arm made of rock, it was surprisingly comforting. She remained in her position for some time, letting the day’s events play over and over in her mind. Her involvement in those deaths. Her new status as an informant. Breaking cover around Angharad. God, what hadn’t she fucked up in some way. The only thing that had gone entirely to plan was the castle’s defence, and that was going to keep her up for several nights. The gold remained beyond reach, she simply couldn’t grasp hold of it for long. Damn it. More flaws. More delays. And that meant she’d be responsible for the deaths of more Tarnished, bear witness to more of Godrick’s noisy celebrations and gruesome displays. Though… all-seeing eyes. The woman had sparked her interest with that little statement. Someone else was out there, keeping an eye on things.

Taylor was getting a sinking feeling that she’d misjudged this world’s powers. A medieval world, big old fortresses, lords and serfs and knights… she’d expected armies clashing against one another, real world-changing events. The primer Angharad had read to her seemed to suggest that, with skirmishes dwindling into nothing in the latter years of the Shattering. But now… who knew? Wait - Onager had mentioned that Mohg, the Shardbearer, was recruiting Tarnished to his cause. Maybe that was the new shape of things. No more armies, given that most were insane or comatose, even the living ones barely cognisant of the world around them. Instead, tiny armies, groups of highly trained Tarnished warring against one another. In its own way, it was something she wished she’d thought of - turn the Tarnished against each other, turn their biggest advantages into their greatest weaknesses. But if Godrick had none in his service yet, she doubted he could ever get a single Tarnished to come to his side with absolute loyalty.

The woman had represented one interest, one that wished for Godrick to remain in charge. Who was benefiting from the status quo? Who benefited from all the Tarnished getting stuck in one place, incapable of moving onwards? Who benefited from Godrick sitting around stuffing his face with boar?

Well, she was. Shit, if there was a conspiracy willing to manipulate people into keeping the status quo, sure, she’d let them. As long as they left her alone to focus on getting back home, damn it.

Her attention was distracted by the sound of a knock on her door, hesitant, unsure. She tried to ask who it was, but her voice was still a little strangled by tension. Before she could try again, the door swung open with someone clinging to it. Angharad. Man, she looked bad. Drunk as a skunk, as the kids would say. She wasn’t hammered, she was malleted, downright gavelled. The perfumer hiccuped, and patted the door gratefully. Fair enough. It was the only thing stopping her from falling down.

“So… hey, Taylor, because you left so rudely, I had to finish muh… muh… my liq- lick - my bottles.”

“Bottles?”

“Oh, don’t mind if I do.”

She pulled a bottle out from one of the folds in her robes, promptly glugging a little. Great. Taylor had helped a woman start on a drinking binge. Honestly wasn’t sure if that was a product of burning people to death, or reliving traumatic memories, or just drinking one glass of alcohol and getting carried away. Whichever it was, she looked like she might throw up on her carpet at any moment, which was… concerning. Taylor could barely see Telavis standing behind the perfumer, looking as apathetic as ever. Great, she had a bodyguard, and he couldn’t keep out the drunks. And this, just after she’d been intimidated by an invisible woman. Her mood was completely off-kilter, she felt like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a shattered door as the waves rose higher and higher. She did not want to deal with a drunk right at this very moment.

“Angharad, you’re very drunk.”

She tried to do her best stern teacher voice. Undermined significantly by the fact that she hadn’t seen a truly authoritative teacher in years, all the ones in Winslow were tainted by their inaction. Couldn’t commit to the part, in short. And it showed, as Angharad refused to flinch in the face of her damning criticism.

“Oh, well, I am a little tipsy. But… wait, why did I, oh, right, yeah… you aren’t.”

“...no.”

Barely sure what she was saying ‘no’ to, but it felt like the wisest course of action.

“You should be. Lord’s havin’ a feast and everythin’.”

Her accent was thickening as she spoke, and while Taylor’s knowledge of English accents wasn’t the best… she sounded like she was talking through a mouthful of corks, and for some reason her intonation was going all over the place, sliding up and down like she had a rollercoaster in her diaphragm.

“I really don’t feel like eating. I’m sure he has enough of an audience.”

“Oh, we’re two peas in a pod - no great love for our Lord’s eating habits, no, definitely not. If I’m drunk enough, I can pretend I didn’t hear the feast going on. And as I was having a little ling di long, I thought to meself that my colleague might also want a… an excuse! Yes, excuse.”

“I don’t need an excuse. Just going to stay here until tomorrow. That’s all. I’ll be better then.”

“Don’t get chopsy. Now, viddy this-”

And in a second she had retrieved a barrel the size of Taylor’s head from underneath her robes. Somehow. She could guess what was inside, if not how she’d stashed it up there - she had the brief image of Angharad pinning it between her thighs while waddling up multiple flights of stairs. But that was simply too ridiculous to be true.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, drink up.”

Taylor was starting to get annoyed. She was very tired and emotional right now, she didn’t need a drunk perfumer trying to convince her to have a drink. She was fifteen, for crying out loud, she didn’t drink. She was also going to politely ignore the way the fumes from the barrel tickled her nose and reminded her of that sense of unwinding tension that had come with a single glass of that land octopus liqueur. She wasn’t going to drink, wasn’t going to dive down that particular rabbit hole. But… well, she had her father’s genes. And her mother’s. And both of them had a… capacity. Her ancestors were bellowing at her in irritation. Her memories were full of moral misery and invisible intimidation. And that barrel looked wonderful.

“...dare me, go on, dare me.”

“No, it’s a st-stupid idea.”

Taylor had no real notion of how she’d come to be here. There was a cup, there was a small drink, then a larger drink. Angharad was a surprisingly fun person when the alcohol dissolved her tension. Her accent was stronger, verging to the incomprehensible at times, and she was relaxed. Chatty, in a charmingly brainless way. Capable of rambling about nothing at all, filling the silence with a fairly pleasant burble. It was… enjoyable to be around. Made her feel less alone. Taylor idly wondered if she was similar. A tense spring, always ready to go off, constantly paranoid and manipulative… until she got a few cups into her, and suddenly she was an actual human again. That was really the essence of it - she felt human, and warm in a way that she rarely did these days. She could barely see her own feet, she most certainly wasn’t able to see her future and all the uncertainties it held. Tarnished, Great Runes, invisible women… who cared? For the moment, there was just tonight. Which was why she was in front of Godrick’s throne, and Angharad was poking her repeatedly on the shoulder.

“Go… go on, dare me.”

“We’ll be caught. We’ll definitely be caught.”

“Nah, he’s busy with the feast, they got him three boars.”

“Christ.”

“What?”

“Noth- Nothing. Fine, go on, do what you want. But I have no responsibility here.”

“Hah, no! You dared me! I’ll just blame it on you, dwt lass.”

“Didn’t!”

“Did!”

“Didn’t!”

“Di- are you getting up or not?”

“Fine!”

And Angharad did. It was surprisingly difficult, and Potiphar was called on to assist. Well, Angharad tried to step on him to get up to the very elevated throne, and after a confirmatory glance in Taylor’s direction, he grabbed her leg and threw her upwards with all the strength he could muster. Surprisingly, it worked, and Angharad was flung squeaking into the throne’s seat. It was large enough to be a complete bed, and the perfumer groaned as she struggled to find her way back to her feet. After some navigation, she managed it, and sat down. Then, she sprawled and tried to adopt an expression of overwhelming arrogance - marred slightly by her faintly crossed eyes.

“I’m the lord now!”

“No you’re not, you’re just on a chair.”

“It’s a throne.”

“It’s a delusional chair. And you’re delusional too.”

The two may have been connected. Worth exploring.

“You can’t say that to your Lord! I subject you to endless breakfasts with Godrick!”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would’st! What’s more, you’re on bridge-cleaning duty!”

This continued for some time, and Taylor felt good. The tension of the day was bleeding away into a pleasant haze, where nothing existed beyond this room. How… how long had it been since she’d felt like this? Stormveil’s walls were soft and hazy to her bleary vision, the wind was pleasing on her skin, the sky was littered with endless stars. She stared up, and just… enjoyed the stars. Didn’t think about how they would never move because of a rot-crazed cannibal out East. The throne was just a chair - being an informant? She could barely spell the word as she was. Telavis was a stocky presence in the corner, watching placidly and with absolutely no investment. Typical. She was almost tempted to go up and flick him on the nose… but, in a remarkable display of self-control, she declined to do so. She was still half-sane. With a grunt, she sagged to the floor and leant against the throne, staring up at the statue of Godfrey. Well, from this angle it was quite difficult, and she only really managed to see a leg. But what a leg. God, those muscles made Telavis look like a shrimp. No wonder people still looked up to him.

“...you ever thought about leaving?”

Angharad glared imperiously down from her throne, before realising that this was a serious question, and her expression changed to one of understanding sympathy.

“Once. Maybe twice. But why bother? Just die out there. Stay here where it’s warm and quiet… most of the time.”

“Guess so. But… if you had a choice, if you could leave and go somewhere safe, would you take it?”

“...you inviting me back to your home country?”

“You wouldn’t want that.”

“Oh, come on, why not? You have such miracles… makes us look damn gwenny by comparison.”

“We have monsters. We have things we can’t deal with.”

Angharad lay down on her stomach, poking her head over the edge of the throne - her hair hung down in a loose curtain of dark strands, streaked here and there with white. This woman was probably hundreds of years older than the oldest person on Earth Bet. Taylor only occasionally thought about that, and every time she did she realised just how alien this place was - where someone old enough to be her great-great-great-great-great grandmother was getting drunk and fooling around on an empty throne like a kid.

“Go on.”

Taylor looked up at Angharad, and pursed her lips.

“Endbringers. Three of them. No-one can beat them, they just… appear, destroy cities, vanish. No way of stopping them.”

“Psh. We’ve got dragons.”

Taylor blinked.

“What.”

“Dragons. Gods, big old nest of them just north of Caelid, we get a couple out here every once in a while. Godrick wants one. Don’t know if he wants to kill it, eat it, tame it, or all three. In a different order.”

“You mean, flying lizards? Four legs, wings…”

“Nay, you’ve got it mixed up. Greyoll’s brood have two legs and wings. Ancients have four legs, four wings.”

“Ancients?”

“Old bastards. Never seen one… one lives at Leyndell, last I heard. Torched Godrick’s army like that, one of my first jobs for Godrick was treating the lightning scars.”

“...shit.”

“So, go on, talk about your Endbringers.”

“One of them destroyed an entire island - big island, too - that’s Leviathan. The other one, Behemoth, is a walking nuclear weapon. Last one can read your mind and command you to do anything, even if it’s years away. Simurgh. Looks human, but with… wings. Lots of them. Doesn’t just melt cities, she turns heroes into villains, people into monsters… makes technology that looks like magic. Makes Godrick look nice.”

“...shit. That’s… uh, that’s something. Anything else I should know about before I charter a vessel?”

“Too much to talk about. Heroes. Villains. Hell, my city has a dragon… just, not like yours. Big, though. Tough.”

“Heh. Sounds like home. Mad things running around, causing problems, dragons too… why’d you leave?”

“Accident.”

“...pretty big accident.”

“You could say that.”

Taylor was getting tired of this conversation. Talking about home made her depressed, always did. She wanted to talk about other things - art, poetry, something impressive. Separation from her home had made her fonder of it, appreciative of everything from air conditioning to cars… simple familiarity, really. The longer she was away, the more she lost hold of the immediate crushing misery of Winslow. Amnesia was a hell of a bandage… though thinking of Emma, just for a moment, made her more reluctant to speak. Angharad wasn’t her friend. She was just… a person that she needed to work with. And had gotten drunk with exclusively to maintain that working relationship. They were survivors, that was all, clinging like limpets to the ornery whale that was Stormveil. As she felt the contours of the throne, delicately engraved with battle scenes and strange inscriptions, sized for someone huge, larger even than Godrick… she realised that this world was a tidal wave of ideas, histories, information that outnumbered anything inside her own head. There was so much she hadn’t memorised, so many books she could only recall vague details from, or poems reduced to ‘tones’ and ‘themes’ instead of definite lines.

She’d come to a new world, and she hadn’t even brought anything worth showing. Just… textbooks. And some half-remembered scraps. The only stories she could really tell were about capes, Endbringers, all the horrid things about Earth… even then, she only knew so much, nothing with real detail. Why couldn’t she remember anything beautiful? Why had she come here now, when her mind was sick with misery, devoid of anything brighter? She knew about most of the Shardbearers now, and with each day she’d find something new out, a tidbit about history or culture that she committed to memory more than anything like it back home. How long would it take for the information she memorised here to outnumber the memories from back home? A year? A few months? A few weeks, if she kept up a frantic pace? A part of her was angry, a part was miserable, and another part was… embarrassed. Angharad could probably show her some book of poems from this world, or some rare artwork, or something this place had produced that didn’t immediately want to kill her. She could barely remember the first few lines of a scattered handful of poems, a few plot summaries, and she couldn’t draw for shit. She was glad they were drunk. In a civilised conversation, she’d have had nothing to offer.

“...Heeeeee-bert.”

Taylor glanced up, sharply. Angrboda looked half asleep. Hm. Should be moved. Wouldn’t be good if Godrick caught them.

“Yeah?”

“Heeeeeeee-bert. Name’s funny. Ha.”

“Angharad sounds strange by my standards.”

“Shut it, you’re… you’re named after a profession. Like if I was called ‘Perfumer’, or… ‘Smellgood’ or ‘Nicesniff’. Hah, Nicesniff. What’s Hebert like? Is it a town?”

“It’s my last name. Godrick just assumed it was my home, and I never corrected him.”

“...where’re you from, then?”

“Brockton Bay. In the United States of America.”

Angharad processed that, then giggled childishly.

“...America? Am-Erica? Ha. Your home sounds like a girl’s name. United States Hi-Am-Erica. Ha…”

“Yeah. Hilarious. Come on, let’s go.”

“Hmm…”

The walk back to the castle was accompanied by two noises. The sound of Angharad giggling blearily at the names ‘America’, ‘Hebert’, and ‘Taylor’ (please, these people had weirder names, one of the Shardbearers was Mohg. Sounded like a cat). The other was more subtle, and Taylor couldn’t detect it through her dulled ears and softened brain. A huge form, scuttling like a spider over the walls, covered in a delicate silk cloak. A perversely youthful face stared out, and far too many limbs clicked curiously. Wide, dark eyes stared blankly at the departing two, and the creature slowly descended. A single murmur passed its lips, tinged with intrigue, flavoured with anticipation.

“...wings?”

Chapter Text

“Move that ballista, or I’ll… I’ll… gah, fuck.”

The yelling really wasn’t improving her mood. Taylor A. Hebert, professional bullshitter and certified meat shield, was having her first hangover. It was horrendous. The light in Stormveil was usually pretty bad, the sky was seemingly perpetually overcast… and now it was blindingly bright, and she found herself wishing that sunglasses were a thing here. Or that she could steal a hat. Just something to distract from the stabbing feeling in the back of her eyes, the thumping in her head, or the constant feeling that her stomach was on the verge of a violent rebellion. Angharad was looking infuriatingly fine, barely flinching from the light, completely content to stand next to someone yelling at the tops of her lungs. Hangover, nervousness at the invisible woman’s visit, dread at the apparently oncoming swarm of Tarnished, general jumpiness produced by living in close proximity to Godrick… her nerves were, as per usual, completely fucked.

She tried to focus on the defences. They were coming together better than ever - she’d noticed yesterday, past all the terror and queasiness and guilt, that some of the archers were still in bad positions. Some of them were grouped too tightly to fire properly, others were placed in such a way that they couldn’t actually hit a Tarnished coming out of the tunnel. With Godrik’s approval, she was also able to start moving a few ballistae around… they were powerful, definitely, but she found herself wondering why they were using this against individual attackers. These were siege weapons, good against lots of people bunched tightly together or people who couldn’t move easily. A few placed above the gate would be… well, brutally effective, she imagined. Aim for the tunnel, let loose, spear any Tarnished unlucky enough to be walking through at that time. If she focused on the minutiae of defence, she could almost ignore the black, greasy marks on the ground where the Tarnished had burned to death.

When focusing on defence stopped working, she turned instead to spear training. It was… enjoyable, to lose herself in repetitive motions. She was approaching a state vaguely resembling calm when the alarm bell clanged louder than ever, piercing directly through her ears and into her brain. The spear almost dropped from her hands as she shook in surprise, glancing around wildly. Telavis hummed thoughtfully, and Taylor squinted.

“...another one?”

“Hm.”

Onager, who had been taking a nap nearby, grumbled irritably.

“Hmph. Bloody bastards can’t give a fellow a moment’s peace.”

“Is it normal for them to attack two days in a row?”

“No. Usually a few days, sometimes a week… takes a lot of nerve to get back here after being impaled by the Fell Omen.”

Made sense. Dread piled up in her stomach, and she refused to go and attend to the gate herself. She wasn’t needed, there were no orders she had to give to the men there. Angharad was still present, she’d do just fine. Taylor really, really wasn’t in the mood to see more people dying. And her mind was buzzing with what the invisible woman had said… a swarm of Tarnished, kicked up by the sudden change in the status quo, probably racing to attack Stormveil before their defences could be enhanced to the point of impenetrability. Even the prospect of seeing Margit show up couldn’t get her to move, and she waited with gritted teeth as the sound of arrows in flight filled the air. Like this, where there was no violent battle to distract her, she realised just how frightening arrows sounded. A whining, heavy buzz, screaming through the air. Fast enough to be unavoidable. Slow enough to be noticed and dreaded. A bullet was an explosion, but arrows awakened something buried in her lizard brain - made her feel like a tiny creature barely aware of a bird of prey swooping downwards. She shivered. The sound of arrows continued for longer than yesterday, and she could barely hear the fire pots being thrown… and there it was, the thumping of Margit descending. These Tarnished had learned, it seemed. Maybe they were the same ones from yesterday, maybe they were simply observant. Swords clashing - were those swords or axes? Was this some unnamed and unimportant Tarnished, or someone like Nepheli?

No telling from here. The sound of the battle came to a thunderous end - if she was a betting girl, she’d put her money on Margit pulling out that enormous hammer of his for a final blow. Silence followed. He must have won. No cheers this time, seemed like Godrick didn’t have enough time to get to the main gate. Probably sleeping off the three boars he’d apparently eaten. Her mind was brimming with ideas, concerns, grim predictions… the first thought that had come to her was ‘why couldn’t they just stay away?’ And that had sparked more thoughts in turn. Interesting thoughts. Onager was picking his teeth with a small bone, and she quietly walked over, trying not to alarm his two half-rabid dogs. As quiet as she tried to be, Margit and Mohg still noticed, and they growled in unison. The Omen silenced them with a single horned hand, and turned his dark eyes in Taylor’s direction.

“Hm?”

“How much do you know about Stormveil? You know, before the Shattering.”

“Much as anyone else, I reckon. Why?”

“I was thinking - Liurnia’s north of here, and the maps say that the only way up there is through this castle. Did… Liurnia just not get much traffic? Doesn’t seem like too many people could come through here at once. Haven’t even seen the north exit.”

“‘Course you haven’t. Past Godrick’s throne room.”

Taylor blinked.

“...that sounds inefficient.”

“It is. I used to live up there, you know. Liurnia. Family moved from Altus years back, when the Grand Lift was still working. When I came to Limgrave, I didn’t use no poxy Stormveil route.”

Just as she’d suspected.

“There’s another way, isn’t there?”

“Hm. Old road. Ruined for years - bridge collapsed centuries ago, I had to rig together a ladder to get across.”

He leaned forward, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Now why d’you want to know about roads? More of a walls woman, aren't cha?”

Taylor sat down on a nearby stone, eyes slightly narrowed with focus, lips pursed.

“I was thinking… what if the Tarnished keep coming? In large numbers, that is. Day after day.”

“Lass, it’s two groups in as many days. Not a siege. Not a war. Getting worked up other nothing.”

She shrugged. Couldn’t exactly talk about the invisible woman’s warnings. Would raise… well, rather too many questions.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to just sit on my thumbs if they are getting up to something.”

“Paranoia’s bad for the complexion.”

Taylor shot the Omen a quick glare, and he let out a throaty chuckle.

“What? Horns be damned, my skin’s impeccable. Thicker than leather, smooth as silk. It’s the napping, my… tranquillity. Not like you, greaseball.”

“Oh, come on. Look, I’m just thinking - the Tarnished seem easily distracted. I mean, there must be a lot of them, but there’s no armies showing up, and you said there’s usually a full week between attacks. So, just stuck in Limgrave, they’re still finding enough to occupy themselves with.”

“Sure.”

“What if we opened up the way to Liurnia? Looks like a big place, lots of room to get lost in. Another Shardbearer, too. If the Tarnished had options, they might just ignore Stormveil. Write it off as too tough.”

Onager grunted.

“...it’s a fair idea. Fucked by one point, though. No-one gets into Raya Lucaria. Sealed, innit.”

“There must be some way in.”

“Sure. But it won’t be easy to find.”

“Still… it’s an academy. Not a castle. And Rennala’s meant to be crazy, right? Probably more appealing than here. Imagine Tarnished combing Liurnia for a way in, getting distracted, and avoiding Stormveil. Avoiding us.”

“...what if one of them does it? Kills Rennala, claims her Great Rune… might be strong enough to come back and wreck Stormveil like that. See, maybe that’s why Margit’s guarding us. Doesn’t want anyone getting to another Shard.”

“Rennala’s stronger than Godrick, isn’t she?”

“...pretty bloody low bar.”

“I’ve got a point though, haven’t I? If Margit thinks that she’s vulnerable, maybe he’ll go and defend her. Or, maybe she’s strong enough that she can fend off any attackers. Either way, it’s more space for Tarnished to get lost in, to kill each other in…”

Onager hummed thoughtfully, and Telavis was scratching his chin in mild interest.

“...it could work. But you’d need to repair the road, make it obvious how to get there… it’d be a lot of work.”

“If it keeps Tarnished off our backs…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, Onager getting back to sleep, Taylor thinking deeply. Stormveil was a target - it was hard to ignore, and the Tarnished had a damn good reason to keep coming back. Maybe they’d figure out how to get past her defences, maybe Margit would fall eventually - it wasn’t like the Tarnished had to worry about permanently dying or anything. The only other Shardbearer they could get to was Radahn, and that sounded about as bright as… well, a person in medieval armour challenging an Endbringer. If Rennala was put on the table, if the road was unblocked, maybe they’d see her as a more appealing target. Not all of them would, but it could divide their attentions, prevent them from working so efficiently. And if some Shardbearers were building armies of Tarnished, maybe they could whittle the main body down - divide and conquer, more or less. The idea appealed. Seemed nice and easy.

Primary issue was that she had no idea how to build roads, of course. And she didn’t know how bad the route was - maybe it was a half-ruined highway, maybe it was a dirt track filled with skeletons. She’d need to investigate more. And as she saw Angharad coming closer, she found that there was another investigation she was very eager to pursue.

“...so, have you heard of anything like that?”

“Invisible, capable of delivering permanent death… you’re saying that this is just a story where you come from?”

“Yeah, people use it to make children go to bed on time. I thought it was just a story, but… well, I thought dragons and glintstone were just stories.”

Angharad hummed. She was looking better than Taylor, but nerves were starting to cloud any optimism she might have had left in her. The gate had been defended successfully, but it was much, much slower than before. The Tarnished this time were more skilled, almost six of them. Bad. Margit was powerful, but she doubted that he’d be able to fight off an entire army. One strange thing, though - one of the fighters wasn't Tarnished. It was a beastman, armoured and intelligent, swift enough to evade the first volley of arrows, but not strong enough to conquer Margit. Damn tough, though.. Taylor hadn’t probed deeper into that, the way Angharad had said ‘beastman’ made it sound like common knowledge. She’d already splintered her cover as a competent individual, she wasn’t going to shatter it over something she could picture fairly easily already. Still, it had worrying implications - more than just Tarnished to worry about. Reinforced her plan to try and split their forces by opening the way to Liurnia.

“...well, that sounds like a Black Knife.”

Taylor raised a single eyebrow. Don’t ask embarrassing questions, maintain an impression of professionalism.

“Same people that killed Godwyn in the Night of the Black Knives. No need to worry about them, though - no sight of hide nor hair afterwards. Bunch died in the attack, last I heard.”

Shit.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, they’re invisible. And caused the first demigod death, ever. So… aye, sounds about right. Funny that your home has stories about them, though they were limited to the Lands Between.”

“Guess they travel.”

“I suppose.”

Shit, shit, shit. The invisible woman was a god killing assassin. The woman that could sneak into the castle and into her room with no-one the wiser was a god killing assassin. The terror was coming back. Christ, why had she answered back? This wasn’t some random weirdo trying to intimidate her, this was someone important, someone that had killed Godrick’s ancestor, someone that she still heard people praying to from time to time. The terror spiked… and then began to fade as she thought clearly. She’d lived, hadn’t she? The woman hadn’t killed her, tortured her, done anything but intimidate. Why? And why was she alone?

“You said a bunch of them died?”

“Most did. Whole land turned against them, hunted them down. Pitchforks and torches deal. Not many places to run. Not that there were many of them to begin with, only a few dozen.”

‘My sisters are innumerable’ - goddamn it, she was a professional bullshitter, and she’d been bullshitted. This was offensive on both a personal and professional level. Even if this woman did have sisters, they certainly weren’t a small army ready to tear her apart at any moment. A tiny part of her wondered if this woman was actually a Black Knife, maybe she was just someone who’d stolen their means of invisibility. It wasn’t like she’d actually seen the woman kill someone permanently. Could have been a bluff. She wasn’t going to chance her life on these suspicions, but it was enough to dispel some of the fear, and to replace it with downright annoyance and… calculation. The woman had wanted information from her, a barely functional kid, and wasn’t willing to just spy on Godrick directly. Maybe she was too busy to do it, or maybe… she couldn’t. Maybe there was some defence that Godrick had against them.

“Did the other demigods have a way of protecting themselves?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions about them, aren't you?”

“Interested, is all. With the Tarnished getting held up at the gate, I guess I’m just thinking about-”

Onager grumbled sleepily.

“She’s paranoid. It’s why she has frog-skin. Frog-mouth’s probably because her parents were related.”

Angharad shot him a spiteful glare.

“Oh, piss off, Omen. Go back to sleep.”

“Want to, but you keep waking me up.”

“Then go somewhere else.”

“...nah.”

Angharad pinched the bridge of her nose, for once looking vaguely hungover. Taylor tried to smile - well, she stretched her lips out, tried to angle the corners upwards, but it was obvious even to her that it was a poor replacement for a real smile.

“...what he said. Paranoid. If the Tarnished can’t get in… well, the Black Knives killed one demigod, maybe they’ll try again.”

Angharad gave her a look of sympathy.

“I understand, I understand. No need to worry, though. King Morgott over in Leyndell made these… torches. Fuelled with incantations. They dispel their invisibility - no Black Knives ever got back into the city, rest of the demigods started carrying them around as a rule, if I remember correctly. Godwyn’s the only demigod they ever killed.”

And ideas were blooming. Those eerily bright torches that Godrick’s guards carried… they made a hell of a lot more sense now. Explained why the assassin wouldn’t do her own spying - she couldn’t. If anything, Taylor was getting slightly bemused. Had the woman known that little that she’d think Taylor would just keel over and do whatever she said? Must have arrived recently. Taylor had changed, in rather a few ways. And one of those ways was a growing unwillingness to be kicked around like a deflated volleyball. The assassin had exposed one of her weaknesses, and now Taylor had a rather mean idea. Obtain a torch. Inform Telavis of what was going on. Surprise the assassin by unveiling the torch during their next meeting, then let Telavis charge in and pin her. And then… well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. For the time being, there was a knife-wielding lunatic hovering over her head at potentially all times, and she already had an axe-wielding lunatic hanging around using his many, many limbs.

And the knife-wielding lunatic wasn’t even paying her.

Night had come, and Taylor was moving. Telavis had been left behind - he’d politely agreed to that, momentarily abandoning his constant vigilance. It was oddly touching that he was willing to trust her that much… well, probably less trusting her quality of character and basic honestly, more trusting that she wasn’t such a spectacular idiot that she’d run out of the castle or try and have him killed. He’d seen how weak she really was, and she hadn’t exactly had a chance to do any real plotting. The knight lingered in her room with an impatient Potiphar while she walked quietly in the vague direction of Godrick’s throne. Her plan was simple - ensure that Godrick was away, then sneak in and try to find one of those torches. It seemed silly that he’d only have two, surely there’d be a few more stashed around… ideally, she’d do some more investigation, but time was a pressing factor. The sound of noisy feasting came from the dining hall, and a quick glance confirmed what she already suspected. Godrick was gorging himself again, this time on a mound of birds arranged into a steep-sided pyramid. He snapped bones in half with his teeth, and she could see the painfully pinched areas where she’d swallowed jagged bones with no care. With damage-resistant flesh, he quite happily gulped down entire piles of bones, and with nauseating crunches his throat forced them downwards. The crunching and gulping was bad enough, but the satisfied sighs were honestly the worst part. They were just so… sensual.

Great. And she’d just eaten.

The last time she’d been here was just the previous night, but back then she’d been in a pleasantly drunken haze. Now? The winds were howling, and enormous tombstones loomed up on every side. Were they devoted to the people who’d died in the first siege, or were they commemorating the old Storm Kings? Why would they keep them around in that… no, no time for questions. Her brain was already buzzing with the Black Knife business. Why would the assassin want to make sure Godrick still had his Great Rune? How did they benefit from the status quo? And that raised an unpleasant question - Angharad seemed to think that the Black Knives were just deicidal weirdos, and their reduced numbers coupled with specialised countermeasures had stopped them from achieving their goal. But if a Black Knife wanted Godrick to stick around… maybe things were working out just as they had planned. Maybe they only wanted Godwyn dead.

Questions to ask the bitch when she was trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey.

Was she being a little too eager in pursuing petty revenge?

No. Definitely not. The bitch deserved this for intimidating her, breaking into her room, threatening her with final death, eating boar like a complete degener-

OK, she might have a bit of pent up rage. Needed to work on that at some point.

The tombstones passed, covered in spidery writing that she couldn’t remotely decipher, and the large tower where Godrick held court approached. No guards to be seen, too busy guarding their Lord’s table. It was… well, fairly emblematic of Godrick’s entire personality, really. The castle was fortified to the gills, guards scattered everywhere, ballistae, trained lions, a semi-loyal Omen, a grey giant… but his own throne room was left alone, this entire part of the castle was practically deserted. Too paranoid to live without soldiers, and far too paranoid to let more than few stay near him at any moment. Probably imagined Tarnished sneaking in, stealing armour, waiting close until his guard was dropped. A solid presence hovering above whatever passed for his bed, sword in hand, ready to steal his Great Rune, kill everyone around him, violate every notion of security that he’d steadily built up. She shivered. Onager had a point - she was being paranoid. The woman had shaken her up, even if the alcohol had masked it somewhat. Stormveil was defended, she’d succeeded in making it a proper fortress, they barely even needed Margit at this point… and yet someone had slipped through and into her room, could have killed her in a second. After a full week of ordering people around, finding weaknesses and reinforcing them… it rubbed her up the wrong way. Badly.

Back in the throne room, but with none of the pleasing haziness of liquor to disguise the danger of the place. This was Godrick’s, he’d have every reason to kill her… she couldn’t just ask him for one of those torches, though. She’d been around him long enough to anticipate his reaction. Paranoia, erratic behaviour, probably withdrawing every troop to defend his tower, leaving the rest of the castle woefully exposed. Her defences were good, but they needed people to man them - she wasn’t going to secure herself against a Black Knife assassin by opening up to the Tarnished. She could see things fairly clearly, Godrick… she wasn’t willing to trust him with this information. Not to mention, she wanted answers from this woman. Godrick would probably just hack her limbs off and put her on a spike as a warning to anyone else, too paranoid to let her live for a moment longer. The statue of Godfrey glared down at her, face twisted into a scowl of concentration. His lion, Serosh, roared to the world beyond.

If that statue was anything approaching life-sized, Godfrey was huge. Once, she’d have dismissed the idea, but now… who knew? A little poking around in some of the side rooms, and she found some trunks - a few of them marked with the golden seal of the Erdtree. These torches were apparently given power by Morgott, so presumably they’d be in trunks marked with the emblem of the royal lineage. A little poking, and they sprung open on rusted hinges, locks so decayed that a key couldn’t even fit - and based on their size, Godrick wouldn’t even have been able to unlock them if they did, not with his current scale. Books in script she couldn’t read, bottles filled with what looked like fine wine, a few shimmering vials that she steered well clear of - Angharad’s laboratory was apparently a poorly stocked one, and there were still enough hazardous materials to kill her a hundred times over. No intention of going near something high-quality. Rich clothes too small for Godrick to wear, a… oh goodness.

She picked up the object - a headband covered in feathers, marked with strange shimmering symbols. There was something strangely playful about it, in a way she couldn’t quite describe. The feathers seemed to twitch under her fingers, eagerly trying to wrap around, curiously exploring this new holder. The symbols danced on their surface in pleasing motions, and they responded to her attention. A brief glance in one place sent the symbols scattering there to form into geometrically pleasing shapes of such intricacy that she couldn’t pick out the finest details, before flickering away the moment her eyes drifted. If she stared for too long, they started to shape into something resembling a face - her face - twisted into a sly, almost vulpine grin. The headband rippled like a long, brown muscle, reshaping itself until she could imagine it perfectly sliding around the contours of her face. Her hands moved automatically, her eyes closed, and the headband began to slide around her forehead in motions that could quickly become addictive, massaging her scalp as it did so, and the feathers shivered in joy as they moulded to fit her face. It took a moment for her to realise that something was very, very wrong. She wasn’t the kind of person to wear random magical headbands, not remotely - and as her hands came to rip it off, she froze.

Those weren’t her hands.

A half-shattered mirror lay in a corner of the dusty room, and she peered into it - different eyes stared back. Very, very different eyes. Still gold, but the shape was different, the tone was different. A little sloping, almost almond-shaped, and more beautiful than hers ever were. Long golden braids hung by the side of her head, and a much softer face stiffened in shock. A long, elegant dress streamed away, far from anything she’d dare to wear. The woman staring back at her was beautiful, shapely, and achingly familiar. When she saw the woman’s figure, she realised what it was, and ripped the band away with a muffled shriek, throwing it away with a thousand-yard stare. This. This was how Godrick had escaped the capital. She knew she recognised that face, it was the same face that had insulted her a dozen times and sprayed her with random chunks of food every other day. How did Godrick wear that dress better than she ever could? She wasn’t sure if she was insulted or traumatised, probably a combination of the two. God, why was his hair so good? And how had he gone so far downhill? Did this band just invent this face wholesale, or was it based on how he used to look?

Either way, she’d just seen hot Godrick, and it was something she never, ever wanted to experience again. The headband was shoved deep into the trunk, where ideally it could remain for the rest of time. She was here for a torch, not Godrick’s weird headbands. Speaking of torches… a pained grunt passed her lips as her knuckles on something metal and spiralling, a whole mess of edges that almost tore the skin. The pain vanished as she realised what she’d found. With a heave, it emerged from underneath a pile of silks… a torch. A golden torch, unlit, but utterly identical to the ones that Godrick’s soldiers carted around every day. Covered in dust, too, which suggested that Godrick didn’t often check on it. Good, incredibly good. As she hauled it up and slipped it away in a sack, she realised that something was wrong. Well, more accurately, nothing was wrong.

And that just wasn’t how things worked around here. She didn’t get nice things, not without something to screw her over. Couldn’t get to a castle without it being ruled by Godrick, couldn’t defend a castle without a little trauma, couldn’t get advice without having that advice-giver be a godkilling weirdo who showed up in her room at inconvenient times… everything had a cost, and thus far, she hadn’t paid for this torch. She walked quietly back to the throne room, and braced for a knight to come out of nowhere with sword raised and awkward questions tripping lightly from his tongue. Nothing. She glanced suspiciously at the statue of Godfrey, and it remained still - she almost imagined that it would leap down to defend its master’s property, seemed like something this castle would have. She emerged back into the outside world with eyes narrowed - no dragons, no lions, no knights. Just the star-filled night sky and the howling gales.

Something moved behind one of the gravestones, and she almost sighed in relief. Good. The laws of the universe hadn’t fundamentally changed. A dog, maybe? A wolf? A soldier lying in wait, or a servant… Gostoc, possibly, he’d been laying low for a little while, maybe he was back to exact some form of blackmail from her. Spindly, pale arms poked above the stone - nice and thin, clearly from someone young and weak. Not a knight, then. Two arms clasped the edges of the stone, and… oh shit. Oh shit. Too many arms. Way, way, way too many arms. With a light hop, the creature propelled itself upwards and crashed down in the path ahead of her. A freakishly young face stared at her while a hideous crab-like body of limbs clicked itself into a more comfortable arraignment. Shining golden swords were clutched in boney hands, sharp enough to slice her open in a second. Even if she had her spear, it wouldn't be much use here.

Taylor gulped.

Yeah, this seemed about right.

Chapter Text

Taylor started to back away slowly, cautiously - even if she knew she couldn’t outrun the thing, her every instinct was begging her to back off before the abomination decided to carve her open like one of Godrick’s boars. And she was, at the end of the day, a slave to her instincts - and a concession had to be made to the survivalist urge that had kept her alive thus far. The creature crept over the tombstones, eerily silent despite its size. There was something… chaotically grotesque about it. It was similar to Godrick, she could detect that much. A loose configuration of additional limbs grafted to a central body. But Godrick, at least, seemed to have a fairly concrete idea of what he wanted to look like. His form stuck to the humanoid, he never went too far-out with his modifications. This? This looked like an experiment, a barely functional prototype which explored every weird inclination and bizarre theory that grafting could produce. Limbs branched away from a distorted central mass, and nowhere could she see a genuinely human feature - nothing but that pale, doll-like face that stared out with wide golden eyes. The torso was a bundle of flesh wrapped together tight as a spring, muscles quivering erratically as it strained to hold the whole abomination together. Limbs twitched like insect antennae, while larger trunk-like legs propelled it forwards like some enormous, fleshy crab. A heavy green-gold cloak hung over most of the mass, a fact for which she was deeply grateful.

Wait - it was grafted. That much was obvious. And it was near Godrick’s throne. She puffed herself up, and tried to adopt an expression of disinterested arrogance. Uncertainty still clouded her mind - had she looked terrified when the creature first appeared? If she did, had it noticed? She tried not to let the shakiness feed into her expression, and had no idea whether or not it was working. Her eyes became a little glazed-over, mostly to cloud out the whirling thicket of limbs surrounding the creature. Seeing them, and the shining swords, was certain to break her delicate facade.

“Well? Did you want something?”

The creature froze, and tilted its head to one side. Silence reigned, and Taylor felt a bead of cold sweat running down her back. Time to double down.

“If you didn’t, I have things to do for Lord Godrick. Good night.”

Taylor started to walk away with as much certainty as she could muster, barely restraining herself from breaking into a sprint. For a moment, it seemed to be working - the creature was still frozen atop its tombstone perch, and no words passed from those pale, bloodless lips. Had she… had she done it? Was the creature sufficiently impressed, or just confused? If she could get to the castle, mingle with the servants, she might be able to lay low for a while - maybe the thing couldn’t even speak, maybe so much grafting had done something to its brain, maybe it was closer to a guard dog than an actual servant. The welcoming lights of the castle came closer, closer, closer. If she could only get inside, she’d be… there was the sound of something huge leaping from the ground, dozens of limbs propelling a hideous body upwards with impossible force. She froze. And in front of her, shielding the door, was the creature - it landed into a wave of dust, and the first thing to emerge from that choking grey cloud were those blank, golden eyes, staring at her from the youngest face she’d seen in this entire castle, the one face not marked by wrinkles or weariness.

Shit. Shit. Taylor restrained herself from gulping. She was close, just needed to get the thing out of her way - it wasn’t attacking her yet, maybe that meant it was amenable to reason. Showing weakness wasn’t an option, it’d probably just start kicking her around if she grovelled. Had to double down. Again. Quadruple down. Her lips twisted into a haughty scowl, and she mustered her best ‘yelling at soldiers’ voice… though a little quieter. She wanted to get out of here alive, and yelling at the crab monster seemed like a good way to end up diced into dozens of pieces and thrown off into the void.

“Yes? Did you have something to say to me, or are you just being irritating for no reason? I have business on behalf of Lord Godrick, and he doesn’t appreciate delays.”

The creature gave her an assessing look, and Taylor momentarily wondered if she was twitching, shaking - her legs felt numb, was her knee shaking and betraying her nervousness? The wind howled, and it seemed for a moment like it was replacing the creature’s voice - it sounded accusing, mocking even. Taylor stood her ground, refused to move backwards. The creature advanced, clicking eerily, swords still at the ready. No running - wouldn’t work, the creature was too fast, too strong. Plans came to mind, some stupid, some very stupid. She had a tiny inkpot on her belt, just to sketch out diagrams on some of Angharad’s paper - she could throw that, maybe, blind the creature for a moment while she went hell for leather on an escape. Could write the whole night off as a failure and throw the torch - no, the consequences would be too unpleasant. If the torch was found out here, Godrick would get paranoid, and she’d lose any chance of getting another one. But if she couldn’t use it like a club, she really didn’t have anything. The creature came closer, and she stared into its eyes with all the imperiousness she could manage. It wasn’t much, but she hoped her desperation would give it a little extra ‘oomph’.

She didn’t expect the creature to poke her in the chest, almost sending her to the floor in shock. It opened its mouth, and… spoke. In a high, almost reedy voice - little on the nasal side, similar in some ways to Godrick’s.

“You were here yesterday.”

Taylor blinked. Shit. The situation had worsened.

“...maybe I was. Doesn’t matter to you if I was or I wasn’t.”

“Was on Lord’s throne.”

Fuck.

“That… wasn’t me. That was someone else.”

“Talked about… hm.”

The creature paused, scratching its chin with one of its many, many hands.

“...wings?”

Taylor blinked. Had she-?

“Uh. Yeah. Wings. Wait, are you talking about the Simurgh?”

The creature brightened up somewhat, face perking into something resembling interest. A whole raft of limbs starting to click their fingers in a rapid excited medley.

“Simurgh! Like a person, but with wings!”

The hands tightened into fists.

“Can control anyone and anything, read minds, rule over all!”

For fuck’s sake, had she just started a Fallen cult on another world? Something to keep off her cape resume.

“Yeah, that’s… accurate.”

“She is not Misbegotten?”

“Sorry?”

“Misbegotten. No scales? No giant teeth? No horns?”

The thing was coming closer with every moment, and Taylor almost tripped over a loose paving stone as she rapidly retreated. It was completely intent on her, looming high and wide, every limb a frenzy of excited motion.

“Uh, no. No. Just wings. She’s pretty big, though.”

“How big?”

“Very! Very big! Size of a building!”

The creature did something she didn’t expect - it reared up, and unfurled a whole raft of its limbs. She could see the tightly-wound mass of flesh that passed for a torso, a shade of sun-starved pale that reminded her of spoiled milk or dirty porcelain. Like Godrick, the limbs smoothly blended into the flesh, no sutures or stitches, just unblemished skin. Like Godrick, it set off a whole host of alarm bells inside her head, every primitive urge telling her to get away at any possible cost, that this thing was unnatural on a variety of levels. It remained in this pose, and a single spindly arm pointed at a random patch of skin - no, not quite random. Something was protruding. A tiny, barely visible wing - looked pretty mangy, to be honest. Most of the feathers were gone, and it had obviously been taken from a fairly scrawny bird. It twitched feebly, and the creature sighed wistfully.

“She can fly?”

“...sure, she can fly.”

Hard to tell the creature that her wings didn’t exactly flap, not from what she’d heard.

“I found a wing. Caught a falcon. Lord stuck it on, grafted properly. Too small.”

It settled back down, and looked rather crestfallen.

“Other falcons are too fast to catch. I’d need… lots of their wings. Lots and lots.”

The creature settled down on its haunches and stared wide-eyed at her.

“Tell me about ‘Simurgh’.”

Taylor gulped.

“...so, she destroys whole cities at a time, if you’re around her for too long you go crazy, and she can command you to do anything, years in the future… uh. She’s… called the Hope Killer? Screams a lot?”

At that last comment, the creature chirped happily - oh, great, it could chirp - and brought itself back to its full height. It took a deep breath… and screamed. Taylor could feel her eardrums straining - it was shrill, it pierced everything, her hands did nothing to stop it. It felt like a solid wall of sound pressing against her, similar to Nepheli’s roar. With a groan of pain, she collapsed to her knees, eyes screwing shut, hands pressing harder and harder against her ears in a desperate attempt to shut it all out. It didn’t work. Agonising moment after agonising moment passed, and at long last the screaming tapered off. She felt delicate hands grabbing her by the shoulders, hauling her back to her feet. The creature was practically nose-to-nose now, and it looked happy. Childishly happy.

“Like that? Like that?”

“...sure?”

The creature opened its mouth wide, and in a fit of panic she pressed her hands over those bloodless lips. Not again. She couldn’t handle another one, not this close to her ears. Wide golden eyes stared incredulously at her, and Taylor realised that she probably needed a damn good excuse to not get her hands bitten off.

“Sorry, it’s just… very loud. And I need my ears to work for Lord Godrick.”

The huge pale face blanched in an expression of alarmed shame, and it rapidly backed away, mouth practically sealed shut by superglue. A huge array of hands fluttered around in a manner that suggested… embarrassment. Great. She’d made the huge abomination feel embarrassed.

“No, won’t annoy Lord Godrick, won’t. His arms are much bigger than mine, and he has many, many more!”

Taylor started to try and sidle past - back into the castle, where she understood the madness a little better. The creature moved to stop her. Well, more accurately, it scuttled and cringed in front of her, clearly trying to assuage some of her vengeful anger. Multiple arms slammed on the ground in a way that mimicked prostration - bit difficult to get the full effect, though, given that it was much, much larger than her.

“Please, don’t tell he-of-many-arms, don’t tell him that I almost broke your ears! I’ll… I’ll get you more! Can graft!”

It reached for its ears, and she had a brief, horrifying moment of it ripping them off and trying to awkwardly staple them onto her head.

“No, no, that’s fine! My ears are fine, see, I can still hear you! Please don’t tear off your ears… uh, how can you work for Godrick if you can’t hear?”

“I am quite able to operate without my ears, I shall… I shall hear with my hands!”

Pale fingers wrapped around its ears, and she could see it bracing itself for a good old tearing. Taylor did what she had to do to prevent a horrific self-inflicted injury and a truly terrible mess. The heavy metal torch thumped into its forehead, and the creature froze. Clearly it hadn’t been hit with heavy objects very often. Taylor put some more of Godrick’s tones into her voice - the same blustering arrogance that hadn’t worked so well on the Black Knife, but might work on this giant crab creature.

“Stop! I don’t need your ears, so stop… stop grovelling. I’m not annoyed, but if you keep whining, I will be!”

A pause, and another idea.

“And there’ll be no more stories about the Simurgh!

That seemed to shut the creature up fairly quickly, and it slowly raised itself back up, rubbing the discoloured spot where the torch had left a mark. She’d feel more guilty about hitting someone with a heavy metal object, but in her defence, it was really for the thing’s own good. Speaking of which… the thing was looking at her curiously, still sizing her up, paying particularly close attention to the torch. Shit.

“Torch…”

“It’s just a torch.”

“Shiny torch. Like Lord Godrick’s guards.”

“...well, there’s plenty of torches to go around.”

It advanced slowly, deliberately, face suddenly a hell of a lot colder.

“Stealing?”

Shit. She’d insulted it by whacking it, brought it back to reality in a way that made it rather more dangerous. Had to go back, had to lead it back to the state of mind where it had been willing to tear its own ears off to calm her down.

“No, I’m not stealing - hey, want me to tell you about… about the time the Simurgh… uh…”

She was scrambling to think of good Simurgh stories that would satisfy the creature. Shit, why did the Simurgh only have depressing - oh, right, yeah, Endbringer. Wait - wasn’t like anyone could prove her wrong or right on this, the only information on the Simurgh was inside her parahuman studies textbook (which no-one else could read) and her own head. Might as well get creative.

“OK, I’ll tell you about the time the Simurgh showed up and… and commanded an army of monsters.”

The creature froze, and a single hand gestured for her to go on.

“Right, yeah, so the Simurgh once showed up, came down from the sky using her wings, built an impossible machine, and used it to summon an army of monsters into the world which she could use to… conquer a city? And now no-one’s allowed in or out. Ever.”

“What kind of monsters?”

Shit.

“...well, there were a whole bunch of them, but they all had… magical powers. One of them could create a body from piles of trash, another could build huge vehicles out of scrap, another could make these giant whirlwinds…”

So what if she was just stealing from the Merchants, not like any of them were around to complain.

“An army of sorcerous monsters… my, such a force would be a terror to behold. Lord Godrick has a monster, but alack, not a magical one. He has an Omen.”

It said that last word with pride, and Taylor blinked, not particularly impressed.

“Oh, Onager. Yeah, he’s fun.”

“No, not Onager, Omen.”

“Onager’s his name.”

“No it isn’t. Everyone calls him Omen.”

The creature sighed.

“Lord Godrick won’t let me have one of his arms. Says the cursed blood would be bad for me.”

Great, the thing was distracted.

“...mind if I ask, but what’s your name?”
“Crawa. And yourself?”

“Taylor.”

An uncomfortable pause extended for some time. Alright, so the creat- Crawa had been calmed down. Wasn’t accusing Taylor of stealing anything, at least. She was one step closer to getting back indoors. But she needed to keep Crawa talking, keep her from realising that Taylor was trying to escape at all costs. And… well, Crawa knew that she’d taken something. And that meant Godrick could find out. Unless…

“So, do you work for Lord Godrick, Crawa?”

The grafted creature puffed itself up again, limbs twitching happily, face contorting into a proud expression. With a turned-up nose, Crawa spoke in that same wheedling, whining voice.

“I do! I’m one of his Scions, the only one left in the castle!”

Scions? Wait - was Crawa the one that was able to monopolise the entire dining hall? Damn, now Taylor was feeling a spike of petty annoyance. A whole raft of breakfasts had been interrupted by Crawa showing up… though, who knew? Maybe this encounter would mean she’d get to stay.

“Oh, a… Scion, huh? Where did the others go?”

Abruptly, Crawa looked rather sad, and her limbs drooped.

“Gone. Bote was sent to… to Gel-Meer, I think. To speak to Great-Uncle Rykard. Never came back. Swuste stayed in Liurnia when Lord Godrick came back to this place, couldn’t find her way home. The twins Hild and Dunne left years ago, wanted to set out on their own, find a fate beyond the walls. Haven’t heard from them in a long, long time. I do hope they’re alright.”

Crawa sniffed.

“I miss them. My sisters…even little Swuste. Always the weak one, all on her own. Don’t know if she’s well. At least she has her cloak… Liurnia can be very cold.”

Taylor felt a spike of sympathy overpowering the annoyance and fear.

“And what about… before all this?”

“Lord Godrick has many children. All of them Scions, planted with limbs harvested by his own hands. All five of us were born of his first wife, but when he chose to become Elden Lord, he forsook all other consorts. The only consort for an Elden Lord is Ancestress Marika… she is a jealous god, and does not permit concubines. We are… daughters in spirit, but we have no rights to his throne.”

Her words were almost mechanical, it was obvious that she’d been taught to say this. So… a disowned daughter. Oh. Oh dear. Taylor was talking to Godrick’s daughter. A whole range of thoughts rushed through her mind - disgust at the idea of Godrick producing offspring, pity for Crawa for having Godrick as a father, and… faint horror at the idea that Godrick would do this to one of his own children. Grafting them until they resembled huge crabs - did the others suffer the same fate? Why? She was huge, she was fast, but it was obvious that she had almost no experience in life. She’d latched onto the image of the Simurgh like a small child, and had been easily distracted from Taylor’s theft by a half-assed story. How much of Crawa’s original body was still left under all that matter? Was she forced to alter herself, or did she volunteer?

“...oh. I didn’t know.”

Crawa waved a vestigial arm dismissively.

“‘Tis no matter. Lord Godrick allows me to stay here, and he has granted me a better body than my old one. When we were young, all five of us were heartsick, frail. Now we are big.”

Her eyes started to glow with an inner enthusiasm.

“...and perhaps this Simurgh did the same? A woman who wished to fly.”

Taylor didn’t have the heart to tell her that the Simurgh was a complete monster that barely resembled a human - and definitely wasn’t a human in any meaningful way, same as Leviathan and Behemoth. Well, she was basing that on the parahuman studies textbook, so it could be completely wrong… but still. Didn’t have the will to make Crawa crestfallen. In a way, Taylor saw a tiny bit of herself in the grafted scion. It was uncomfortable to see - the same as seeing a familiar urge to survive in Godrick. But Crawa had the same desperation, the same cringing response to anyone who could cause her harm. A more cowardly Godrick - no, that was a little uncharitable. She certainly seemed nicer than Godrick, but the connection between the two was obvious now that it had been pointed out.

“Sure. A woman that wanted to fly. So, you want wings?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, more than anything in the world. Imagine it - to fly over the Lands Between, to soar like a dragon.”

The tiny, barely visible wing twitched excitedly. Taylor had a strange vision of Crawa scuttling to Godrick with a half-dead bird, begging him to attach it. It was… odd, to imagine Godrick doing something vaguely parental. He’d disowned Crawa and her sisters, hadn’t he? Though, another question came up - where was their mother? Crawa hadn’t mentioned her dying.

“Mind if I ask - but where’s Godrick’s first wife?”

“Mother was taken by the Deathblight.”

She said the words calmly, but her face reflected the emotions clearly twisting up inside her. Taylor dropped the subject. The Deathblight sounded like a disease - maybe another way of inflicting permanent death? When she’d first arrived, this whole ‘rebirth’ thing sounded impossibly miraculous. In its own way, finding loopholes or exceptions was… satisfying. Put her back on an understandable footing - by seeing the flaws in the system, she could see where not to step. The Black Knives, ‘Deathblight’... maybe that skeleton from her arrival nearly two weeks ago was proof of another exception. Didn’t seem like people would enjoy coming back as a bag of bones - another exception to rebirth. Her attention was distracted by Crawa sniffing deeply, clearly trying to stop herself from crying a little. Damn it, she’d made Godrick’s daughter cry.

With a hesitant hand, she patted Crawa on her head. The scion froze… then relaxed into the pat, limbs contentedly shivering. How long had it been since someone had been genuinely nice to her? Seemed like most people in the castle ran away when she came close, and even if Godrick was occasionally parental, he’d actively disowned her and… well, he was Godrick. If he was ever kind, it probably only emerged in brief spurts surrounded by absolute self-obsessed arrogance. Seemed like the sort of thing he’d do. Damn, if Potiphar was here, she could probably pawn off some of this affection stuff onto him. Now he was good at comforting people. Well, he was good at comforting her - and if a jar was capable of making her, an increasingly paranoid, perpetually stressed, constantly bullshitting loose assemblage of gangly limbs and bad skin, feel comforted… hell, he could probably soothe anyone.

Her mind clicked into more manipulative modes. She was closer to the door than ever before, she just needed to push a little harder and she could get out… ideally with some insurance against being tattled on. Crawa looked up hesitantly as Taylor cleared her throat.

“...I need to go. Sorry. But I’ll come back, if you want. Tell you more stories.”

Crawa perked up.

“Oh, would you? I should delight to hear more of this… winged woman. This perfect scion.”

If only she knew how ironic that statement was. Taylor suppressed a twitch.

“Happy to help. But… I still have work to do around the castle. Could you do me a favour? I’ll tell you more stories, but you can’t tell Lord Godrick about this torch. I need it for a small project, and I’ll return it afterwards. If Lord Godrick knows about the torch, I might not be able to talk with you.”

Crawa sized her up, and Taylor could clearly see two parts of her warring in those golden eyes - a juvenile part which longed for company, stories, anything that wasn’t centuries old and perpetually crabby. And a more mature part which understood that she was being manipulated.

“...I don’t know.”

“I can get you more wings, if you want.”

Now that was a risky play. She could probably get wings - there were a bunch of huge birds hanging around the castle at all times, occasionally swooping down to eat any leftover food that had been scattered in the courtyard. Could bribe Onager to get some, maybe even conscript Gostoc into helping - wherever he was. Telavis was fast, too. Yeah, she could definitely get some wings. And Crawa’s more juvenile element overpowered anything more calculating - at the end of the day, Taylor realised, Crawa was just a kid who wanted to fly. Manipulating her was barely any effort at all, not once she started treating the enormous creature like she was… well, a kid.

“Oh my, wings! Large ones, yes? Very large ones?”

“Biggest I can find in the castle.”

“Ah, that shall do, that shall do! Yes, oh, yes! Stories, wings… yes, I will keep your torch a secret. But do return it? Lord Godrick does adore his treasures…”

“Oh yeah, definitely. And I haven’t taken anything else… no headbands, for example.”

Crawa blinked, then scuttled closer with terrifying speed, peering into the depths of Taylor’s soul.

“Speak not of the Mimic Veil.”

A shaky nod satisfied the scion - actually, now Taylor thought about it, did Godrick’s five daughters accompany him out of the city when he fled? Did they also see what she had seen and could never unsee? That might explain why two of them had… left, and one had stayed in Liurnia. Didn’t seem like the sort of thing one could recover from.

“You will come back?”

Her tone was pleading, and Taylor felt another involuntary jolt of sympathy.

“...sure.”

Crawa tried to arrange her face into something dignified, but the way half a dozen hands clicked their fingers in sheer glee made her emotions very clear indeed. The scion scuttled away over the tombstones, heading for a wide bed of springy grass that she settled on like a titanic cat - did she have a bed? Could she fit in the rest of the castle? Either way, she looked vaguely comfortable where she was, and the heavy cloak served as a kind of blanket. Taylor walked quickly away from the bridge, back into the confines of the castle - and it distressed her a tiny bit to realise that the castle was comforting to her. Even the dining hall, with all its random limbs hanging all over the place. The hallways welcomed her gladly, and she scurried back to her room with all the haste she could muster.

She’d done it, hadn’t she? Found a torch, set a new plan into motion, readied herself for a confrontation with quite literally the first person to speak to her in this weird, weird world… and she’d talked to someone who seemed to be in a worse position than she was. Comfortable, sure. Safe, possibly. But also horrifically mutilated and bizarrely content with that fact, daughter of a genuine lunatic, completely and utterly alone. No Telavis to stand around like a living rock, no Potiphar to wobble around in his endearing way… not even an Angharad to offer information and alcohol. It was strange to pity someone, but Crawa had managed it. Taylor still hurt a little when she remembered her mom, and Crawa had lost her mother, four sisters, and, in a sense, her father too. Not to mention her body. Of course she acted like a kid, probably a happy mental retreat from the insanity happening all around her. Taylor glanced up to see dark shapes perched on the walls - some of them were trained falcons, blades attached to their feet and bombs clutched in their beaks. And others were wild, untamed, free. Their wingspan was almost as wide as she was tall, their claws could rip her face off in a second…

And all the same, she nodded her head firmly. Giving Crawa wings… well, that was a promise she had no problem whatsoever in keeping.

But for the time being, she had a date with a deicidal assassin.

Chapter Text

Taylor didn’t undress. She didn’t get in her bed. Instead, she sat in a hard, uncomfortable chair with Potiphar underneath, his agitated quivering felt even through layers of wood and cushioning. Her eyes were sore from staring, scanning the room over and over again to see if the woman would come back. Telavis had been briefed. The torch had been lit and hidden, ready to be unveiled at a moment’s notice. Her plan was… reasonably good. The torch could expose the assassin, Telavis was primed to come in the moment the light bloomed, and he could tackle the stunned assassin to the ground in moments. Ideally. The woman could escape, could attack before she did anything, could have been watching her this entire time and was now sitting on the roof cackling silently to herself because of course she has ways around the torch - and maybe this wasn’t even the right torch, just a fancy torch that Godrick had looted from Leyndell but never bothered using, maybe the assassin was right here right now and-

She poked the air with her spear, which she hadn’t let go of for hours. No-one. Or the woman was avoiding her errant pokes with casual ease, and was currently squatting right on top of that cushion with a suspicious indent. No. No she wasn’t. Taylor coughed a few feathers away. God dammit, why couldn’t the invisible assassin show up, say a few mocking things, so that Taylor could unveil her torch in a grand fashion and start this plan? Beyond the obvious need for some catharsis, there was a pragmatic element to her paranoia. Every day that went by without the assassin showing up was another day where she could discover the torch… or, another day where Godrick could discover the torch and presumably feed her to Crawa. Well, disassemble her and add her to Crawa, her limbs were the right size, while her stumpy torso hung around from a meat hook to give advice on troop placements. Would Telavis stick around in that case? Would he regard her stumpy torso as capable of still paying her debt, and thus basically fine?

The worst part of this entire thing was that this was the second night in a row in which she hadn’t slept. The first night had been just after the little chat with Crawa, and adrenaline had kept her going throughout all of it. The day had been completely miserable - when she was too sleepy, she had to resort to alternative methods to keep herself vaguely functional. The inside of her cheek was marked with far too many bloody welts where she’d chewed hard to stay awake. Her palms had livid red half-moons embedded in them from where her nails had dug deep. And her skin was surprisingly clean from all the water she kept splashing on it. Her eyes, though… when she glanced into the small pane that passed for a mirror, she saw a pale face with bloodshot eyes, huge bags beneath, and a general air of frantic nervousness. The kind of face that she’d cross the street to get away from. God, why did sleep deprivation make her skin feel perpetually gritty? Her eyes begged to close, to get a few hours before the next day could start… no, no, she had to stay awake. If the assassin came while she was asleep, she could find the torch, kill all of them.

With a grunt, she stood and checked the tiny defences she’d placed around the place. A tiny thread over the window - two threads, one to catch on the ankle, the other to catch on the chest. Hard to slip through. If they were broken, she’d know that the woman was coming. She’d have obtained a few bells to hang on them, but… well, it was surprisingly hard to get hold of tiny bells. And unsurprisingly awkward to ask for them. No reasonable way to bring it up in conversation, though in her sleep deprived state, maybe she’d overcome her reluctance. Who knew. She certainly didn’t. A shape fluttered past the window, and she almost shrieked. Just a bird. Just a bird. That made her think of the lonely scion by Godrick’s throne room, and her demand for wings. A delirious part of her brain suggested that she get herself a bucket and eleven herbs and spices. Every other part remorselessly bullied that part into oblivion, which it hardly minded, given that it was completely delirious and had already infected her with silly ideas and strange habits.

More defences. The carpet had been removed from the floor so it couldn’t mask the sound of tapping feet, and the bed had been stripped clean of any blankets - just a white surface now, one that could easily highlight any indents. Candles all over the place to see if the assassin cast shadows, and to help Telavis fight properly when the time came. Her defences were good - could be better - and she really should try and relax. But… no. The stakes were too high. She’d committed to this plan. For the first time, she was going on something like the offensive, and she wasn’t going to fuck it up because of something small and silly like two nights without sleep. Time passed, hours maybe… no, the moon had barely moved. Minutes, more likely. God, she was going to go crazy in here. She idly swiped the spear around, trying to trip up any invisible feet… maybe the assassin was really nimble and could leap over the- no, stop it, stop being so paranoid. Bad for the complexion, according to Onager. Jokes on him, because of the paranoia she hadn’t been able to sleep, and because of the sleep deprivation she’d been washing her face way more often, and had been slapping herself fairly regularly. And they said acupuncture could improve the skin, didn’t they? And that was a bunch of tiny needles, she had one massive hand. Quality over quantity. Her skin was probably great, so that horned bastard could take his mean comments and shove them down one of his horn-stumps.

Wow, her thoughts were going to some strange, strange places. Was that sound the pitter-patter of rain, or the scuttling of a shadowy shape up the sheer sides of her secure sanctuary? She slumped back into her chair, groaning. Potiphar patted her comfortingly on her leg, and she cracked a tiny smile. If the assassin was anywhere near, she was probably laughing her invisible ass off. Tired eyes glanced around the room, taking in the way the moon turned the wood into delicate silver, the whorls and distortions into dark specks on their immaculate surface, the-

She was on the wall.

Taylor blinked, then slapped herself quickly. OK, not dreaming, definitely awake. Had she… fallen asleep? Had she just passed out? Or had she been wandering around in a weird fugue statue this whole time? Had she done anything in the meantime? Had she said anything truly weird - God, she’d been thinking about some very strange things before passing out. Some memories were swimming back into clarity, thankfully. The torch had been hidden, she remembered that much. Outside of her room, concealed underneath a loose paving stone. Telavis was still behind her. Potiphar was scanning the horizon like a tiny ceramic commander. The night had passed without incident. None of this particularly alleviated her stress. In an environment like this, any slip-up could screw her for a long, long time. She did her best to appear calm, but inside she was screaming as much as her tired brain would allow. Angharad slipped next to her, peering at some of the defences - oh, right, yeah, wall, there were defences all around her. She’d been back at work, then. Angharad didn’t look too… horrified, or surprised. Just slightly bored.

“...so, we’ve been able to drag a few of the sleepier soldiers out of the towers facing Liurnia, repositioned them to the front. Not much, but it should keep our numbers high.”

“Good. Very good.”

There was a long pause, and Taylor hoped her tone of confidence was working.

“...you look terrible.”

The tone of confidence had failed.

“Didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“I can get you something for that.”

“No, I’m… fine. I don’t need any sleeping pills.”

“Pills? I’m sorry, I- no, anyway, I wasn’t suggesting that. I do have some tinctures which are surprisingly good at waking you up. Got used to making them on the march back from Liurnia… and the days after my master put himself into a permanent coma.”

Taylor’s eyebrows raised, along with her hope.

“Really? Are there any… side effects?”

“Nothing that’ll kill you, don’t worry. But it’ll give you a fierce appetite - for food, I should clarify - and you might piss a little blood.”

The eyebrows climbed higher as her hope plummeted into a dark, dank hole.

“I think I’m alright.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby, little blood in your piss never hurt anyone.”

“I think it does. I think blood anywhere outside the circulatory system is usually… bad.”

“Well, the alternative is having a bunch of decaying substances rattling around in your system. The blood is just a side effect of purging the remains of the aromatic.”

“...you’re really not making this sound more appealing.”

“Do you want to stay awake or not?”
“This conversation is doing just fine.”

And, to be honest, it was. The strain of remaining calm and collected while deeply, deeply stressed was actually keeping her fairly awake. The cutting wind helped - and God, she was starting to dislike this wind something fierce. Why did people ever decide to live here? Now she came to think of it, she hadn’t seen any villages scattered around Stormhill on her walk up to the castle. For all she knew, the only inhabitants of this damn place were soldiers, Tarnished, and hostile weather conditions. Wouldn’t surprise her. The defences, from what she could see, were proceeding rather nicely. More barricades, even a knight or two stomping around with their ludicrously massive weapons. Archers were well-stocked and ready to fire. Everything was good to go. Her review of things couldn’t have come at a better time.

Because the bell was ringing.

‘Again?’ was her first thought. Onager had said attacks were usually once a week - they’d had two in a row, a day’s break, and now they were right back to their scheduled Tarnished attack. The invisible woman had a point. The swarm was coming. How many were out there, really? This castle had maybe a hundred inhabitants. Enough to hold off an attack, sure, but still barely enough to staff the defences properly… and a few of the people here were just servants, unused to fighting. Godrick had an army outside the walls, sure, but their numbers were unknown to her. Were there hundreds of Tarnished, thousands? And how old was the oldest? More questions she couldn’t answer, but they sparked ideas about troop movements… and solidified her idea to re-establish the route to Liurnia. She decided, then and there, that she’d talk to Godrick post-haste. Well, post-attack, really.

Speaking of which.

The sound of marching was coming from the tunnel. Unusual. That implied a large number, and… organisation. Bad. Very bad. The sound of planks being laid down - very bad. They were covering the potholes. The soldiers readied their bows, and Taylor heard the sound of a familiar bulk coming to the walls. Guards bearing bright torches, and then the man himself. A towering mound of limbs - and seeing him again really reminded her of how comparatively mild Crawa was. She was a deformed crab of a girl, but he was a towering monument to why grafting was a terrible, terrible idea. She was pitiable. He was horrifying. A face far too similar to Crawa’s for comfort grinned down at her from on high, and multiple hands rubbed together in glee.

“Ah, ah, and once more the slaughterhouse bell chimes, once more the sheep come to be sheared of their hope, their ambition, their every illusion of victory! Alack and alas, the last attack passed me by… I dearly hope that this one assuages my deep sorrow.”

Taylor grimaced.

“Yes, my lord. Me too.”

Angharad was standing at a far distance, and Taylor noticed her wrestling internally out of the corner of her eye. Sleep-deprived as she was, she could still guess the reason. Stay away, and steer clear of Godrick’s strange moods and relentless cackling. Come close, and maybe give some support to her… friend? Were they friends? Taylor honestly wasn’t sure, even after getting drunk together. It took a few moments, but she made a half-hearted shuffle in Taylor’s direction. Close enough to grab her and drag her away if she found herself traumatised again. Taylor knew that this would be ghastly to look at. But… this was her life now. She could hardly ignore it, duck and cover whenever the violence started. Whether she liked it or not… she needed to be here. Not like she was sleeping anyway, hardly had to worry about nightmares.

Here they were. Almost… Christ, that was ten Tarnished, marching like trained soldiers. Not quite the same, though - their armour was still varied, their general bearing differed greatly from person to person. But these Tarnished were clearly better-organised than the scattered groups that had attacked them in the past. Most alarming, the ones at the front had wooden shields, large enough to be doors, raised in front. The ones behind had similar shields raised over their heads. They were… fuck, they were doing that tortoise maneuver, the one she’d seen in a few old films. Pretty good, as ideas went. Suffered from a few issues, though. Two, to be specific. One was currently ready to be thrown down at them, and the other was starting to manifest in a cloud of golden sparks. Godrick started to gibber angrily at the sight of Margit.

“I told thee that thine services were no longer required! I have defences, thou unsightly varlet! Begone from my lands, begone with thy tail between thine legs! Go on, clear off!”

The Fell Omen glanced derisively in his direction, narrowing his golden eyes. Again, she saw how regal he was compared to Godrick - she was thankful for his presence, even if Godrick was showering her with little flecks of spit. The Omen glanced down with a small sneer, pausing at the sight of the rigorous organisation. The organisation noticed him right back, and reacted. In a matter of seconds, they were moving faster, going from a march to an ordered sprint, the shields still holding in the face of the arrows that showered down on them. Fire pots crashed down… and splashed over the shields. Shit. They’d been treated with something, some kind of flame retardant. Bad. Angharad audibly groaned - she’d anticipated this, clearly. The Tarnished came closer and closer, and… shit. They’d entered the shadow of the gate, shielded from the arrows. They still had some defences, but the Tarnished were close. Far too close. The portcullis was still sealed, thankfully. And the hole in the gatehouse had long-since been repaired. Even Godrick was silent, watching with wide eyes, nervously chewing one of his many fingers.

Margit wasn’t so static. He leapt down quickly, not bothering to give his usual threats. The staff whipped out to scourge the unshielded rear of the formation… and a bizarre sword met him. Barely a sword at all, really. A long spike of bone, impossibly tough, half-gilded, somehow resisting the enormous staff held by an enormous Omen. One of the Tarnished sprang out from the back of the formation, a nightmare made flesh. Black armour, covered in golden bones. A spiked bone attached to one arm, a staff in the other. With a derisive flick, the nightmare… manipulated gravity. Strange purple lines flared in the air, and she felt tiny pebbles beneath her feet start to drift in the thing’s direction. The ground closer to the man was a little more responsive. Hunks of rock tore themselves up from the ground, paving stones splitting, impaled swords crumpling and shooting towards the same gathering points of hard matter, tinted an ominous purple. The whole process took less than a second, and a hail of compacted matter flew in Margit’s direction.

The Omen flinched, raising a hand to defend himself, and she could see the livid red marks where the stones pierced his tough skin. The armoured man leapt forwards, and started to hack away with the sharpened bone. He fought like a maniac, tearing and slicing with no regard for defence, utterly devoted to the death of Margit. The other Tarnished weren’t idle, another one peeling away to fight beside the skeleton-clad man - a woman, this time, wearing armour that seemed eerily similar to a samurai from Earth Bet. A katana sliced outwards, inflicting another wound. The rest were battering at the loose barricade covering the gate, trying to get through - shit, shit. If they got through, they could hide in the gatehouse, maybe do something to prevent Margit from attacking them easily… no, the portcullis was still down, there was no way into Stormveil through the front.

But they had planned for this attack, obviously. Maybe they had a plan to get in, an explosive, maybe grappling hooks, something to rip their way through a few solid inches of metal. The walking skeleton had the ability to control gravity, maybe he could pull some bullshit. Godrick was paralysed, watching with fascinated horror as the Tarnished came closer and closer to penetrating the castle. Taylor couldn’t just sit here, she had to do something. Her spear was nearby, but… who was she kidding, they’d rip her apart like she was nothing. Telavis was powerful, but how much of his power was bound up in his worship of the Crucible? How much could be do without exposing himself? Angharad was frozen. An idea occurred. She leaned over to Godrick, whispering in his ear frantically. The Lord was momentarily insulted at the familiarity she showed… then relaxed as he heard her suggestion.

“Ah! A worthy suggestion, my oathsworn, my little oathsworn! But thine cowardice is too great, thou must show boldness! Then again, perhaps it is best to leave the boldness to one’s betters, hah!”

Taylor blinked.

“Nay, nay, I require no knights for this - ten Tarnished, bah. Servants! Open the gate! Open it for your Lord!”

Oh fuck. Was Godrick - OK, Godrick was catapulting himself down the stairs at a breakneck pace, using his many arms to haul himself along faster and faster. Her suggestion had just been to send some knights out, maybe some soldiers, tarpit and immobilise the Tarnished trying to break through, flank them with the Fell Omen’s assistance. She hadn’t suggested that Godrick should attack himself. And yet here he was, whirling through the castle, approaching the rapidly rising portcullis. Shit. She’d underestimated how much his ego had grown with successive victories, and how it had come to outweigh a certain amount of natural cowardice. She raced after him, and Angharad hesitantly followed along with Potiphar and Telavis. And what a sight they must have made, racing from their nice, safe, high wall to follow the man they all thought was a coward through and through, unwilling to confront the Tarnished in an open field, content to shelter and cower like the rest of them.

The fight was reduced to nothing but muffled noises for a moment as the castle enveloped her… more ideas occurred in this grey void, and she spoke quickly to Telavis and Angharad, commanding them to go somewhere else, to take the soldiers they could and find another spot. Specifically, towers near the front gate. Taylor had a suspicion brewing, and she wanted to pursue it. The two agreed, Telavis was some hesitation. The fight appeared in sight for only a moment before she ran to one of the other towers, shrieking at the soldiers nearby to accompany her. She could see Margit fighting back properly, a sword made of light appearing in his hands to properly beat back his attackers, while his stick swept out to destabilise the rest of the formation. Godrick was a whirling mass of limbs topped with an enormous axe. An axe heading for the barricade, lunging through to destabilise the formation from the front. God, how could he be so… so reckless? If he died, everything here fell apart. Another shriek sent a few soldiers to help him. Whether he liked it or not, she wasn’t going to let him die because he was drunk on glory and irritated at the Fell Omen stealing all of it.

And then, she was gone. Back into the castle, with a few morose soldiers trudging after her.

“Move faster, or I’ll have you on the front lines when the Tarnished attack next! Move it!”

To their credit, they did move it. Especially after she implied that she’d make them do it naked. If they could resurrect, their armour was more valuable than their life. Now that was a Godrick-level of spite. Worked like a charm. They sprinted through the castle, heading for the towers. There weren’t many - just two, but Taylor could guess that Angharad would need backup from Telavis on her side of things. They were heading for the tower nearest the gatehouse - if these people had a plan, it was probably to distract everyone’s attention while one of their own tried to infiltrate. Adrenaline and sleep deprivation was keeping her going, and a few suspicions. If someone was trying to climb to the central keep, they were probably lightly armed and armoured. Shouldn’t be too hard to deal with.

That being said, she desperately hoped Telavis could deal with them instead of her. Maybe the madness was seeping into her, maybe a whole bundle of stress was collapsing at once like a lanced boil, and the metaphorical pus was recklessness, stupidity, and maybe a tiny hint of cunning. Mostly the first two. She really couldn’t emphasise the first two enough. And… here they were. Standing at the base of one of the towers. Only two doors, one leading to the grey labyrinth of the castle, the other to the grey outdoors. The wind was howling, and the sound of fighting clearly carried over it. Godrick’s cackling soared above all of it, of course. Good. He was still alive. Maybe the Tarnished were being beaten back, maybe… she stepped outside, and the guards followed. A few were stationed here as well, and a shrieked insult brought them to her side. She barely even heard what she said, something to do with using them to build another Grafted Scion. Good threat. Made them leap to attention like startled rabbits. Spears were raised, swords were brandished, and they moved as one to scan the cliffside, checking for any sign of incursion.

Taylor took a moment to catch her breath. She was fine. This was fine. Maybe these Tarnished had sent someone the other way, or their operative hadn’t succeeded at all and was now spiralling into the abyss. Hanging on the edge, a single dagger from Margit would send them tumbling down, down, down. Maybe he’d already taken care of it. She realised, looking out from here, that she had gotten stupidly lucky with that gatehouse hole. There was a damn direct path leading from the gatehouse to here, one simply needed to go over a few rocks, up a slope, and… here they were, ready to breach. She’d need to reinforce this place, but she couldn’t do it too obviously. If she was too obvious, the Tarnished would recognise it as a target. But maybe… hm. She had ideas. Mostly to do with explosives and creative landscaping methods.

The fight on the bridge was visible even from here, a flurry of strange lights from the spells people were using (Christ, spells, she wasn’t even thinking that word with air quotes anymore) accompanied by bright sparks from the clashing of sword on shield. She watched… and froze. Something else had happened. Godrick whirled in a circle, and wind rippled around him, a gale-force aura that expanded around him in wide waves. It sent a Tarnished tumbling into the dark, disrupted the formation, allowed Margit to casually bisect a few more with his sword. Since when could he do that? A part of her was annoyed at Godrick not living up to his potential - wind control, freakish strength, whatever powers a Shardbearer was afforded - and another part was happy that he hadn’t gotten too drunk on power while she was around. He was still staying in this castle, where he was safe. Where she was safe. For a second, she thought that maybe she’d misjudged him… then she saw his allies. Knights with similar wind powers, soldiers with pikes, more arrows, fire pots thrown down onto the huddled Tarnished from on high… he hadn’t dared go into combat without half his castle supporting him. He might be fighting Tarnished, but they were still mostly confined behind a barricade. Fuelled by arrogance and pettiness he may be, but he still had that old reliable core of cunning cowardice. Good.

Her attention was distracted by a sound. Or, rather, the lack of a sound. A few of the soldiers had wandered over an outcropping of stone to investigate the cliff further on, and usually their movements were accompanied by the clanking of metal, the shuffling of chainmail, the whining of straining leather, and a quiet, murmured speech that she could barely understand. That sound was all around her, but not from that particular direction. With a curt gesture, she commanded a few to follow her onwards. She was glad to have the backup, though she remained fully ensconced in the formation - unwilling to expose herself for a moment. One of the soldiers was carrying both a spear and a sword, and she rudely plucked the former from his hands. She wanted to be armed for this, and he had options. Unlike her. She still felt the urge to apologise for the theft, but… well, if she did, she wouldn’t exactly prove her command, now would she?

Silence continued - the fight was coming to an end of sorts, and she vaguely saw a flash of golden light from a dark figure she assumed to be the skeleton-man. She couldn’t quite see what happened next, but based on Margit’s irritable growl, he hadn’t exactly stuck around. Concerning, but… well, it indicated that someone was abandoning the attack. Sounded just fantastic to her. The outcrop of rock hid the fighters from sight, and she cautiously peeked to see the other side. Her eyes widened.

Bodies. The bodies of soldiers - her soldiers. Dead, practically bisected in some cases. Her current guard stiffened, raised weapons to fight. Taylor was completely frozen. She’d expected an assassin, a thief, someone lightly armoured and good at sneaking, not… not…

Her.

Nepheli Loux looked up from the bodies, and slipped a small charm back into the recesses of her fur clothing. Her mouth broadened into a savage grin. Her axes dripped with red matter where they had been at work, shining merrily as their edges seemed to greedily drink the shed blood.

There was an instant of silence.

And the barbarian charged.

Chapter Text

Taylor was completely paralysed. She was close. She was close to a Tarnished, close to the first Tarnished she’d ever seen. Memories came back, and her body involuntarily shook. The mounting dread of wandering the long, empty roads with nothing to her name. The brief hope that came from a short rest at a lit fire… and then her arrival. The roaring, the fighting, the casual way she dispatched everyone around her and grew stronger. That alone was terrifying, but with her came all the uncertainty of those first few days, the feeling of a wolf’s jaws around her throat… everything came back, and all the progress she’d made, the connections she’d formed, the defences she’d built seemed like dust on the wind. Her body was frozen in place, and she vaguely thought that if she tried to move, she’d probably just find herself tumbling to the ground as her knees locked up and her limbs refused to obey. Her mouth was still free, though, and she tried to speak. The barbarian charged, and her soldiers were moving sluggishly, poorly coordinated, clearly taken by surprise. The first attempt at speaking failed, her tongue was a lead weight, her mouth was dry, her throat spluttered and refused to produce a single sound. The axes shone bright even on this overcast day, and Taylor couldn’t move her eyes from the red drops slowly running down their edges.

Another try at speaking. This time something came out, a muffled squeak of a noise that was barely audible even to her. The barbarian was close, the soldiers were still stumbling over one another, their weapons held loosely and without conviction. She was going to die here. She’d fucked up, she should have clung to her allies at all costs, never dared to go off on her own, sleep deprivation had made her slow in every department. Another attempt. Her throat moved, her tongue shifted, and something sparked in her brain. She couldn’t die here. She had plans, she had things left to do, she had worked on this castle. Maybe she should be feeling something like righteous rage, all-consuming burning revenge, or something suitably dramatic. Instead, she felt indignant. How dare this fur-wearing woman show up and try to ruin everything she’d built, and for what? Her own gain? She’d probably come back from death dozens, hundreds of times, and it didn’t matter one bit - she could always get stronger, there was a whole world ripe for the plundering. But no, had to come and wreck Taylor’s place in particular, because God forbid they find the route to Liurnia, or try to challenge someone other than Godrick. She had plans here, she had an assassin to trap, she had wings to collect, a debt to repay, colleagues - friends, even - to help out, a castle to protect.

And no Tarnished barbarian was going to fuck with her plans. Not after everything she’d been through. She screamed at the top of her lungs, putting every ounce of indignation she could muster into her voice.

“Well?! Are you going to stand there, or are you going to fight?! Get to it, or I’ll harvest you for Scion parts!”

A little mean? Definitely. And a tad slanderous against Crawa, who had honestly been a perfectly nice individual. But nonetheless, the bellowed order worked. The soldiers moved faster, their minds quickly snapping into new configurations, old memories waking up, triggered by the sound of a somewhat familiar voice screaming at them in a very familiar way. Their training came back, and their weapons were held in tighter grips, their formation tightened as the barbarian came closer. Spears were lowered, and they spread out to block the path as best they could. She didn’t have many soldiers - precisely six - but they were doing the best they could. Her own spear was clasped tightly - not from bravery, more from pre-emptive rigor mortis. Nepheli noticed their new movements, and shot Taylor a vicious glare. Shit. Shit. She’d become a target. Was running still an option - no, no time to think about that. Tarnished incoming.

Nepheli was the same whirling mass of axes and fury that she’d been every other time Taylor had seen her. The spears tried to form a wall of thorns to keep her out, but her axes were sharp and powerful enough to cleave through the shafts with relative ease. She was slowed down, certainly, but not for long. Taylor could see how things would go - the soldiers were locked in place, doggedly clinging to one of the few strategies they could remember clearly. She had no arrows at her disposal, just a few soldiers fighting a Tarnished under only vaguely favourable conditions. The spears would be chopped up, Nepheli would get in close, and that would be the end of things. She’d be killed in a matter of moments. The soldiers would follow soon after. Or the other way around - either way, everyone would be dead and Nepheli would have free reign to infiltrate the castle. She knew how to get out of this situation, but… gah. Why not.

“You three, drop your spears, draw your swords! Or you get to be Godrick’s target practice!”

They obeyed quickly when she threatened them. Again, she wasn’t enjoying the threats, not one little bit. Just the quick movements that resulted from them, that was all. The three soldiers in front dropped their half-broken spears to the ground, and their swords came out in less than a second - motions they’d practiced over and over again came easily, the trouble was anything more innovative or complex. Nepheli was silent - no roars. Interesting. The three sword-wielding soldiers rushed out to meet her, slicing through the air with the speed and power that centuries of training could produce. For a second, the barbarian was forced to adjust - two types of attacks coming from two different ranges. And she was only one person. Wild swings could send the sword-wielding soldiers backwards with their guards raised, but it left her exposed to an errant spear that plunged into her shoulder.

Blood spilled to the grey stone beneath, momentarily turning it a vibrant red before the wind took over and started spreading it thin - too little butter over too much bread. The deep red turned lighter, more translucent, stretching into a layer so thin that she could see the grey stone clearly. Taylor blinked. Had to stop looking at the blood, stop thinking about how she’d made that happen. She’d helped burn four people to death, hadn’t she? The urge to survive kicked in, and her eyes flicked back to the fight. Nepheli was a little slower, but her hand was reaching to the red flask on her belt - no, unacceptable. Taylor didn’t have time to bark any orders, the soldiers were busy just holding her off. She had a spear. The blood was almost invisible, the dust and the wind either soaking it or scattering it, often both - motes of dust soaking up droplets of blood, then being carried away in tiny red teardrops by the constant gale. Telavis had shown her how to use a spear properly, how to anchor herself to the ground, how to widen her stance so she could attack with all the limited strength at her disposal. Her arms twitched, her back ached, and her whole body twisted in the motions she’d practised for hundreds of repetitions.

That had been stabbing the air, though. Meat was… thicker. And she could feel the variable resistance too - the skin was a taut layer that stretched and buckled for a moment. The muscle slid apart, fibres parted against the grain by her plunging spearhead. Softer than skin, but tightly packed and living in a way that skin wasn’t. Bone was rock-hard and her arm jarred painfully when she struck it. She’d… she’d done it? Her body felt numb. She’d stabbed a Tarnished. The red flask dropped from numb fingers - Taylor had pierced her arm, a deep wound, but not a fatal one. Nepheli processed the wound for a second, and leapt backwards with blood streaming in her wake like the tail of a comet. Her mouth opened, and she roared. No care for subtlety, not anymore. She was badly wounded, and she knew it. Two spear wounds. And her flask was gone. She was practically human now. But as Taylor stared at her face… she saw something strange. It wasn’t twisted in anger or hate. It was… grinning. Wider than ever. The woman was having fun. Dammit, Taylor had just wounded her, why was she having fun?

With one of her arms wounded, one axe fell to the ground with a thump, sinking a good few inches into the dirt due to its still-sharp edges. The barbarian only had one weapon now, and she still looked like she was having the time of her life. She bellowed again, stomping down hard, almost sending a few of the soldiers toppling over the edge with the shockwave. This time, though, the bellowing resolved into words.

“Hah! Someone with stones! Good! Bollocks to subterfuge! Bollocks to spying! Bollocks to sneaking!”

And she charged again. The soldiers were ready, but so was she - and she was tired with playing quiet. Her roar was deafening, and it seemed to be a physical presence pulsing through the air. Taylor almost fell to the ground, and the soldiers stumbled. Spears wavered. It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Nepheli went low this time, and her axe lashed out to slice knees and, in one case, to sever an entire leg. One soldier went down, two others were stunned for an instant. The spear-carriers were limited at this range, were reliant on the sword-users to make up for the deficiency. Taylor knew this. Nepheli knew this too, and exploited it ruthlessly. Her axe plunged into the chest of one of the swordsmen, cracking his ribs like eggshells, sending dark, dusty blood splattering over the walls. Taylor’s mind whirled with plans, the kind that only someone simultaneously flooded with adrenaline and deeply sleep-deprived could generate.

Telavis was too far away to get her side. Angharad was with him. All she had were these soldiers, and a spear… wait. She had more than that. Taylor reached into her belt, pulling out an inkpot. Large thing, designed to really resist the wear and tear of the endless centuries. Obviously just a pot, but… if she clenched it in her fist, pulled her arm back, and yelled ‘cover!’ then it could pass for just about anything. Nepheli’s eyes widened, too distracted by the soldiers to notice that Taylor had pulled out a harmless inkpot and not, say, a hazardous fire pot. She moved quickly, her actions utterly perfect - if this was a real weapon, she’d have been completely fine. In a pretty good position, actually. As it was, a heavy glass vessel cracked on the ground and made a mess of her shoes. Nepheli blinked. She’d moved. The soldiers hadn’t. After all, Taylor hadn’t insulted them once, hadn’t threatened to have them executed, grafted, or fed to something unpleasant. The barbarian grunted as the spears plunged again, and the last remaining swordsman rushed to hack her apart.

It had been a fairly good trick, one that eased the pressure on her soldiers. But Nepheli was still a powerful Tarnished, and a single sword-wielding soldier was no match for her. Their battle lasted only a few seconds. Taylor couldn’t even see the strike that severed his head from his body, only heard the snicker-snack of the axe’s edge, and two thumps - one light, one heavy. She had three soldiers left, with half-broken spears and very little else. Nepheli had already killed three, she could easily handle the rest. No more ink pots to throw, not that they’d work. As the barbarian came closer, she saw that a few wounds had been delivered - a long, thin red line across her abdomen where the last swordsman had been lucky. A shrieked command, and the last soldiers dropped their spears and drew their swords. Come on, come on - she didn’t have her flask, she could be whittled down by pure attrition. Surely there were some other soldiers around here, surely someone had been attracted by the noise? Taylor glanced around frantically, desperate for any sign of reinforcements.

There! Potiphar - he’d been slow, finding it difficult to navigate the castle behind her, failing to keep up with her pace and falling behind to avoid the trampling feet of the soldiers. It’d taken him long enough to arrive - no, barely any time had passed, Nepheli was fast. The jar rumbled to her side, bracing himself for a proper fight, raising his fists in a boxing stance. She was thankful for his company… but honestly, she was terrified for the jar. What if Nepheli broke him open? No, she couldn’t lose him, had no idea if he could even come back from a total shattering. She looked back at the door, desperate for someone else, more soldiers, more allies, someone who could fight without worrying about dying permanently, someone more capable than her.

Nothing. They were busy, distracted, or absent. Didn’t matter which, they weren’t coming either way. Damn it - she could already think of how she should have played this. Brought Angharad and Telavis, used the perfumer’s concoctions as tools for area denial, forcing the Tarnished into a tighter and tighter space where her mobility meant almost nothing. Telavis could just destroy her in combat, use his strange powers and years of experience to his advantage. But… no. She had three soldiers left. And they weren’t exactly going to last long. Nepheli was looking a tiny bit larger, having absorbed some kind of strength from the fallen. Wasn’t healing her, at least. Small blessings. Her own spear poked nervously in the Tarnished’s direction, but her strength was draining quickly - she wasn’t good at combat situations, and her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think. No hits. The three soldiers attacked as one, trying to hem her in, force her into a position where she couldn’t use her axe properly. It worked, for a moment. She only had one axe left, and she was getting a little tired. Strike, block, strike, dodge, strike… hit. The third soldier scored a wound across her bicep, tracing another weeping red line, an erratic border marking a violent new continent.

Nepheli opened her mouth, ready to roar and drive them back a little - Taylor attacked again, putting her every reserve into the strike. A spear, plunging directly towards her solar plexus. The force behind it was weak, and she was shaking like a leaf, but Nepheli still reacted as she’d predicted, dodging backwards to avoid her. And her mouth was shut. For an instant, hope blossomed. And then it crumbled calamitously - an axe strike severed an arm, then another. Two soldiers gone in less than a second, bleeding wildly, falling to the ground and clutching their wounds to feebly staunch the flow of blood. They didn’t even scream when they died, just… sighed in tones as dry as dust, flavoured with resignation and a faint hint of relief. One left. And he was frail, shuffling backwards, glancing erratically. Taylor almost hoped Nepheli would play with her food, take time, enough time for Taylor to come up with something else. No such luck. The woman was all business, and with a savage yell she split the final soldier in half, from forehead to groin. Blood washed over Taylor, sticky and warm, a loose blanket covering her, smothering her. She could almost smell rot on the air.

Her spear was slapped casually out of her hands, and the woman approached. Potiphar made a move to charge, and she quietly shooed him away, indicating frantically that he should hide behind a rock. The jar was caught between two instincts, to protect his partner and to obey her orders. Nepheli cast a short glance in his direction, and the jar acted. He ignored Taylor completely, leaping to intercept the barbarian. The soldiers had blocked him before, the mass of bodies too much for a little fellow like him to pierce, but now? He had all the room he needed. The barbarian grunted, and smacked him with the flat of her axe. It was a derisively weak strike, but it was still enough to make him shoot backwards like a baseball, slamming into the wall of the castle and sliding downwards into some undergrowth. Taylor tried to yell, but her voice was utterly gone. Potiphar looked alive, but… shaken, weakened. Incapable of helping. This was it. She was going to die again, chopped up like an animal by a butcher. She hoped the woman would be quick, like she’d been with some of the soldiers. She didn’t want to slowly die here, alone and afraid. A kind of phantom pain spread over her body, the constricting, pulsing roots of the Erdtree’s catacombs hovering over her skin in invisible clouds of crackling static. And now she was hallucinating, fan-fucking-tastic. Nepheli came closer, and lightly poked Taylor on the forehead. Even this was enough to send her to the ground in a pile of gangly limbs, cringing from any threat of violence.

“What happened to all that yelling a moment ago?”

Taylor froze. The Tarnished was speaking to her, and her tone was strangely… calm. Almost bemused, like this was all a perfectly enjoyable game.

“Uh.”

Nepheli laughed - a deep, confident laugh that, bizarrely, had practically no arrogance in it. She was just… happy.

“But in truth, it was a good fight. If you’d like, you can stand up, we can do this honestly.”

Taylor blinked. What. Was she - oh, God, the Tarnished wanted to fight her honestly. Hooray, she got to humiliate herself before she died. At the determined look in the woman’s eyes, she scrambled to her feet, adrenaline pushing her up even while her knees shook and her feet felt numb. With a loud clunk, the other axe fell to the ground, and the Tarnished raised her hands in a wrestling stance.

“Alright, are you ready?”

She was not. Not remotely.

“...I’m, I’m, I’m not really good at… wrestling, but if you want I can fetch someone who-”

“Ah, nonsense. You stabbed me, you commanded your men to stab me further, and now I want to wrestle you. I could pick up my axe again, if you’d like.”

Blood drained from her face.

“No, no, that’s… uh, fine. But I… I have a bodyguard, sworn knight, he’d be really torn up if I died while he was away, why don’t you stay here, I’ll go fetch-”

“Stop it.”

“Uh.”

“Stop trying to weasel out of this. Fight and die with some honesty - I promise I won’t try to make your rebirth truly unpleasant.”

Taylor was having a number of very unpleasant flashbacks. Her legs were numb, ready to collapse at any moment. Her arms were weak, spindly, no match for Nepheli - who, this close, was even more ridiculously jacked than she’d first anticipated. God, she was going to die here, she was going to be wrestled to death. Her hands twitched upwards into a vague imitation of what Nepheli was doing, and she braced herself to get her neck snapped. A moment of silence passed, the battle on the bridge fading into nothingness. A bead of cold sweat ran down her back - what was she waiting for? Was she just relishing in the tension, or was she- Nepheli groaned, sounding deeply pained.

“...Your form is awful. Come here, I’ll show you. Alright, so your knees are too locked, you’ll go down like a stiff board if I push you. Relax, loosen up - come here.”

Taylor squeaked as Nepheli forcibly dragged her over, forcing her to stand next to her on the path. Briefly, she considered trying to kick the woman over the edge - honestly, though, a part of her thought that if she tried to balance on one leg even briefly, she’d just flail wildly, fall over, embarrass herself further, then jump off the cliff edge herself before Nepheli could laugh at her and break her neck. Just get it all over with. Honestly, she was a puddle of matter barely contained in a loose skin-sack, and being in close proximity to a woman that grew stronger by killing people and had just killed six people in front of her was not helping. She almost shrieked when a heavy hand slapped on her back.

“Come on, wake up. So, stand like this - loosen up, don’t be too stiff.”

She tried, and almost crumpled. Nepheli sighed, and poked her until she was in a position vaguely approximating Nepheli’s.

“Alright, now, you put your arm here - and I put my arm here. And when I say ‘go’, we wrestle, try and pin each other to the ground. You know how to…?”

“Uh.”

“I see. Let’s just give it a go, call this one a practice round. Come on, show me what you’ve got - no judgement, I’ll give what advice I can.”

Wasn’t this woman meant to be breaking into the castle? Actually, now she came to think of it, her plan was actually working - the bridge attack had distracted everyone, she’d snuck up the cliff by unknown means, killed the resistance in her way, and could basically dump all the bodies off the edge and get away scot free. Easy enough. And instead she was… wrestling. With a fifteen-year-old who had no real training in wrestling, nor aptitude, nor inclination. And somehow, despite being fairly severely wounded, Nepheli was just going ahead with no cares. Did she just not feel pain? Did she simply not care? Or was the pain somehow anticipated, predicted, factored into her life like a… a chipped nail or a sore tooth? Irritating, worth taking into account, but utterly tolerable. Her eyes caught Potiphar slowly standing, but he was still wobbly, barely stable - tiny spiderweb cracks had spread across his surface, and she widened her eyes, desperately telling him to leave, get help, do something. He got the message, and waddled away quickly, tiny flecks of shattered ceramic following in his wake. Good. Someone, at least, would get out of this alive. Taylor’s hands tightened on Nepheli’s arm, barely avoiding the ragged hole where her spear had made contact.

“And… go!”

Taylor, to her credit, tried. She wanted it on her permanent record that she tried. Her hands were tight, her movements were committed, she gave it her all. Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing left inside her. Everything had been burned up in Nepheli’s first attack, and fear was still running through her. All the adrenaline had faded away, and the moment Nepheli said ‘go’, Taylor tried to move, saw a blur of colours, and then felt the air being driven out of her as she slammed into the ground. Her glasses flew away, and… someone caught them. Nepheli grinned down, holding the glasses in one hand. She casually passed them back, and hummed thoughtfully.

“Usually a bit more grunting involved before the pin, but you get the idea. Trick is to leverage the other person’s body weight, make them defeat themselves. No point leaning into me, I’m too strong. Need to use my weight against me. And don’t look into my face, look at my hands, my hips. That’s where the strikes are coming from. And always try to keep control of my hands, if you keep control of my hands I can’t pin you. So, want to go again? Might want to put your spectacles away, though - don’t want to break them.”

Oh, how nice of her. Good suggestions. Now if only she’d stop trying to wrestle Taylor who was on the edge of a mental breakdown. This was so far beyond her comfort zone that it was almost funny - constant physical contact, violation of personal space, violence, close proximity to a Tarnished, being soaked in blood, feeling trapped… though, maybe there was one upshot. The impact had shaken something loose, and some of her calculation was coming back. The fear was being replaced with irritation, the same irritation that had fuelled her commands to the soldiers. And that gave her the strength to continue - keep the barbarian still, wait for someone to come along and finish the job her soldiers had started. She stood, brushed herself off with still-shaking hands, and locked with Nepheli again. The barbarian grinned.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

“...go!”

And Taylor cheated. Specifically, she dug her fingers into the gaping wound on Nepheli’s arm, sinking her fingernails deep into the exposed flesh. At the same time, her leg rocketed upwards and kicked the woman firmly between the legs with her hard-toed boot. Nepheli wheezed in pain, sinking inwards slightly… and a hard fist pounded into Taylor’s chest. Now it was her time to wheeze in pain, crumpling downwards as her lungs abruptly decided to go on strike. The two wheezed in unison, they whoze, the situation was rapidly whozening. God, Taylor was starting to go delirious. The barbarian growled, and for a moment Taylor thought that she was about to suffer a long, painful death - God, her plan had been stupid, what, kick her in the nads and throw her over the cliff? Christ almighty. She deserved whatever she got now, honestly. Nepheli stomped over, and poked her on the forehead with a single overly muscled digit.

“If you wanted to wrestle with no limits, you should have said.”

Taylor was still struggling to breathe.

“...you want to go again?”

She shook her head frantically. She really didn’t want to know what wrestling-without-limits with Nepheli felt like. It probably involved a lot of broken bones… and even her desire to distract the woman had limits.

“...fair. Alright, let’s get this over with. Gods, that hurt, gah…”

She stumped away, legs still a little stiff, and retrieved her axe. Fuck. Taylor’s world collapsed inwards to a single point. The still-red edges, the places where it had been at work. It seemed almost like a living thing, and she honestly couldn’t tell if that was coming from stress-induced delirium or some more of the sheer freakishness this world contained. It looked like it could swing by itself, like Nepheli was an extension of it and not the other way around. The person faded from existence, all that mattered was a hunk of metal that could - and would - end her life, edges red and merry. The barbarian spoke, her voice oddly… regretful.

“Sorry about this. You chose a poor master to serve… but I respect your cunning, and your soldiers fought well. Best of luck in your next life. Maybe next time we can wrestle properly, eh? Once you’ve got some muscle on those bones. Get some meat in your diet, girl, give me something to grab that doesn’t give me a papercut, ha!”

The axe was raised up, and up, and up… and it stopped. Taylor stared, and heard something wet dripping to the stones. Nepheli stared down at her own chest, and the hard light dagger protruding from it.

“Oh.”

And she crumbled to the ground, all her wounds taking their toll, the dagger simply sending her falling over the edge into defeat. Still moving. Still breathing. Could recover, get back up, dodge future strikes, enter the castle, gain strength, kill everyone. Taylor frantically pumped her legs, fear giving her a last piece of strength to draw on. A few savage kicks, and Nepheli was sent spinning away into the void, a bundle of bones wrapped in bleeding skin, utterly speechless from the moment she fell to the moment she hit the bottom, many, many seconds later. Silence reigned. The battle on the bridge had concluded, the Tarnished had been defeated. But… this was close. Too close. It was perfectly planned, and Nepheli had been this close to getting inside and ruining everything. Her eyes flicked to the one who had thrown the dagger. Margit. He was standing closer than he’d ever stood before, his cloak flapping idly as his stern golden eyes looked down at her. He was huge, larger than anyone she’d seen, save for those grey giants. Onager looked like a runt compared to him, even Godrick was fairly squat by comparison.

“Th-thank you.”

The Fell Omen grumbled, his face remaining remarkably stone-like.

“Very well. Continue thy work, oathsworn.”

A thought occurred as she saw golden sparks start to appear, signalling his imminent departure. A very urgent thought indeed, breaking through the haze of panic and weariness that was currently dragging her downwards. It even broke through a very strange feeling that was bubbling in her chest, a feeling that had started the moment Nepheli had vanished into the dark - like she had just chugged a whole gallon of coke and was feeling all the carbonated bubbles rise and pop inside her muscles, blissfully cold, achingly refreshing… God, she wanted a coke right now, the general lack of sugar in Stormveil was starting to weigh on her 21st-century palate. No, shit, back to the idea, before he vanished.

“Wait! Will you… keep defending the castle?”

If Margit hadn’t shown up, the soldiers wouldn’t have been able to defend against the Tarnished effectively. Those greatshields could weather a barrage of arrows, and those two Tarnished fighters who had split away to confront Margit directly were ridiculously skilled, one of them wielding powers she had no idea even existed. Could their knights fight against that kind of power? Could their gates hold? Once the Tarnished got inside, there would be no getting rid of them - too many places to hide, far too easy to stage hit-and-run attacks, constantly gaining strength at their expense. And once they secured the front, they could let a host more Tarnished inside. Margit had saved their bacon today, and her bacon specifically. The sight of that axe in the sky, an ominous pendulum ready to swing down at any moment, was not something she’d forget easily. The Fell Omen grumbled again - he was good at grumbling, she realised. All half-spoken objections and complaints, none of them crystallising into anything solid and hurtful. It blended into rather a remarkable mire of vaguely displeased noises.

“Naturally. Godrick the Golden requires aid, and my duty is to provide it.”

Oh, thank God.

“...make thyself ready, oathsworn. I sense that this is but the tip of the goring horn.”

“Been getting that a lot.”

“Hm. Then others are wise.”

The sparks momentarily abated, and he leant closer, eyes narrowing.

“Runes pulse through thine veins.”

Runes? What - oh. Oh no. Had she taken something from Nepheli, had she done what the Tarnished did? Did she take power? Oh God, how could she even do that, wasn’t that something that only Tarnished could do, well, she’d never quite asked, but… oh shit, oh shit. The bubbling in her chest made her feel nauseous, her skin felt too tight, her lungs were too small. Her heart was pounding faster than ever, high on something she’d never had before.

“I- wha- I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Be at peace. The first time is always harsher than its successors.”

His tone was understanding, his stance non-threatening… actually, now she thought about it, his tone was oddly bitter. Not directed at her, thankfully. Come to think of it, this was the first conversation she’d had with the Fell Omen - what the hell could she say? Thanks for defending the castle, thanks for keeping me alive, thanks for giving me a small amount of hope? No, something else, something more pressing… if a little less grateful.

“What’s going to happen?”

“The runes shall flow. Allow them to do so… but do not grow addicted, young oathsworn. The strength of Runes is a frail one, their bond to thee is fragile and wont to break. Few may turn Runes into true strength… and it is no substitute for real skill, nor for true warrior blood.”

Taylor processed that. She was… oddly relieved. The idea of becoming like the Tarnished in any way, the temptation of killing to get more strength… no, definitely not. Sparks formed around Margit, and she had to say one last thing, just before he left.

“...thank you. For everything.”

“Hm.”

He didn’t seem to have a response to that, and he turned with a final grumble.

“May you find peace in the bowers of the Erdtree.”

And like that, he was gone. And Taylor was surrounded by bodies, covered in blood, and had a stare that she imagined could be described as ‘thousand-yard’. Consciousness was difficult to maintain, two days without sleep and a deeply stressful battle were piling on top of one other, aspiring to greater, more debilitating heights. The last thing she heard before she slumped back into the stone and passed out was the sound of two sets of feet approaching.

About goddamn time.

Chapter Text

As she sank into the dark, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. Christ, was she the kind of person to pass out after a little bit of sleep deprivation and a friendly wrestling session with a murderous Tarnished? Though, thinking about that Tarnished… why had she been so relaxed? Surely she had been on a mission, had she just ignored her orders, or was she working separately to the people on the bridge? No, she’d come prepared for the climb, had come over at the exact right moment, they were definitely in cahoots. No doubt about it. So why… maybe she’s succeeded. Maybe just getting to the castle had been enough. Maybe she had a partner that was helping her out, going round the other side. If so, Telavis should have taken care of it, but, who knew? Not her, that was for sure. Or maybe it had all been a matter of confidence. Ten Tarnished were on that bridge, and they’d all be back, ready to tell the story of the time a Tarnished managed to get past the new defences through a simple distraction. If one could do it… why not another ten? Why not bring every Tarnished in town, overwhelm the defences, sneak past Margit in the confusion, infiltrate the castle and burrow inwards like ticks on a dog, growing swollen and fat from the strength of Runes. She sank deeper, and the image of bloated Tarnished, gluttons dining on the strength they stole instead of earned faded away. Worries departed. All that was left was peaceful unconsciousness.

Time passed.

More time.

And Taylor found herself growing annoyed. She was unconscious, she didn’t want to just float in a dark void for a while, she wanted to sleep - hadn’t she earned a little snooze after all of this? Wait - if she was going to float around here like some… gangly jellyfish (God she really needed to get some sleep), she might as well do something productive with her time. The gold - she hadn’t exactly had time to focus on it lately, too busy depriving herself of rest because an invisible woman had pissed her off. She focused on its elegant contours, the way it was infinitely fractal yet utterly smooth. The shade which seemed beyond any kind of mundane perfection… and what was that thing, that axiom it had more or less screamed at her? Something like… ‘To alloy without corrosion is the validation of Order’. The words echoed in the empty space, and she tried to pick them apart, really drill to the core of their meaning as best she could.

To alloy without corrosion. To add something and strengthening it in the process, instead of weakening it. Steel is stronger than iron, a pure metal is usually soft and yielding… gold is beautiful, but without something to reinforce it, it’s light and easily bent out of shape. The image of Godrick and Crawa came to mind - grafting, adding something to make someone stronger. Her mind reeled from the idea of the gold and the grafting being somehow connected - the gold was effortlessly beautiful, and even after (presumably) centuries of training, grafting hadn’t achieved a fraction of that. And in that, maybe, was something worth holding onto. The same principle, but applied completely incorrectly. Instead of genuinely varied elements being added to reinforce one another, Godrick had simply added more in an attempt to solve a weakness. What he couldn’t see was that the weakness was in the limbs themselves, and adding more wouldn’t rectify it one little bit. Maybe Crawa had a point - use grafting to actually go beyond the limits of a human, add elements from animals to genuinely gain something worthwhile. Alloying oneself to become stronger, taking up foreign ideas and augmenting without losing any purity.

The gold emerged as she thought, unfolding in the dark. And now it was larger, bigger than ever. If she had a physical body here, she’d have blinked. She hadn’t done this before - every time she called on the gold, it had been superficial, imagining its appearance instead of the principles underlying it. She’d treated it like it was a power, some physical thing she needed to drag to the surface like… like a fish in a frozen-over lake. As the gold expanded, bloomed, exploded into branches, she understood that this wasn’t her power. This was something else. And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at that conclusion. The gold was simply too perfect to be hated, looking at it reminded her of the scraps of happiness she’d found in this place. In its infinite fractals were reflected the comforting sight of the Erdtree which remained constant, even as chaos escalated. A glimpse of getting drunk with Angharad, a shred of Onager’s acerbic voice flitting through the air, the pangs of sympathy from her interaction with Crawa, and the reassuring solidity of Telavis. Potiphar was there too, naturally, a kindly, bumbling thing that followed her around even as she acted like a colossal coward. Everything was here, embedded in the boundless pattern. It had a place for all of them.

Something changed. And suddenly it all went wrong. The orderliness dissolved, the harmonious arrangements unravelled. Onager’s voice fell silent, and the gold seemed to recoil from the idea of him being present. Crawa was next. Telavis followed soon after. Huge, indistinct figures fell around her, crumbling with groans of pain. For a second, Taylor felt something dark and cold, the feeling of being trapped with thousands of others, screaming all as one - she retreated from that vision with frantic speed, unwilling to pursue it any further. And abruptly the order was colder, harder. Its edges reminded her of Nepehli’s axe, dripping with strangely coloured matter - and that was something, it had edges. Once, just smooth contours, and now, something far more terrifying. Something was at its centre, too - there hadn’t been a centre, once. That was something she could only realise now that its opposite was in front of her, the contrast laying it plain. Once, the pattern had been endless, and the idea of a centre was pointless - everything emanated from itself, every pattern could infinitely generate more. This? It all stemmed from one point, and as she looked closer, she saw-

She saw-

She saw the end that should not be.

Her mind snapped back, and the pattern seemed to become covered in thorns directed at her, hostile to this thing which had decided to intrude on it. Taylor couldn’t even remember what she’d seen, only a feeling of terror and the sensation of a… a hammer, that was it. A shining hammer crashing down, over and over, utterly relentless and savage in a way that made Nepheli seem urbane. The new pattern was hostile, that much was clear. It was funny - a few days ago, Taylor might have curled in on herself, tried to shut out the strange pattern that was warping into something utterly hostile. But… this was her head, wasn’t it? And a little anger was blossoming - the perfection of the previous pattern had suppressed it, but now it was surging up through her stomach and into her throat, almost burning her tongue. This wasn’t her power. God-fucking-dammit, she’d been focusing on this stuff for over a week, and now it wasn’t even hers? How much time had this thing meant for her to waste on it, how long was it going to stop her from getting back home? Had it been interrupting her progress? The image of her dad, alone, came back as strongly as it did when she first arrived. She was pissed, oh, she was royally pissed.

And that gave her strength. Not much, just a tiny scrap of power that resisted the encroaching pattern, forced it backwards. And… that was it. The false pattern faded, the perfect pattern returned, and it shivered in something resembling happiness. Taylor was still pissed. The gold sung of something new, an axiom boring into her mind with absolute certainty:

To emanate without a centre is-

“No, go fuck yourself!”

Oh shit. She’d spoken. She didn’t know she could speak here. And she’d sworn at the gold, which seemed like a poor decision. Well, if no-one else was listening, and this was a void without consequences…

“Seriously, what? Are you going to show up, yell cryptic things, and then vanish? Again? Leave me here to work for Godrick, to worry about assassins, I’m fifteen! Can’t you harass someone old enough to drink?”

She let out a breath. That… that felt good. God, how long had she been holding all of this in? How much frustration had she let build up over the last few weeks? It felt like there was a knot of tension always present, just beneath her solar plexus, building and building until it had to explode out. And as it turned out, being brought to the brink of dying, getting wrestled with by an insane Tarnished, spending time around Godrick, almost getting screamed deaf by his surprisingly pleasant daughter, getting bound to a knight by a debt she formed while wildly panicking, getting stuck with a perfumer who probably had some untreated PTSD floating around, getting intimidated by an invisible assassin, dying, being compelled to make nuclear bombs for a medieval warlord, not necessarily in that order… huh, now she thought about it, it was a miracle she hadn’t gone completely nuts yet. The gold was silent, and it seemed to be… staring. Appraising her.

Doubt is necessary for faith.

Taylor blinked. And like a lightbulb turning off, the gold was gone. She was fairly certain she imagined the loud ‘click’. Great, more cryptic bullshit and then a vanishing act, how original. A hole opened at the top of the endless void (well, not quite so endless if there was a ‘top’ to open, but she wasn’t really thinking about the spatial logic of her hallucinations), a hole that widened and bloomed, light streaming through. Not gold, though. Normal light. Greys, blues… the shades of Stormveil. With a grumble at the idea of having wasted time dealing with something that wasn’t her power and couldn’t get her home, she floated upwards. She was done with esoteric visions for the day.

Potiphar was the first thing she felt - a quivering mess of a creature, poking frantically at her face in a desperate attempt to get her to wake up. Her hands automatically moved to pat him on his wax seal, stroking him like he was a particularly large cat, moving before her exhausted brain could really process what the hell was happening. Everything felt… soft, like it was wrapped in cotton wool. Even Potiphar’s hard stone hands felt like giant q-tips bumping against her cheek. She was in a bed - her bed, that was it. She almost didn’t recognise it, hadn’t exactly slept here for a little while. Potiphar was here, she knew that much - Telavis too, standing guard beside the door. Angharad was missing… no, she was right there, almost invisible in a patch of shadow. And in her hands was a bottle. A half-empty bottle, with some liquid remaining that glowed slightly. The perfumer twitched eagerly on seeing her wake up, and scurried over with the bottle in hand.

“What-”

“Ah, I do apologise, but you looked exhausted, just a muscle relaxant, it-”

“Is this why everything feels fuzzy?”

“...yes.”

Taylor tried to do a small Margit-esque grumble, but it didn’t quite come out right - just made her sound drunk and rambling.

“Don’t suppose there’s any side effects?”

“Drink plenty of water and you’ll be fine.”

“If I don’t?”

“Kidney stones.”

Angharad barely had time to blink before Taylor was frantically glugging from a pitcher of water by the side of the bed, her eyes burning with the terror that only pre-modern kidney stone removal could incite. Telavis’s bearded face crept into something resembling a smile, but otherwise he remained completely stoic. Potiphar was having a grand old time, of course, performing an impromptu victory dance on the bed. This was… strange to witness, largely because he was a very large jar and the bed was very soft, and he kept sinking into it, stumbling, half-falling over, rolling close to the edge, then springing back up and repeating ad nauseam in a variety of combinations. Very entertaining to watch out of the corner of her eye while the water poured down in a blissful river. After a solid ten seconds, she set it down and took a deep breath, wiping her lips with a dusty sleeve. Oh, great, now her bed was covered in dust from the fight. And a little dried blood. Well, not like she was sleeping in it anyway.

“How long?”

“Just a few hours. You’re incredibly sleep deprived, I’m surprised you even got up to the wall.”

“I don’t really remember getting there.”

“...precisely my point. You need to sleep - why have you been staying up in the first place?”

Taylor considered this. Angharad was… well, not quite a friend, but certainly an ally. Bound to Taylor, willing to work with her, even willing to get drunk with her. She’d been a pleasant bit of company after that first attack, when… oh. Thinking of the first attack she’d helped defend against made her think of the one that had just concluded. And that made her think of putting her spear through Nepheli’s arm, seeing her men butchered in front of her, feeling death hovering above. The pitcher was abruptly repurposed as a vomit bucket, and Taylor vaguely felt Angharad softly patting her on the back.

“There, there. All over now.”

Taylor felt oddly annoyed at that. It wasn’t all over, this would be happening for the foreseeable bloody future. She was being weak, she was vomiting when she should be coming up with a proper lie to cover up her whole plot with the assassin, trying to keep her cover as a competent… fuck, she was vomiting in a pitcher, there was no way her cover was still intact. Angharad was centuries older than her, she could almost certainly see through some of it. Enough to realise that she was inexperienced at a whole host of things, even if she had miraculous books at her disposal. Taylor sighed internally. Being utterly alone in the face of Nepheli, completely doomed if it wasn’t for Margit… well, if the assassin had made her paranoid, then Nepheli had made her positively conspiratorial. The idea of sending allies away when they could stick around as protection, as soldiers that knew how to fight as unorthodox a foe as the Tarnished… it rubbed her up the wrong way. Banishing Angharad back into the castle, ignorant of the assassin, felt like she’d be depriving herself of a vital ally.

“...OK, this is going to sound strange. One moment, actually - Telavis, could you fetch the thing?”

“Hm.”

He was gone, and Angharad twiddled her thumbs awkwardly while they waited for him to return. Taylor glanced around the room, checking her tripwires - none of them were broken. With three people and a jar in the room, surely the assassin couldn’t get inside? Paranoid thoughts raced through her head, and she tried to will her fuzzy limbs into motion - just in case. Her attempts were stymied by Telavis’s return - damn, he was fast, the man must have jogged (or sprinted) the entire way. And in his hands was a dirt-streaked burlap sack… and inside, a spiralling golden torch. Angharad kindly lit the thing using one of her smaller tools, and it flared into life, eerily bright. No shadows remained in the room, none at all, everything was turned a bland monochrome by the apparently enchanted torch. And there were no assassins standing around looking surprised. Taylor was oddly disappointed, she really wanted to sleep.

“Alright, so this will sound very weird, but there’s a Black Knife assassin in the castle.”

Angharad squeaked.

“What?”

“It’s fine, she hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

“G- what- eh?”

“And now we have one of those torches, so Telavis and I are going to ambush her.”

Angharad shut down completely at the idea of ambushing a Black Knife assassin.

“...eh?”

“If you want to help, we’d appreciate it. Fine if you don’t want to.”

“...you want to ambush a godkiller.”

“She tried to intimidate me into giving information on Godrick. I guess she can’t get close enough herself.”

“There are so many problems with this plan. What if she fights back? What if she kills you both, permanently? What if she escapes and brings her sisters?”

“Telavis should be able to handle it.”

“He’s a man, like anyone else! They’re not even properly human, they’re bloody Numen. And they killed Godwyn like that.”

Taylor almost stopped the conversation - Numen? Not properly human? That… raised questions. She decided to ignore that for now, focus on the immediate objection. If she started asking questions about the Black Knives, any scraps of her perceived competency would go out the window - only an idiot would challenge an assassin she knew almost nothing about. And Taylor knew… enough? Maybe? Hopefully. And if Angharad thought she was an incompetent playing with forces she didn’t understand, then she might do something stupid, like… say, tell Godrick, who’d learn about the torch, get pissed, and do something everyone in the splash zone would regret. Angharad wasn’t a bad person, but she’d been here for a very, very long time. Breaking that stability was probably unthinkable to her.

“And no other demigods. Maybe they were weakened by fighting Godwyn, maybe their numbers were reduced, but either way, I don’t think they’re on the same level they were at back then.”

“Stop it! Stop trying to logic your way out of it, there is no logic which could justify ambushing a Black Knife assassin.”

“The alternative is to wait around until she gets bored with me and decides to tie up a loose end.”

Angharad didn’t have a response to that, and Taylor was feeling a little petty. At the end of the day, if Angharad wasn’t going to help with this, then Taylor had another purpose she could fulfil - God, ‘purpose she could fulfil’, she was starting to think like these people spoke. Not good, not remotely good.

“If you don’t want to help - which is fine, by the way - could you take care of something else for me? I’m a little busy, and I want someone else to handle this.”

“...alright, what is it?”

“I need you to get the biggest birds you can find in the castle.”

“Weird request, but manageable.”

“And then you need to chop off their wings.”

“Quite fine, I’ve dissected before, but-”

“And then you need to give them to the Scion.”

Angharad let out a low moan of pained confusion.

“...why?”

“She wants some.”

“She?”

“Oh, she’s called Crawa. Be nice. She’s practically a kid.”

“No! No she’s not! She’s an abomination of grafting, she’s a walking war engine, a whirring mass of swords that can chop anyone to-”

“She saw us back when we got drunk.”

Angharad sank into the chair, burying her face in her hands. She was murmuring something - praying, Taylor realised.

“Eternal Marika, what did I do to deserve this? I’ve been a good perfumer, I serve your descendant, can’t I have some peace in return? Why are you so angry?”

A pulse of sympathy. She knew that feeling very well, and had been feeling it more or less since her arrival. The feeling of ‘why me’ that sounded simultaneously entirely reasonable and intolerably petulant. She shuffled out of her bed and patted Angharad on the back, trying to be as comforting as she could while still covered in far too much blood for anyone’s comfort - especially her own. Potiphar saw what she was doing and tried to help, by whacking her repeatedly on the knee in a manner that was probably meant to be a pat - little fellow was getting a little overexcited, probably overcompensating after his companion (master? Owner? Keeper? Pot-sitter?) almost died. A sharp look from Taylor led Telavis over to pat her on the head - she hadn’t meant for him to do that, Taylor just wanted the knight to keep an eye on the door, how did he interpret- no, never mind. Angharad looked more stressed now, with two people and a pot patting her in the least comforting way possible. With a sigh of utter defeat, she glugged from the bottle and sagged back into a pile of robe-wrapped limbs and hazy eyes. She muttered blearily:

“...maybe master had a point.”

Taylor let out a long sigh. Sleeping forever sounded appealing… then again, her dreams were weird enough that being trapped with them forever was probably just about the worst fate she could think of.

“You’ll do it though, won’t you? I’m sorry, it’s-”

“No, no, I understand. Too busy with one insane plan. At least you know you can’t balance two insane plans at once.”

“If it helps, just imagine Crawa - the ‘walking war engine’ - with a mass of wings.”

“That’s the most horrifying thing someone has said to me since ‘there’s a Black Knife assassin in the castle’.”

“OK, imagine the Tarnished seeing that.”

Angharad perked up.

“...you know what, that actually doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Now imagine giving her all the weird unstable chemical weapons you have.”

“...goodness me. She could be a… a… ah, I can’t find the word.”

“The word back home would be ‘heavily armed bomber’. Or ‘attack helicopter’.”

Angharad was looking downright intrigued now, and her fingers were twitching excitedly.

“Ah, ah, I’m having ideas. To deploy offensive concoctions without the need for a catapult or engaging at dangerously close range… my, my. The Tarnished from earlier today would be nothing in the wake of such an assault.”

Taylor was rapidly regretting this course of action. Maybe it was the blurriness from her weird visions, maybe it was just plain old stupidity with no extraneous explanations, but Angharad had clearly been affected by the experience of the Tarnished attacking. Understandable. And if she’d seen evidence of Nepheli arriving… hm.

“...be nice to her. I was just asking you to collect some wings.”

“Maybe wings from some of the giant bat species… ah, to harvest from a Chanting Dame. And if Lord Godrick’s dragon project works-”

“Bird wings. Get her bird. Wings. Think about the other stuff later.”

“But the possib-”

“Angharad!”

Taylor knew what she had to do. Godrick would be expecting to talk with her, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. Until then, though, she wanted to rest, if only for a moment. Potiphar was curled in her lap, and she quietly inspected his outer casing. A little chipped, a few spiderweb cracks… but nothing dramatic. Hell, the only reasons she could notice them was their relative freshness. The little dude was riddled with cracks, weathered by age until they were the same tone as the rest of him. How long had he been around? Hundreds of years, most likely… a part of her imagined him wandering around for over a century, gathering bodies, returning them to catacombs, doing it over and over again. He was clearly sentient, sapient… she’d never really grasped the difference between the two, honestly. And it wasn’t like she could read any dictionaries here, hell, if she thought about language here in general she started getting a cluster headache. Sapient, sentient, both of them Latin words adapted to English. Did this world have a people that spoke Latin, and then did the current civilisation come along at the precise right moment at the precise intersection of dozens of languages all forming English? She saw the living jar in her lap, and came to the reasonable conclusion that this world had enough mystical bullshit, language was probably the least bullshit thing she’d seen so far.

But they all sounded like they were from different parts of Britain and- gah. Stop thinking about it. Potiphar glanced up at her - well, he angled himself slightly differently - and seemed to communicate the same basic command. Thinking about it wasn’t productive.

Thinking about strategy, though… the gold in her vision had been weird. As usual. And it wasn’t her power. If she thought about that too much, she started to feel despair creeping into everything, a hungry animal that devoured thought and motivation both, sapped her of strength and left her ready to collapse into her bed and not re-emerge for a long, long time. Had to set it aside. She had a power, she… if she didn’t, then how was she going to get home? Unless something else had brought her here… but if she thought about that for too long, she started to feel incredibly small, insignificant, and ultimately, despairing. Had to focus on strategy. If she focused on strategy, she could get on by just fine. Just like she’d been doing for the last week, focus on the comfortingly simple minutiae to distract herself from the generally overcomplicated, largely unknown, and overwhelmingly unpleasant big picture.

Ten Tarnished attacking from the front, most of them armed with huge, flame retardant shields to protect against archers and fire pots. A few dedicated specialists intended to keep Margit busy. A final Tarnished to sneak around and infiltrate the castle from inside. The way Nepheli had acted, though… too casual. Too relaxed. It seemed ridiculous to imagine that the same force which organised ten Tarnished into a fairly effective squad capable of weathering her defences would send someone so lackadaisical to perform, quite possibly, the most vital role in the operation. Unless… she’d already succeeded by arriving. Could have been a test to see if they could, but if so, she’d seemed fairly blase about losing the element of surprise in any future infiltrations.

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a probe. They’d assessed her defences, gained knowledge of where she was strong and where she was weak - she, Christ, she was taking too much credit for this work, trying to assert control in a situation where control was conspicuously lacking. The next attempt might be more stealthy, or they could send more troops to handle the infiltration, or they could bring a small army to overwhelm Margit completely. At the very least, Godrick couldn’t go leaping around like a hero, he was the reason this castle was still standing. Their next attack might just focus on slaughtering him at all costs - he needed to stay in the back, where he couldn’t die to something stupid. Well… if they were clever enough to assess her defences and adapt to them in less than a day, they were probably clever enough to realise that Godrick wouldn’t always jump into their clutches.

Hopefully. Hopefully Godrick wouldn’t do something so catastrophically stupid again. She clung to that hope, it kept her feeling stable. That and Potiphar.

…oh. Shit. She’d just realised something. Who knew how long these Tarnished had been around? Maybe they were recent arrivals, but if the half-dead soldiers around the land knew what they were, they’d probably been around for a long while. If they were old hands, they’d know the status quo in and out, enough that a disturbance to it was keenly visible. The Black Knife had said as much. And they’d attacked, seen that Margit was still here, Godrick was still around and as crazy as ever… and Nepheli had seen her. A kid. Clearly out of place. Clearly still with her wits about her. Clearly with some kind of command over the soldiers. And if she went back and told whoever had organised this whole mess about her… she could imagine the meeting now, as clear as day.

Nepheli would stride in, and describe infiltrating successfully, killing a few guards, and the weird terrified child that ordered those same guards around, and even contributed to the fight a little. Not a soldier, not a Tarnished, someone new. And there’d be debates, people would suggest that maybe she was just a bystander, a sign that Godrick was desperate for new recruits, a person they’d simply never seen before given that they’d never infiltrated the castle (presumably, given that Tarnished with this level of organisation would have been able to infiltrate the pre-Taylor Stormveil with relative ease and killed Godrick like that). Someone would say it, right as the issue was being dismissed, right as she was about to be deemed ‘beneath notice’, and therefore, out of harm's way. What if she had started this mess? What if she was responsible for the movement of troops, the fortification of the gate… what if she did more? What if Stormveil became inaccessible by a straightforward assault, what if Godrick became utterly unreachable by the Tarnished? Sure, she looked young, but in a place like this, she might still be mentally ancient. Some would dismiss the idea. Others would tap into it. Arguments, more debates, and eventually someone would stand up - maybe Nepheli - and say it.

Neutralise her anyway. It couldn’t hurt.

And they’d do it. Kill her in a way that she couldn’t recover from. Harass her defences until she broke down, or Godrick cast her out for incompetence. They had forever to work, after all… and she could only build so many walls, post so many guards, lay so many traps.

She’d set herself against an immortal army that got stronger the more it killed, which had a damn good reason to attack the castle she lived in.

She could have hugged the servant that came to tell her that Godrick wanted to see her. The world was a vast, frightening place, and she felt further than home than ever before. She needed to act, to reassert some kind of control over this castle. Even if she was covered in blood and her breath stank of vomit, she could still do something. Right? God, the many-armed warlord was becoming a stable axis to orient herself around. This was surely something that would never bite her in her boney, bruised ass.

Right?

Chapter Text

“...so, my lord, that’s my plan. To re-establish the route in Liurnia, to siphon off some of the Tarnished coming out way, send them up to Rennala instead.”

Godrick gave her a look.

“Young Oathsworn, young… Thaylon?”

“Taylor.”

“Thaylon sounds better, young creature, do not speak back to thine overlord! And… please cease thy hopping. ‘Tis grating.”

“Sorry, my lord, it’s the Runes.”

Godrick briefly perked up.

“Ah! Runes, aye, they burble most pleasingly, do they not? Ah, to be a young man standing atop my first conquered foe, axe raised on high, soldiers cheering… the first rush is always the finest. But be wary, young oathsworn, that thou dost not become addicted. They are ephemeral things, Runes, and born of a defect in the Order. Only a Great Rune has true potency, can grant the capacity to shape all lands to one’s will!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“...and yet, even as my great mind bends towards understanding and consolation, my lordly nature demands obedience. Cease thy hopping, lest I nail thee to the floor.”

Taylor tried her best to stop hopping from foot to foot. It was rather difficult. The feeling of bubbles in her chest simply refused to fade, always just underneath her skin, always ready to burst out and do something. She felt less tired, stronger by far… but her brain was revolting against all of this. Godrick and Margit were right, runes were temporary. Her brain knew it, and she felt small twinges of disgust whenever one of the invisible bubbles seemed to burst, releasing a flood of energy into her muscles. It always felt like this power was simply going to vanish after a while, and based on how her legs were still a little on the stiff side, it hadn’t exactly fixed her up. Runes were addictive, she could guess that much, but they were deeply transient. Maybe the Tarnished had their own methods of turning Runes into strength. And after a while, the feelings started to shift more in the direction of constant pins and needles - she had no idea how the Tarnished dealt with this, she couldn’t even imagine sleeping like this, or doing anything particularly concentration-heavy. Staying still was hard enough, writing, planning, plotting, anything refined was going to be a nightmare. And yet, she endured. She’d already nearly died today, and Godrick was standing far away enough that he couldn’t smell the vomit on her breath. She was on top of the world.

A very small, ugly world where the top was barely distinguishable from the bottom, but hey, she took what she could get.

“Yes, my lord. Sorry. So… the plan.”

“Aye, the plan, the plan. Art thou certain that the route may be re-established?”

“Ona- the Omen travelled here by the route, he thinks it should still be workable.”

“Ah! Is a lord meant to take the word of cursedblood fiends for divine wisdom! Is the movement of armies to be decided by the words of wretches, hm? Is this thy suggestion, young oathsworn?!”

Godrick was half-foaming at the mouth. He was… excited, that much was obvious. She wasn’t sure if he was drunk on victory, or fear, or anger at the fact that Margit had done most of the work and a Tarnished had almost slipped into the castle. She could imagine his mindset fairly clearly, given that it was eerily similar to her own - fighting, even if it was won, was still a frightening experience where everything could rapidly go wrong, and once one had committed to it, there really wasn’t a good escape. She’d won against Nepheli, and all she could think about was the axe hanging in the air and the fact that she’d lost, that she’d been outmatched from the very beginning and needed to be saved by Margit. Godrick hadn’t let go of his axe once, and he was still soaked in blood. His eyes were bulging and twitching. Bandages poked from under his cloak, indicating wounds dealt by the few Tarnished who’d endured Margit’s assault for long enough. She responded to bloody fighting by passing out, vomiting, and generally being an embarrassing mess. Godrick responded by becoming louder, more unreasonable, and almost comical in his boldness. He was playing a part, the part of someone who could cope with warfare with a level head.

It wasn’t a part he was very good at playing. It seemed like more of a pantomime than anything else. Taylor could vaguely hear Crawa scuttling around in the grass outside, could imagine her wringing her many hands nervously. Understandable.

“No, not at all, I- maybe we can check out the route, see if it’s worth repairing. If we can, it could distract some of the Tarnished, stop them from attacking so regularly. My lord.”

“Bah! Nay, I have a question for thee, little oathsworn. The Fell Omen did make palaver with thee, did he not? What words didst thou exchange with him, hm? Art thou a spy for the Omen, a wretched saboteur? Art thou?!”

“No, no, not a spy, not working for the Fell Omen, my lord. I just - he killed a Tarnished, I thanked him, he left. That was it.”

“Hm. Likely a lie, likely a lie. But I shall accept your lie for now, wretched thing - duplicity shall always be revealed, sooner or later!”

Paranoid ravings. God, he was in a bad way. In fact, if she looked closely, it seemed like he’d lost a few smaller arms. No wonder he was so panicked.

“...so, the plan.”

“Always with the plan! Dost thou know no other topics of conversation? Even a commoner should know of how to speak! To comment on the weather, one’s health, one’s relations, never prattling of plans and plans and nought but plans!”

The weather never bloody changed, she was feeling as crappy as ever, and her family was gone. Unless he meant his health and family, in which case, he was still healthy enough to scream at people, and his nearest relation was scuttling around outside using a whole raft of borrowed limbs. Godrick seemed to realise some of this around the same time as she did, and grumbled loudly - he wasn’t quite as good at grumbling as Margit, he was too spiteful, too poisonous. He never said insults that were meant to be unheard, he always intended to throw them in people’s faces.

“But… the plan has merit. Too long hath Godrick the Golden borne the weight of the Tarnished’s attention alone, too long hath he served as bulwark to the cowardly and the craven, too long hath his men fought the Tarnished from the front lines with nary a hint of support or succour. Perhaps ‘tis time for Rennala to know what it is to work for her position - the lazy sow, sitting in her academy with her legless young, sealed in a prison without a lock… that ridiculous hat of hers surely cuts off circulation, I swear it. Rotten Carians, always so entitled…”

She waited through almost a full three minutes of hateful ramblings on Rennala, the Carians, Raya Lucaria, Liurnia in general… though, surprisingly, not Ranni. She could guess why. Angharad’s description of the assault on Caria Manor sounded about as nightmarish as it was possible to get. No wonder Godrick didn’t want to relive it by talking about Ranni too much.

“...bah, concubine to noble Radagon, and thief of his noble wolf… bah, I say, bah, I say again.”

His tone was a little calmer. He’d gotten some of the anger out of his system. Good.

“The plan hath merit. And yet… soldiers are scarce. Wouldst thou insist that mine own troops, my beloved children, should go into the cruel world where Tarnished may slaughter them en masse? Wouldst thou provoke weeping and furious sorrow from a noble personage such as myself?”

“About that, my lord. I think… I think there’s going to be a lot more Tarnished. They can’t die, so each one that fell today could come back with more information, more experience. Maybe more allies.”

“Ah, yes, and now thine defences fail me! I shall tell thee of my thoughts - and be honoured, for you bask in the light of a lordly brain - where are your miracles? Could not a… an explosive of great power sunder our enemies?”

Shit. Taylor knew this was coming, had to happen sooner or later. She’d hoped that it wouldn’t happened for a while, but coming this close to actual combat had sharpened him up a little, reminded him of inconvenient things like the fact that she was very much shirking her appointed duties. Thankfully, she’d prepared a few small excuses.

“Well, yes, it’s true that a large explosion could kill a lot of Tarnished, but… it’d scar the castle, destroy our defences, weaken us, and the Tarnished would just get back up again afterwards. Unless the Tarnished have a central place we can bomb, I don’t think explosives will be… totally effective.”

“Hm. Alas, the Roundtable Hold lies beyond anyone’s reach. And there are no cities, no towns, no hamlets of Tarnished, not in Limgrave. Then what of… these weapons which convey metal, belike a crossbow but more fiery, smaller, far more powerful?”

“Firearms? Uh… well, those need a lot of care to make. A lot. Time, too. And they’re hard to use, it’d take a while to train up soldiers to use them.”

The axe slammed down on the ground, and Taylor almost fell to her knees - almost. The runes kept her fairly steady, pulsing erratically as they strained to resist the shockwave.

“Again, creature, you promise mountains and deliver molehills! Are there no miracles you may deliver, no articles of genius to display?”

Taylor backed away slightly, eyes wide. She was close, she knew it - a wrong step, and she’d be pasted into the ground, smeared thin like Nepheli’s blood on the stones… no, needed to get back to the present, had to stop dwelling on what had happened. Even if the bubbling beneath her skin was constantly dragging her back to the sight of that body tumbling into the dark, wounded by her hand and killed by another’s.

“My lord, I’m sorry. Miracles are difficult to make, but that’s no excuse - I’ve been too committed to reinforcing your castle against the Tarnished. Moving ballistae, repairing walls, arranging troops, building barricades… I should have been more dedicated to the miracles, maybe then we’d be months away instead of years.”

Godrick looked at her through narrowed eyes. An over-fingered hand drummed idly on his axe, and he thought over her words. She wasn’t being subtle - didn’t want to try being too clever, might fly over his head completely. She’d been doing good work, it just wasn’t very flashy. She could see the memories dancing behind his eyes - the feast after the first victory partially at her hands, the sight of the wall sealed up and a route into the castle with it, the feeling of holding her up and screaming at Margit to piss off. He looked a little happier for a second, a little more relaxed. It was enough. He stopped looking quite so murderous, and her heart started creeping back to only a slightly accelerated pace.

“...hm. Perhaps my judgement was over-harsh - rest assured, young oathsworn, I shall require miracles in time, and no excuse shall suffice. But… thou hast done good work in Stormveil. Speak thy mind, relate thy plans, and perhaps I shall approve.”

Taylor could have sank to her knees in sheer relief. Yay. Wasn’t going to immediately die. Now she just had to tell her boss what to do. Oh no.

“Well, if we need more troops for the castle, maybe we could draw some from the rest of Limgrave?”

His look turned dangerous.

“...and surrender my territory?”

“No, my lord, no, just… the Tarnished don’t seem to hold territory, they just run around killing things and getting stronger when they do it. Maybe we could take some of the troops from relatively undefended camps, bring them here where we can use them against the Tarnished more directly, instead of letting them get picked off one by one. When I was walking to Stormveil, I saw an entire camp killed by one Tarnished - there weren’t enough to fight her properly, and their defences weren’t really up to dealing with them.”

“Hm. Hm. Hmmm.”

Godrick was clearly unsure of what to say and was trying to look pondering to buy time. After a final, very long ‘hmm’ he deigned to answer.

“Perhaps.”

A snapped finger summoned a servant, and after a few muttered instructions the fellow scurried away and returned with a large map of the entirety of Limgrave - seemed fairly up to date, too. Marks were embedded where camps and fortifications were, and Taylor… felt a little bit sick, a feeling that intensified as Godrick ran through the major troop centres under his command. These were awful. What the hell was Fort Morne defending, what was Fort Haight doing that was remotely useful? Who would ever assault the Tower of Return? Seriously, it overlooked the empty sea - wasn’t like the Tarnished were voyaging around in huge boats (to her knowledge), the entire group that had attacked them could probably fit in a decent-sized dinghy. If the overall purpose was to support Stormveil, protect Godrick at all costs… God, this was a mess. And she had to explain this without insulting Godrick, given that he’d probably planned all this out. How had he stayed in control so long?

“...well, how about this - there’s a fortification down here, guarding the route into Stormhill. That’s nearby, seems to be a lot of troops… we could use all of them back here, they could help defend the gate while we get the Liurnia road working again.”

“Ah, and you display a lack of tactical acumen! This is a choke point, a term that refers to a place where close quarters may deny the advantage of numbers, a superb place to defend my lands!”

Did… did he think she had no idea what a choke point was?

“Very good point, my lord, but… unless I’m wrong, I think there’s another route here which leads to Stormhill. That must be how the Tarnished keep getting here. And this route doesn’t look like it could be easily blocked.”

This was a polite way of saying that ‘your daughter could probably see that this was a terrible idea, and she was willing to lie to you because I promised to kill birds for her. Choke points mean nothing if you’re the superior force, then you’re just making it easier for a smaller force to fight you. And this map doesn’t show any real fortifications, so we’re working with regular barricades. They could probably run through these, save the time of going the long way.’ Of course, she wasn’t going to say any of this. Because she liked living.

“Ah, ‘tis the burden of the honourable, that we plan for armies of loyal soldiers in noble combat - alas, the age of honour is long-gone, and only unworthy Tarnished remain as a challenge. I weep for the changing of the ages, ah, if only I had the throne and could bring glory back to this land…”

Wow, he was good at bullshitting. She’d known that before, but it always faintly impressed her when Godrick weaselled his way out of saying anything bad about himself or admitting a mistake. Wasn’t sure if she wanted to learn that particular skill, but it had clearly worked out for Godrick over the years. The level of egotism probably necessary for true mastery almost certainly was beyond her, though.

“Very well, then. Withdraw these troops, bring them to serve their Lord.”

Taylor blinked. Was… was this working? Holy shit, it was working. Even if she’d succeeded a good few times now, it always came as a pleasant surprise.

“Oh, alright, my lord! I’ll get someone to-”

“Nay, nay.”

His eyes were cruel, mocking. He had an idea - she could tell by the twitching of his many fingers, the way his contorted flesh quivered and twisted in excitement.

“Thou hast proven thyself to me, but my soldiers must remain at my side - I cannot lose them to the wilds, not when greater duties await!”

Translation: my troops are so listless and half-dead that they’d probably make it a few steps out of the front door before they collapsed into a heap, took a nap, or simply wandered in entirely the wrong direction. Not their fault, of course - centuries of warfare seemed to do that to a person - but it was definitely a little irritating. What exactly was Godrick - oh. Oh no. Oh no.

“Thou should go forth, take a steed, and set out to my encampment! Tell all who dwell there that their lord requires their service! Take an emblem of my rule, lest they kill you on sight as an intruder.”

Taylor had blundered. Seriously, seriously blundered.

“Well, my lord, maybe someone stronger would be better, I mean, what if the Tarnished-”

“As thou said. The Tarnished do not hold territory, they rove and reave with no care for building a true legacy. This assault likely cost them a number of their best, and rebirth shall take time. Far too much time, aye, indeed. Travel swiftly, and I have no doubt that the Tarnished shall overlook thee! And if not… well, thou hast a living jar, thy rebirth shall be swift indeed!”

“But… but if I was killed, I’d be delayed, and-”

“And I shall send more in thy place! Thou wishes to serve me, then serve, and do not cower in the glow of my hospitality. Dost thou feast on my food and sleep in my beds with no mind to repayment?”

“But the defence-”

“Shall be quite fine. I am a strategist, am I not? Did I not lead an assault on Altus itself?”

Well, yes. An assault that he failed miserably at, apparently. That, and the assault on Caria Manor, the assault on Malenia… yeah, sure, he was a strategist. Technically. He made strategies. The term didn’t imply any inherent quality.

“Yes, my lord. But-”

“Continue to object and I shall mark thee as a recalcitrant. Begone swiftly - if I catch thee, my wroth shall be aroused most terribly. Am I understood, little creature?”

God, why did he have to remind her of the hot Godrick the headband had showed her? The bubbles under the skin were bad enough, this was just icing on the cake… ‘aroused’, he damn well knew what he was doing.

“...yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He patted her on the head mockingly, then gently pushed her towards the exit, giggling slightly to himself. Bastard. She knew exactly what he was thinking - she’d pointed out flaws in his ‘strategy’ if you could even call it that, and he’d just come off a battle where her defences had been a little lacking, and he had been wounded. Unacceptable, to someone like him. And now he had a chance to remind her exactly what the pecking order was - him on top, her right at the bottom where she should be happy to stay. No more objections, none that would let her leave alive, that is. She stumbled out of the throne room, while Godrick cackled louder and louder, taking perverse glee in being back on top of the world. God, and she’d done so much to help him, to make his fortress more secure. Sure, she’d lied a good few times, and had stolen from him, but… gah, surely she deserved a little bit of courtesy, or just the authority to command people to do this job for her?

Her mind was reeling with worries. Wolf-winds descending to rip her apart. All her defences made useless. Tarnished showing up to tear her in half because it might help their assault on Stormveil. Any of the other horrors out there… she was close to falling over and sobbing wildly, clinging to the ground like she was a kid again. Oh, wait, she was a kid, and yet here she was, getting saddled with a dangerous damn job. The camp wasn’t too far away, but… Christ. She’d need to be on her toes, insanely so. She was still soaked in blood to a degree, for crying out loud. At least she’d have allies beside her, presumably. Strategies were already coming to mind, vague ideas for how to survive out there in the wilds. Moving quickly, always having allies around her, keeping torches unlit to prevent anyone from seeing her movements at night, staying off the road, keeping an eye out for any lone figures riding around with questing expressions… she was going to die out there. She was going to die, and it was all because Godrick had a stupid, fat ego. Fuck.

One of the knights stopped her, and handed over a pair of objects. One was a rolled up piece of dark green cloth, and the other was… a medal. It looked like a medal, certainly, the kind pinned on people’s chests after some awful war or another. A little larger, of course, and with Godrick’s emblem - the rearing lion and the golden tree. The cloth was revealed to be a large banner, likewise woven with the emblem, and it looked like something that should probably be in a museum - old, almost threadbare in some places, holes from arrows, and an alarming dark stain marking the bottom. A war banner, then. She had credentials, at least. That meant the people at the camp wouldn’t kill her on sight, how… nice. She’d have to yell at so many people to get this done, Christ almighty. As she stomped moodily through the cemetery, a familiar figure scuttled to her side. Taylor looked over… then down. Crawa was crawling close to the ground, staring upwards with wide eyes.

“Talked to Lord Godrick?”

“Yeah. He wants me to leave, just for… I don’t know, a few days. Unless I die. Might be longer, then.”

Crawa clapped a full three hands to her mouth in shock.

“Death? Oh, no, no, no, if you die I won’t get my wings! And you promised! And no more stories too, I want to know more.”

Taylor sighed.

“Don’t worry about the wings. The perfumer is going to get you some. And… sorry about the stories. Lord Godrick’s orders.”

She tried to keep walking, and a few spindly limbs wrapped around her leg, keeping her in place. It was eerie, being touched by a Scion. The mismatch of limbs meant that her body couldn’t help but imagine a whole crowd clinging to her, something that sent a lot of memories to the surface in a deeply un-fun way. Likewise, Crawa was cold. No wonder she was so pale, it felt like none of the heat had returned to the corpse-limbs, they remained bloodless and utterly chilling. A number of lizard-brained responses almost came to the fore - running, shrieking, becoming as rigid as a corpse herself. She barely resisted, trying to keep in mind Crawa’s strange innocence, her loneliness, the stuff that made her sympathetic. It… somewhat worked. She did go a little stiff.

“No! You’ll go, you won’t come back. Like… like my sisters, like Bote, Swuste, Hild, Dunne.”

“I’ll come back, it might just take-”

“No! I’m a scion of Lord Godrick, I command you to stay and give me wings!”

“...you want to say that to his face?”

Crawa froze, and a whole host of limbs started clicking nervously.

“...ah, perhaps I spoke without thinking. Lord Godrick says I should stop doing that.”

“Might be good advice.”

“Bah.”

They remained locked in place for a moment, Taylor trying to politely extricate herself, Crawa utterly glued to her leg while trying to conceive of a new way to get her to stay. God, she really was a child. Again came the nasal, wheedling voice that sounded so much like her father’s.

“Perhaps… perhaps… bah.”

She even had his vocal tics. This was getting uncanny. With a gentle pry, she was finally able to free herself from the tangled mass of limbs that formed the scion. Crawa sat dejectedly in the middle of the path, staring at the ground with an expression of intense concentration. Poor kid. That petulance was oddly charming on her, but completely infuriating on Godrick. She hoped the kid would grow out of it, maybe become a better person than her dead old dad. Well, it’d been centuries since she was born, most likely. Who knew to what extent ‘growing up’ was a valid option in her life. Taylor strode away into the fortress, reminding herself of the solid walls, the bright torches, the masses of guards… but the place had an air of paranoid anticipation to it, like Taylor and Godrick had both infected the place with their particular neuroses.

Soldiers were standing rigidly at their posts, barely moving, certainly not slacking off to nap or train idly against battered dummies. The Tarnished had made people nervous, maybe being in a proper siege was bringing back some old memories of the Shattering. Enough to make them more active, hopefully. Onager was standing upright, for once, using his cleaver as an impromptu rest to lean on. She’d have been worried about the sharp edge being dulled, but… well, that thing could easily crush someone to death, the sharpness was probably barely a concern. Margit and Mohg were standing guard at his feet, and she was faintly gratified to see that they didn’t snarl at her when she approached. Just a cursory sniff and a watchful look. The Omen grumbled as she passed - he had a different approach to grumbling than Godrick or Margit, more of a low, irritated rumble than anything more coherent. Interesting approach.

“You… know what’s happening?”

“Yeah. Tarnished are going to keep coming for us. Godrick wants me to go out, retrieve troops.”

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”

“...will you guys be alright? I mean, if the Tarnished get inside-”

“If they do, I’ll crush as many as I can, then run for the hills. Hear there’s a bunch of bandits in Limgrave, might go see if they have any openings.”

Taylor blinked.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Moved on before, I’ll move on again. I like Godrick… but I won’t die for him. No bloody chance. Do the same, if you’re clever.”

There was something faintly admirable about that, in its own way. He was… solid, Onager. Reminded her of Telavis a little, honestly - the same willingness to adapt to a new situation with no mental dissonance, shifting from one role to the next with ease. For Telavis, he went from a knight to bodyguard-slash-loan shark, and hadn’t complained once, hadn’t taken any revenge. For Onager, he talked about leaving behind the lord he’d possibly been with for years like he was considering taking a quick walk after dinner. Casual. It was something she wished she could have, but as it was… she was a gangly, scrawny mess that tumbled wherever the breeze took her, and she was happy to cling to solidity as long as it stood. Speaking of solidity, Telavis himself joined her again by the gate, looking out to the horizon. He was… blunt.

“Runes.”

Taylor blinked.

“Uh- yeah, runes. I got some when the Tarnished fell over the cliff. Why?”

“Debt.”

Oh, come on. The bubbling under her skin was unpleasant, but power was power, right? And now he wanted her runes, what, were they some kind of currency - actually, come to think of it, that made a certain amount of sense. Runes granted power, so they had an intrinsic value to them, and the only way of getting appreciable quantities was to kill powerful people, limiting the supply somewhat. Plus, if you could use them to gain more permanent strength, they could be removed from the market with relative ease. Huh. Still seemed a bit strange, but… actually, know what, Telavis had earned this. He’d helped her out, trained her in the spear (which had saved her life against Nepheli, bought her the time she needed, clearly impressed her enough to get challenged to a wrestling match), and was certainly going to be invaluable with the whole Black Knife situation. And she’d been meaning to start paying off her debt to him, given the whole betraying him and stealing his armour thing. At the end of the day, she weighed up her two options - a temporary boost to her strength (which she hadn’t yet felt in a genuinely appreciable way), or the continued loyalty of someone stronger than she could hope to be, even with a Rune-granted boost. Barely a choice, really. Alone, she’d stood no chance against Nepheli. Her best resource was allies, not some delusions of individual heroism. The knight reached out a hand, and she clasped it.

The feeling was weird. The bubbles under her skin rushed to the tips of her fingers, bunched so tight that it almost felt like the skin was about to split around them. They crackled and burst, but the energy flowed directly out of her, leaving her feeling… drained. For a second, her and Telavis were linked in a way that was impossible to describe. She felt a whirling, knotted ball of churning change, animal features drifting to the surface erratically then fading just as quickly. And yet the whole thing shone with the brightest shade of gold, just like the Erdtree or Margit’s conjured weapons, just like… the gold that had lied to her. It only lasted for a second, barely enough time for her to process what she was sensing… and then it was gone. For a second, she remembered the light in her dreams, the way it always remained infuriatingly out of her grasp, the way it had all been for nothing… the doubts, the fears, the constant nervousness at her power returned full force, and coupled with the loss of her runes, she felt exhausted. God, she still hadn’t slept… would Godrick mind if she caught a quick forty winks? Maybe eighty. Possibly more, she’d need to see.

No, she was testing fate enough already. Her luck had been surprisingly good, and she wasn’t going to push it further than it needed to go. Once the strangeness had faded, she felt that something had still lingered from the Runes - feeling energy pulsing through her even when she should be exhausted, feeling that unnatural strength in her limbs… her muscles almost remembered the feeling, and she could vaguely sense that she could push herself a little harder than before. Not by much. But… she’d seen a greater height, and now her body had clearly become deluded in its expectations. She staggered out of the gate, up to the half-destroyed barricade, and Telavis followed. Angharad waited there, overseeing some of the repairs - God, the Tarnished had really done a number on it. The wood was pierced through, completely destroyed in some parts, cleared both by the Tarnished and Godrick’s vicious attack.

Something strange struck her, though - the barricade wasn’t as destroyed as she had predicted. Sure, it was damaged, but parts could be salvaged. If they were clever, they’d have brought better tools, maybe more people, maybe even some fire to burn the whole thing to the ground. Unless… hm. This attack was professionally executed, surely they’d have thought of all of this. Unless they weren’t trying to really get inside, just trying to probe the defences, check for weaknesses. Taylor would be very interested in seeing their conclusions on that front. The gatehouse was sealed, and she’d insist on more guards around the path where Nepheli had snuck in. More barricades. Knights down below where they could repel an attack more effectively. Some to properly assist Margit… yeah, she had plans to seal any gaps. How would the Tarnished respond?

Questions for later. For now, Angharad was turning to greet her, surprise visible even under her veil.

“You should be asleep.”

“Godrick wants me to get some troops.”

She blinked.

“...he what? Out there, alone? How does he-”

“It’s a power thing, I’m guessing.”

For a moment, she considered taking the perfumer with her. She’d be useful, with her concoctions, but… no. Without a lab, she’d be running on limited supplies. And she’d had centuries to build up a terror of the outside world, Taylor had only been her two weeks. Plus, too many people and she’d be easily noticed, likely a hell of a lot slower too. No, Angharad had to stay. Taylor continued talking:

“You can manage things on your own for a bit?”

“Not… not really. No mind for this stuff.”

“Just get things repaired, try and station some troops to help Margit, seal off the place where the Tarnished snuck in. That’s all. Hopefully I won’t be gone for long.”

“I’ll do my best. Drink lots of water, though, you hear? I don’t want you coming back needing an incision-”

“I’ll drink all the safe water I find, don’t worry.”

“Hm. Good. And… be safe.”

“I’ll try.”

Angharad nodded awkwardly and turned back to her work, clearly a little rusty at this whole ‘affection’ thing. To be fair, so was Taylor. And… that was it. Telavis followed, Potiphar trundled to her side and attached himself with absolute certainty. She had a bag of food retrieved from the kitchens, a few waterskins… it was enough to survive for a little while. A brief trip to her room gained her both the enchanted torch and the beast repellent. She had everything she needed. The route wouldn’t even be that difficult, apparently the road led directly to the camp and back, piss easy (as Onager would put it). But… one issue remained, and it was a pretty big one. Stormveil had horses, useful for conveying Godrick’s servants across the length and breadth of his domain. Sure, most of them were scrawny, old, or dead (not like horses were much use to a completely static military force), but they were still around. Only problem:

Taylor couldn’t ride a horse.

She’d never learned, and a part of her imagined climbing up, feeling great for precisely a second, and then getting bucked off to break her neck and completely paralyse herself. Godrick would find it hilarious, and she’d have to ask one of her companions to kill her so she could resurrect, ideally with one less broken neck. And that’d just be bloody miserable for all parties involved, except for Godrick, who would have a whale of a time. You know what, if she was in the mood for envying people, she might as well include Godrick on that list. Sure, he was paranoid, half-mad verging on full-mad, and had more personality defects than she thought it was possible to acquire while still being halfway functional, but he seemed to be very capable of having a great time, unlike her. She got depressingly drunk. He just bullied someone and was cackling away like his castle hadn’t just been attacked and a few of his limbs had been sliced off.

She very much hoped she wouldn’t need to walk, and she was bracing herself for the misery of another long journey on foot, or maybe the vague indignity of riding behind Telavis (assuming he actually knew how to ride, maybe he’d forgotten over the long, long years)… when a dark shadow blotted out the sun. She had barely a moment to blink before a familiar many-limbed crab-girl crashed down in front of her, sending dust everywhere. The guards nearby flinched, and barely restrained themselves from running away. Crawa rose higher, standing taller than Taylor, or even Telavis. Taylor coughed, her eyes watered, and her mood declined. What did she want now? What weird idea had she come up with?

“Climb on!”

What in the sam fuck.

Chapter Text

"Crawa, I don't think-"

"Climb on, friend!"

She stretched out a number of limbs invitingly. Taylor was currently undergoing a small mental crisis. She'd recognised that she was in danger out there, that she couldn't ride, and that her greatest resource were allies. But… she'd been thinking about Telavis, Angharad, people with experience, weapons, a killer instinct. Crawa was a distressingly innocent crab-girl who wanted to fly. There was a world of difference between Telavis and Crawa, and Taylor tried to express this in the politest possible terms, even as the scion's golden eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and various legs stamped up and down in excitement. God, it was like kicking a puppy.

"It'll be dangerous out there, and-"

Crawa silently drew two sharp, golden swords from beneath her cloak. Hm. Another hand withdrew a golden shield. Taylor recalled Angharad's words - a living war machine, a giant twirling mess of arms and blades. And if she remembered correctly, Godrick had taken at least three of these scions up to Leyndell with him during his failed invasion, and none of them had died in combat - he just misplaced them afterwards. Plus, she'd been put in charge of guarding his tower while he was away, and he clearly trusted her to do that successfully, so… oh, come on, she was a kid, just because she was a potentially very dangerous kid didn't change the fact that she had the mentality of an excitable child.

"Crawa. I know you're trying to help. But I can borrow a horse-"

"Horses are slow and can't use swords. And they can't do this."

She sprang into the air. Taylor blinked. Goodness, she was going up incredibly high - those limbs, despite their spindliness, were surprisingly powerful. She sailed up, becoming barely visible, and then fell down to earth like an overly-limbed meteorite. Taylor braced herself and screwed her eyes shut good move, as it turned out. The spray of dust and the rumbling of earth was quite remarkable, and even braced she found herself almost falling over. When her eyes opened, the first sight was Crawa's smug, dust-marked face - even dishevelled, mostly covered in dust, with everything out of alignment and rumpled, she looked like she could spiralise anyone into oblivion. Taylor turned pleadingly to Telavis.

"Do you-"

Telavis was looking oddly wistful.

"In the war against the giants, we rode atop lions, upon the shoulders of trolls… a horse is a wonderful mount, but they lack something in the offensive department. Why, I recall when Lord Godfrey blinded a fire giant and rode him, along with a coterie of Zamor knights, into the massed bodies of the beast's kin… why, the gore-"

Taylor stopped listening. Telavis was deep in his memories again - and once more, they sounded faintly horrifying, with far too many intestines for comfort. She had no desire to hear about how giants, like everyone else, shit themselves when they died. She very much had no desire to hear about the way they burned a whole variety of shades, dwarfing the aurora in brilliance. Damn it, so he wasn't going to be of any help. Crawa widened her eyes and lowered herself to the ground slightly, minimising her profile - damn it, she was trying to act like a kicked puppy, doing her best to elicit every sympathetic reaction she could. Telavis continued to mumble to himself about the splendid experience of soaring through the clouds on 'the wings of the Crucible', and Taylor groaned. The idea of having another ally, someone who could probably terrify anyone into keeping their distance… it was very appealing. Without the Runes, with her exhaustion piling up, with the memory of being alone against Nepheli sticking in her mind… yeah, she could see the appeal. With a deep inward breath, she committed.

"Alright. Fine."

"Huzzah!"

Crawa crowed, twitching like a spider stuck in a bath. Taylor sighed internally as she was hauled up onto Crawa's surprisingly wide back by far too many arms, Telavis hopping on like he was completely used to and comfortable with riding on top of a faintly terrifying crab-creature. A few pointed fingers, and Crawa knew where they needed to go. Taylor felt muscles bunching beneath her, twitching erratically into motion, slowly coming into a taut pile where the maximum possible force could be projected. Taylor paled. She could foresee what was about to come, and nothing she could do could stop it. She settled for huddling lower onto Crawa's back while more arms held her in place. She glanced over to Telavis - grinning like a maniac. Fantastic. She was the only sane one here. The muscles contracted once more, and the screaming started.

"Whee!"

Crawa cried, understandably.

"Onwards!"

Telavis added, aptly.

"Jesus fuck."

Taylor supplied in her typically helpful way. This was probably the delirium talking, but the Erdtree looked somehow incredulous. She sympathised. For a second she felt entirely weightless, her stomach turning in unpleasant ways, a giant muscled slug finally free of the captivity of gravity and content to squirm and flip like an overexcited monkey and no, she didn't care if she was mixing her metaphors. The impromptu slug-simian ballet only lasted for a moment, before gravity took hold and she felt all her organs getting smeared across the inside of her ribcage as Crawa plummeted back down to the ground. The girl hadn't accepted any suggestions to the contrary, insisting that jumping was the best way to travel. The worst part was, it wasn't even that quick. She could still see Stormveil. Crawa was just having fun with being out of the castle, and while Taylor could vaguely sympathise, she deeply wished that perhaps she could have fun without turning Taylor into a deeply terrified shell of her former self. Well, more than she already was. A shell of a shell. No, not quite - if old Taylor was the juicy peanut, and new Taylor was the pockmarked shell, then this ride was reducing her down to the weird dry papery scraps of husk that fell out of the shell once cracked. God, she didn't even know if that had a name, because this world didn't apparently have peanuts and fuck the ground was getting close.

The crash made her teeth jitter, and she had to be sure not to clench them too tightly - she'd lost her dignity already, she didn't want to lose her teeth as well. One free hand frantically reached out and slapped Crawa repeatedly on the face, far weaker than she'd like. The muscles momentarily relaxed, and the scion uncannily twitched her head upwards to almost stare directly at Taylor.

"What?"

"Stop! Please!"

"But jumping-"

"If you keep going I'll vomit on your cloak."

That was a bluff. She'd already emptied her stomach after the Nepheli incident, at worst she'd dry heave, maybe spew up some water. No real chunks to speak of… but Crawa didn't need to know that. The scion sniffed, sounding simultaneously disgusted and disappointed. Telavis gave her a reproachful look - no, no, he could go fuck himself, he'd fought giants, she couldn't even legally drive, and she was paying his salary with freshly harvested murder-coins. Potiphar was delightfully supportive… well, maybe that was the wrong word, he'd been clinging to her neck this entire time, he was destabilising her position pretty damn well as it turned out. Crawa started to morosely trot along the road, grumbling in a manner distressingly similar to Godrick - something about freakish two-arms with their weak stomachs. Taylor might have felt insulted, but honestly, she was too happy blessing the earth for not being the sky.

"Your stomach is weak."

"I… I know."

"Are you afraid of heights?"

"Not really. Afraid of falling from them. Which I feel is normal."

"Bah."

Silence dominated in the quartet (two by habit, two by choice), and Taylor got her breath back under control. Once she did, she managed to actually survey the landscape around here. Stormveil was set high up in the hills, and she could vaguely see traces of the surrounding lands - a rusty red on the horizon, a tiny bloodshot tinge on an otherwise flawless eye. Caelid, she guessed. The place no-one went to, where someone had apparently managed to stop the stars from moving. She was perfectly happy to not be heading there - they had their backs to the Erdtree and were shuffling southwards. Stormhill seemed like a fairly barren place, and part of her could understand the logic of building a castle here - in a siege, there would be no farms to pillage, no towns to plunder, just a single unassailable structure and miles and miles of nothing. Be a nightmare for any army. Pity the Tarnished were cheating. The road was fairly primitive as roads went, more of a dirt track than anything else, but it was still better than no road at all.

One thing caught her eye, though - something like an old stone monument. A huge disk, set in the earth, surrounded by strange pillars. It was… odd. Everything else in this world was delicately engraved, it seemed like no structure was really considered complete unless it had a half-dozen unnecessary adornments. But this disk seemed to be the exception. From what she could see from this distance, it was entirely plain, just a mass of cleanly interlocking bricks surrounded by simple pillars which… ah. Weren't quite pillars. A series of spheres stacked on top of one another, their tops pulsing with a strange purple light, the same she'd seen from that skeleton-armoured Tarnished. It was a simple sight, in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to highlight once again that she was in a vastly foreign world. She considered asking Telavis, but she'd caught sight of the thing too late, and it had already passed out of view behind a small hillock. More urgent matters caught her attention now.

Like, for instance, actual strategy. She was out here, in the wilds, and the frantic jumping had scrambled her enough that she'd barely processed that. The wolf-winds were overhead, dark shapes cavorting inside dusty whirlwinds. Every shadow could hide a Tarnished, at any moment they could turn the corner and find a small army waiting for them. At least they were moving quickly - when she wasn't trying to jump everywhere like a demented frog, Crawa was actually rather fast - she had a whole method for sprinting, bending low and using her arms in combination with her legs, rotating them out like a horse so there was always something pushing her forwards. As she moved, she grumbled lightly to Taylor.

"I understand the desire to not fall. The land is beautiful from on high… falling and losing sight of it is awful."

"...yeah. Sure. That's why."

Crawa smiled shyly.

"But if I have wings, I can stay up there as long as I want, no fear of falling! I promise to take you up with me, once I've mastered the art of flight."

Taylor paled further, somehow.

"...that's very kind of you, Crawa. I'll, uh, keep it in mind."

She leant down and spoke quietly into Crawa's ear.

"There might be Tarnished along the road. We should stay off it - try and keep to the hills, stay out of sight."

Telavis rumbled approvingly - huh, she was surprised he wasn't dismissing it as cowardice. Crawa nodded, and scuttled off to the side, the long grass almost completely consuming them. They must have looked a sight - a rustling presence marked only by Taylor's head randomly popping up like a submarine's periscope, glancing around, before ducking back down and clinging tightly to Crawa's fine cloak. Being enclosed by the long green fronds was strangely comforting - a soft forest with trees that parted easily for them. Again, the foreignness of the Lands Between struck her. The grass smelled different to back home… she'd almost forgotten, being cooped up inside Stormveil. Deeper, richer in some way, like… ground cinnamon. That was it. Everything had a hint of dust to it, and she had a similar feeling to when she smelled an unfamiliar spice - a combination of confusion and enjoyment. The three of them scuttled onwards for some time, occasionally peeking up to check their progress. Taylor had scrutinised the map before she'd left, and even so, she spread it out on Crawa's back to double check it.

They were still on target for the encampment. Good. A little hard to tell, given that the contours of Crawa's back turned it into a very strange topographical map - her spine created a row of mountains through the middle of Limgrave, a dip created an enormous crater where Caelid should be, and shifting shoulderblades made the Altus Plateau seem to be made entirely from liquid. If she was reading the landmarks correctly, they should arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon. Longer than she'd like, but… well, unlike her initial journey to Stormveil, she had a far greater degree of certainty. Head to a place, do a thing, head back to base. No ambiguities… though, she did wonder about the camp they were heading to. Was everyone dead? Had the Tarnished slaughtered them before moving upwards, or had they simply bypassed the entire thing?

She decided, then and there, that if she arrived and found nothing but corpses, she'd turn around and hotfoot it back to Stormveil. Maybe splash some water on her face, some mud, maybe a little blood if her stomach was feeling stable enough, then claim she'd barely escaped from a ferocious battle in which everyone acquitted themselves wonderfully. Potiphar wouldn't snitch, hell, she could probably bribe him with a few bodies. Telavis would probably be fine. Crawa… hm, she'd need to think hard about that one. Could she bribe the girl with more arms? Or… bigger wings? Let her in on some of Angharad's loonier ideas involving dragon or giant bat wings? Oh, right, this world had giant bats, she'd barely processed that, yet more batshit bullshit to go apeshit about. What a load of dogshit for a chickenshit like her.

As the sun started to set, she realised a major problem. Crawa couldn't see in the dark. And all of them almost fell to the ground when she tripped on a particularly well-hidden rock… a few words, and they had come to a halt. The grass waved welcomingly above their heads, and Taylor pondered where to set their camp - here, they had no visibility, could be ambushed, but they were relatively hidden… hm. Crawa surveyed the scene, sneezed as a piece of stray grass found its way into her nose, and started to stamp angrily. Taylor blinked. That could work. With encouragement, Crawa was induced to stamp over and over, using her full size and weight to her advantage, tamping the grass down and clearing a circle for them. With an internal smile, she realised that she was more or less making a crop circle. If someone else stumbled across this, they'd probably be seriously freaked out. Well, they'd be freaked out before seeing the scion, which was an achievement, she supposed.

They sat together in the dark, shivering in the cold wind. No point building a fire, they'd just attract attention. Or burn themselves to death by starting a massive wildfire, one or the other. Nothing could happen, of course, but Taylor wasn't going to tempt fate. Get a bit chilly, or die violently. Hm. Not much of a choice at all. Crawa curled around herself, forming a tight bundle of limbs wrapped loosely in her finely embroidered cloak. Telavis barely seemed to mind the exposure, simply… removing some charms from his pocket and starting to pray to them. For a second, Taylor was nervous - he had a little image of Godfrey, but he also had two trees, the Erdtree and the Crucible. The latter of which was apparently heretical. Her eyes flicked from the charms to Crawa, and she let a tense breath out when she saw no hint of recognition in her eyes. Maybe it was an unknown heresy, or a very old one that no-one bothered remembering. Telavis was ancient, after all. And the only sign of his beliefs was a tiny ivory conifer set on a patch of tamped-down grass. His prayers were quiet, and Taylor felt rude watching him. She turned to Crawa, who was examining Potiphar closely - something the pot didn't take entirely well.

"He is emptier than the others."

"...uh, yeah. I guess he is."

"Why?"

"Just felt uncomfortable with him… you know, stuffing dead people inside. It's unusual to do that, where I come from."

Crawa perked up.

"Where you come from… ooh, ooh, tell me more of the Simurgh! Tell me about the Winged Woman!"

She knew this was coming. Didn't mean she enjoyed it. Her tired, deeply drained mind went to some very strange places, and conjured up an image that simply wouldn't go away no matter how hard she thought about it. It was something she could never say back home under any circumstances, but here… eh, she had nothing better to say.

"Well, the first time the Simurgh appeared, it was in a place which makes some seriously good chocolate."

Crawa tilted her head to one side.

"Choc-olate?"

"Uh, it's like… a candy? You know, loads of sugar-"

"I know sugar, oathsworn, of course I know sugar. Caelid used to grow it, or so fath- Lord Godrick says. I haven't had any in a long time, though…"

"Well, back home we have too much. If I get back, I'll send you some."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"Now, this land of choc-olate…"

"Oh, right. So, she showed up, hovered in the middle of nowhere, then suddenly attacked everyone."

Crawa gasped.

"But why?"

And this was where Taylor said something that would get her blacklisted from every institution in Earth Bet. Except for the Fallen - actually, no, they'd probably consider it blasphemy.

"No-one knows. But I think it was for the chocolate."

Crawa blinked, and put the pieces together. Taylor felt very strange, like she was about to laugh madly and also slap herself at the same time. This was something she could never bring up to anyone from back home, not under any circumstances. Probably entirely born of weary delirium. Christ almighty, she could feel the collective mind of Earth Bet flipping her the bird… Crawa snapped many of her fingers, and her face brightened.

"Ah, perhaps I would do the same! Such flightiness (hah!), such strange impulsiveness, surely it comes from the freedom of flight. Perhaps… perhaps when I can fly, I might soar to other lands and steal their delicacies too."

She stuck out her tongue petulantly.

"The food in Stormveil is awful."

Taylor thought about the repetitive fare, momentarily agreed, then remembered Winslow's cafeteria food, or some of the more unpleasant processed stuff from back home. And, of course, the experience of living off dried food in the wilderness with the constant threat of death all around. By comparison, Stormveil was a five-star restaurant.

"It's not that bad-"

"You weren't here when Lord Godrick had thousands of subjects. Nowadays it's all sausages, eggs, bread… once, we had spiced blood pie, we had the candied almonds the Nomads made, and… oh, I miss the pastries. Callu, on the Weeping Peninsula, used to make these wonderful pastries, sweet and soft, far different to the dry crusts we get today."

She was active, twitching eagerly, actually unfurling herself and gesturing wildly. Her eyes were bright, and at the mention of Callu's pastries, she practically shook from head to foot. Potiphar watched her carefully, tracking her larger limbs which could probably shatter him if they slammed down with enough force. Telavis had a small smile across his lips, even as she continued his prayers. Taylor was… honestly, a little sad. It was weird, the stuff she missed from back home. When Angharad had blinked confusedly at the word 'tomatoes' a while back, Taylor had realised with sadness that most of the cuisine from back home was probably unmakeable here. Well, her favourites were, at least. Even burgers were out of reach - not good burgers, bad burgers, so full of grease that they turned their bags transparent, grease that burst out when she chomped down, sauces on top so full of additives that this world might as well focus on more achievable inventions, like nuclear bombs. She couldn't even name all the weird chemicals that went into food back home, let alone make them. Burgers, lasagna, pancakes swaddled in maple syrup, chocolate by the tonne… all gone, now. Crawa blinked, noticing the look in Taylor's eyes, and scuttled over.

Taylor almost jumped out of her skin when she felt an array of arms drape around her shoulder. Crawa smiled innocently down at her.

"Oh, I'm sorry - our meals must seem rather poor now. Do not worry, if I manage to find anything sweet, I'll be sure to share. I'm sure that Lord Godrick has some hidden somewhere."

She blinked. This was… her life now. A huge crab creature was comforting her by offering her future sweets. And it was working. Potiphar stomped over, hands on whatever passed for his hips, and irritatedly whacked one of Crawa's hands. When the scion retreated for a moment, stunned, the jar hopped into Taylor's lap and curled up. Was the jar jealous? There was something faintly funny about that, though she did have to reassure Crawa that she did appreciate the gesture. One question came to mind, though.

"Sorry if it's too personal, but what was Lord-"

Something snapped. Not mentally, not internally… environmentally. A dry twig cracking behind them. Taylor flinched, and glanced around wildly. Nothing but wild grass, more wild grass, and… there. Movement. Someone was coming through the grass. Maybe an animal, not necessarily a someone… no. Couldn't be. Those were footsteps, heavy boots pounding the grass down. No, she was wrong again. Multiple sets of footsteps. A small group was coming closer, maybe… three, four people. Shit, shit. Plans formed rapidly - if they were Tarnished, things could go very wrong very quickly. She had allies, but if possible she'd want to avoid a fight. No idea how long it took for them to come back to life, if she was incautious she might just end up with a barrel of trouble coming down on her, a whole host of Tarnished brought out of the woodwork to avenge their kin. She glanced around wildly, assessing the situation - they knew too little. Wasn't going to run, that'd be moronic in this light. Fighting was too uncertain for her to immediately resort to it. Wait - she whispered a few orders to Crawa, who reluctantly obeyed. Telavis heard his own orders and responded with a grunt of agreement. Potiphar helped her tear a piece of cloth away from the edge of her clothes, just a thin strip, nothing really.

She hoped it would be enough.

She held her breath as the people came closer. She couldn't see a damn thing behind this blindfold, but she could hear everything around her - Telavis snoring in a surprisingly convincing manner, the footsteps approaching… just about the only thing she couldn't hear was Crawa hiding behind the stalks, swords drawn and ready to spring forward at a moment's notice. Telavis had his sword on full display, even if he was feigning sleep. The footsteps continued, blades of grass were pushed aside or trampled beneath, and… there. The new arrivals stopped, and surveyed the scene in silence. Taylor hesitantly raised one hand, trying to act as casual as possible.

"Hello, sorry if I'm waving in the wrong direction."

She tried to put on an awkward smile, the same kind that Crawa or Angharad occasionally wore. It didn't go very well… then again, maybe feeling genuinely awkward would make it look more convincing? The fact that she couldn't see their faces really didn't help. One of the arrivals coughed - a man - and spoke in a deep voice.

"Alright, lass. Sorry if my boys surprised you, just heard voices and…"

"Oh, I understand. Sorry if we were being too loud."

"Nah, nah, not at all. Just wondering if there was anyone else around - not fun spending the nights alone, eh?"

The other men chuckled - three others, she thought. Four, total. They moved with audible clanks, clearly wearing some kind of heavy armour. She could vaguely hear the movement of swords at their belts… stay calm, stay calm. They had been civilised thus far. If they did anything stupid, Crawa and Telavis would very firmly chastise them. Until then, though… if she could get through this peacefully, she would. Wasn't eager to use violence as a first resort. Crawa and Potiphar were concealed in the long grass. The blindfold hid her golden eyes, and Telavis pretending to be asleep hid his. It was a little funny, now she thought about it. Tarnished seemed to be universally hated here, so they might not mention if they were Tarnished or not, try and keep things civil. And if they didn't, she wouldn't, and the blindfold made everything nice and ambiguous. She desperately hoped it would work for long enough.

"Mind if we join ye?"

Taylor gulped slightly, and vaguely gestured to the ground.

"Go ahead. Sorry about the lack of a fire, didn't want-"

"Ah, we understand. We do the same, honestly. No point getting attention ye don't want, eh?"

Four large forms sat down in a loose circle, armour clanking, swords bumping against armoured legs. Hm. Fully armoured, no doubt about it… yeah, peaceful was going to be the easiest solution here. Combat was uncertain and chaotic, and who knew what they had at their disposal? Maybe one of them was the skeleton-wearing Tarnished from earlier, last she recalled he hadn't actually died in the attack. If so, she didn't want to see Telavis get injured against the man who'd briefly held off Margit. As much as she disliked it, the best case scenario was a polite conversation, a tense few hours, and a nice, peaceful separation. Her luck being… well, her luck, she anticipated never coming close to the best case, but a girl could hope. If things went south, she imagined victory being fairly assured, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. Combat was chaos, even a clear victory could get screwed up by random chance. A moment of silence passed, and another man, one with a reedy, nasal voice that she mentally nicknamed Reed started talking.

"Is your… uh, companion well?"

"He's fine. Just sleeping. Long day."

The deep-voiced leader, who she creatively nicknamed Leader, chuckled.

"Fair enough. Tempted to join him. So, what're you doing out here, middle of Stormhill? Not many towns around…"

Shit, they wanted to engage in smalltalk… or a very stealthy interrogation. She'd anticipated this, didn't mean she was looking forward to it.

"Travelling. Seems like most places are abandoned… just trying to find somewhere to stay."

Keep it ambiguous. If she said 'Stormveil', they'd know she wasn't Tarnished. And she didn't know where Tarnished hung out, or anything beyond how dangerous they were, really.

"Where are you heading?"

A third man, who seemed to precede everything with a wet cough (nicknamed 'Phlegm'), spoke up grumpily.

"South. Back to Limgrave. No bloody point staying up here."

Oh-ho?

"...sorry if I ask, but why? If there's nothing for you, maybe-"

Leader grumbled.

"Don't worry about it. Just some nonsense with a castle."

"Ah."

She didn't push it. She'd learned her lesson from the mess with Gostoc - silence was full of ambiguity, and that could keep her safe. The more questions she asked, the less competent she appeared. Had a tendency to bite her in the ass. Reed interjected, and his voice showed clear irritation. Sounded like she'd opened a few old wounds by accident, no matter how delicately she trod.

"Bastard Stormveil Castle, that's the one. Bloody just arrived, we did, walked all up there to do what we were meant to do… bastard castle, won't fight fair. No way in. And now-"

Phlegm joined in, sounding positively furious.

"And now those pricks out of the Roundtable have come in, expect everyone to work with them or get stuffed. Bunch of arrogant fucks - no signing up with them, no sir, have to piss off and let them do their 'job'. Still expected to hand over all our stuff, though. Bastards."

Reed leaned closer, talking more to his fellows than to Taylor - suited her just fine, let them spill their guts while she placidly listened, trying to pretend that she wasn't in obscene danger.

"Not just them, it's their boss, you know? Like, they call themselves the Roundtable, but it's just a shitty little kingdom. All of them jumping like trained monkeys to work for that… that All-Seeing, All-Hearing prat."

All-Seeing, All-Hearing… hadn't the invisible woman, the Black Knife, said something to that effect? Interesting… had this person been orchestrating the attacks on Stormveil? If so, she needed to learn more about him (or her, Reed hadn't specified). She coughed quietly, and cautiously asked:

"All-Seeing?"

Silence, but there wasn't any tension in it, just… irritation, and faint embarrassment. They'd been having a nice old-fashioned grumble, and she'd come and reminded them that they had company. Shuffling, shifting, coughing, all the hallmarks of awkwardly trying to appear civilised again. Leader grumbled.

"Sir Gideon Ofnir, the 'All-Knowing' - or so the bastard likes to call himself. Likes to say that he sees everything in the Lands Between, that's he's some great and powerful fellow. Prick. Won't even leave his little castle, sends his pets to do everything for him."

Hm. Good, but she needed to cover her bases.

"Ah. Heard of him, just never heard 'all-seeing' or 'all-hearing'."

"Hm."

Now this was interesting. Well, unless he was calling himself 'Sir' out of some inflated sense of pride, that meant he had been knighted by someone else. Maybe that meant he was well-known, and she could find mention of him elsewhere. Something to look into back in Stormveil. She tried to affect polite disinterest.

"Hm. I see."

She fell silent, and the men started to settle into their own conversations, content to ignore her for the time being. Normal things - how to get back to Limgrave, who was going to forage for food over the next few nights, and some mournful speculation on what they could actually rustle up with limited ingredients and cookware. She'd feel sorry for them, but… they were clearly Tarnished. Weren't even being subtle. Worked for her, implying one of four things. Impulsiveness, apathy, confidence, or stupidity. All of them were great. Impulsiveness caused mistakes, apathy would make them lazy and slow, confidence could lead to worse mistakes than impulsiveness, and stupidity was… stupidity. Being a moron had gotten her into her current position, sure, but she'd been criminally lucky and so pathetic that everyone dismissed her as a threat. They, though, had no such luxury. She knew exactly how dangerous Tarnished could be, and if they decided to play rough, they'd find that her allies knew how to tango with the best of them. God, her thoughts were weird lately, now she was imagining Crawa doing an improvised square dance. It was horrifying.

And that's when the last man spoke. She'd remembered he was there, of course. Four had entered, three had chuckled at the Leader's words… definitely four people total. And one had remained silent this whole time. And now, she realised why. His tone said it all. It was low, and had a hard edge of cunning to it, a deliberate quality that made it sound like he had planned out all of these words in advance. It was a voice that coiled into her ears like a burrowing snake, one that just reeked of smugness, arrogance, all the qualities she disliked. Clever, that was the nickname. Fitting.

"May I ask - how did you make this circle?"

She stiffened. He was clever, paid attention to small details. The handprints, footprints, the signs of the circle's strange creation. She shrugged idly.

"My bodyguard found it. Is there something wrong?"

"...no. May I ask where you came from?"

Damn. The other men were silent, and almost… deferential. She might have given Leader his nickname too soon. Ah, she wasn't going to change it, nor any of the others. They were her nicknames, she'd come up with them in less than a second and had become attached in an instant. Plus, not like she was going to say them out loud. So what if Leader wasn't the leader? She could feel Clever's eyes boring into her, and a bead of cold sweat ran down her back, uncomfortably reminding her of the fight with Nepheli barely a few hours ago. Names, names…

"Callu. But it was a long time ago, I'm not sure how it's-"

"Callu? You've come a long way from home. Are you sure you mean Callu?"

"Sure, down on the Weeping Peninsula. We made good pastries a while back."

Clever hummed, his tone suggesting vague dissatisfaction. The circle fell back into silence, and Taylor was nervous. One of the men was too clever for his own good, and violence seemed to come closer with each second that passed. There was the sound of something cracking, and she almost jumped. Clever had cracked his neck, that was all, and she could imagine a small smile crossing his face at the reaction he'd elicited. Just like Godrick, happy when people reacted.

"Gentlemen?"

Phlegm coughed.

"Done."

What? What the hell had just - oh. Her bag was gone. Clever had communicated silently with them, probably using hand movements, and she'd been none the wiser. How the hell had they - they were armoured, how could she have lost track of them so quickly? Why hadn't the others reacted properly to her stuff getting stolen? A hot wave of panic was starting to build in her stomach. Her bag was gone, and with it… oh fuck. Oh fuck. There was the sound of something unrolling, and Leader whistled in surprise.

"That there's a banner, girl - your bodyguard one of the Grafted's?"

His tone was still friendly, but there was an undercurrent of tension to it.

"...I'm not sure. He doesn't speak often."

Reed spoke in a way that suggested a dangerous smirk crossing his face.

"You should be more careful about the company you keep."

Clever snapped his fingers.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. I'm sure there's a very reasonable explanation for why our friend here is travelling with one of Godrick's banners. Speaking of whom - may I ask your name?"

"Thaylon."

"That's a boy's name, isn't it?"

Oh, Godrick was a prick.

"My parents wanted a son."

Clever laughed - no mirth, no happiness, it was calculated down to the final exhalation and the snapping of his teeth.

"My parents wanted a daughter. That makes two of us, then. And you, gentlemen?"

Reed first.

"Never knew my da. Ma was a whore, grandma ran the whorehouse. Left when I was a lad, never looked back."

Then Phlegm.

"Two parents, seven siblings. All brothers. Big lads. Called me runt… weren't laughing when I got called up to something bigger."

And finally, Leader.

"I actually had no issues with my parents. Lovely people. Miss them every day. Uncle was a bastard, though, happy to never see him again."

Clever drummed his fingers together.

"Hm. Well, now you know a little about us, how about you… what do you do for a living? I assume you're not a librarian."

"No, I-"

"A maid, maybe? Or a… squire, perhaps? A nobleman's daughter, never worked in her life? Or… hm, now this is a very outlandish suggestion, but… are you a strategist, maybe?"

Taylor froze. She knew exactly what they were getting at, even if she wasn't sure how the Clever one had figured it out. Maybe he was just probing her, didn't think the one in charge of Stormveil's defences would leave its walls so casually. Either way, the situation had become dangerous. And she uttered the signal word. She'd intended to slip it casually into conversation if necessary, but this didn't quite seem like the right time. Good signal word, though, unusual enough that she couldn't use it accidentally. As she screamed, she ripped the blindfold away, and the men flinched at the sight of her golden eyes… right before motion exploded from all around, accompanied by the echoes of that signal word, the word that brought chaos to the still, tense night.

"Chocolate!"

Chapter Text

"Chocolate!"

The men reacted strangely. Well, three of them reacted very predictably indeed, with faintly quizzical expressions. Understandable, chocolate clearly didn't exist here. The last one, though… Clever. He blinked in simultaneous recognition and confusion. The word was known. The question was why she was saying it. Mentally, she blanked. The implications spiralled rapidly… no, too late. Capture him if she could. She'd go out of her way to capture him if necessary, she had questions. All for later. Because chaos exploded from the grass. Telavis surged to his feet, sword practically rocketing out of its sheath. At the sight of that strange ruddy gold, the men looked afraid. Good. They knew what it meant. And Crawa was terrifying. Taylor had to rapidly reassess her opinions of the young scion, she deserved some of the reputation Angharad had suggested. There was no rhyme or reason to her strategy, she simply charged and flailed angrily at anything remotely hostile. Of course, when you were an enormous crab creature with far too many arms and a pair of very sharp swords, even angrily flailing was deeply alarming. The men might have been on edge, but they weren't ready for her.

Reed - in reality, a fairly stocky man with a pot belly, about as far from the word 'reedy' as it was possible to get - struggled to his feet and tried to draw his sword… too slow. She blinked as his head abruptly vanished and burrowed a long furrow in the grass. Shortly after, most of his upper body followed. An arm, a handful of fingers like fat white sausages, and above all, gallons of blood. The innocent, if slightly alarming, girl that Taylor had been regaling with stories about chocolate abruptly turned into a blood-drenched monster that had just whittled a man down to a few chunks of flesh and a surprisingly intact pair of legs. The scion shifted erratically before racing off to fight someone else, her swords perpetually moving, her shield constantly levelled in front of her face. And all the while, her small, mangy wing twitched in a regular rhythm, steady as a heartbeat.

Taylor blinked again, almost missing Telavis leaping into battle. She'd expected something flashy from him, maybe those enormous wings, or something truly exotic. Instead, he just stabbed Leader (skinny chap, blonde with a goatee to hide a weak chin) in the chest. Leader gurgled wetly, fingers still trying to grasp his swords. Strangest of all was the long, slightly morose sigh that came out of his mouth - a death rattle? It sounded more like a death wheeze than anything else - was this what happened after countless deaths, did dying just become something faintly irritating and nothing more? The thought was a little depressing, but honestly, she couldn't exactly pay attention to depressing inferences given that she was still half-surrounded by murderous Tarnished who'd figured out who she was - and, again, how had they snuck up on her bag? Was there some more bullshit she needed to worry about? Oh no, not just dream-gold and fucking magic, now she had invisible/inaudible Tarnished that wanted to steal her stuff. Gah. At least it was almost over, right? For a moment, she thought that those two strikes from Crawa and Telavis had marked the end of it - two down in as many seconds, no chance of coming back from that. Outnumbered. Outgunned.

She wasn't quite right. Clever was… Clever. He was skinner than Leader, but there was something tightly-coiled about him, his skinniness just seemed like the product of sheer density as opposed to weakness. He was tough, and taller than anyone else here, including her. And his eyes surveyed the entire scene with cold detachment. He reacted to this with the blase expression of someone who'd seen weirder, and really didn't care after so many surprises. His body moved, and everything about it was half-robotic, every movement too smooth - he shifted from one stance to another like a doll snapping to a new position, every move smooth, every stop sharp. With these strange movements, he politely levelled a crossbow that he'd evidently had resting on his lap this entire time, and shot Crawa in the face. Taylor sprang forwards before she could even think about what she was doing, crashing into the man in a tangle of furious limbs, about as graceful as Crawa but with far too few swords. Her spear was still on the ground… but she could play dirty. She was exhausted, she felt half-dead, but she was angry. Didn't even know if the bolt had hit her, all she knew was that this fucker had shot a kid that wanted to fly.

And that was enough to be mean.

Remembering Nepheli, she immediately drove her knee up into his crotch, eliciting a wheeze of pain - good. Bastard deserved it. Surprisingly, much more satisfying than kicking Nepheli up there, she actually felt things shift this time. Things went wrong almost immediately afterwards, of course, because she had evidently pissed off someone and her punishment was never ending. Clever brought his head back and slammed it into her face, sending her sprawling back down to the ground with a completely broken nose. For some reason, her thoughts immediately went to her earlier plan to cover herself in blood and claim that the camp was butchered. Hooray, she didn't need to borrow blood from anyone now, what a helpful gentleman Clever was and boom, she kicked him in the crotch again with a jerky strength born completely of panic and adrenaline. Her sense of hard-won victory via thoroughly obliterated groin was short-lived. He responded poorly to a second attack to his unmentionables, and his face simply turned red as he slammed a boot into her side, almost cracking her ribs in the process. Once again, it was her turn to wheeze in agony, and she instinctively curled up, denying her the chance for a third crotch attack. Maybe she hadn't kicked him hard enough the first two times. He snarled to Phlegm (who was, unsurprisingly, pretty gross to look at, with a tangled grey beard and eyes that drooped and watered like those of an old dog).

"Deal with her!"

And with that, he was gone. She cast her eyes around frantically, and the scene made itself plain. Reed was dead, Leader was wounded but still infuriatingly alive, and Crawa was flailing wildly while squealing in pain. The bolt had just missed her head, embedding itself in the flesh that probably passed for a neck these days. Looked painful - she couldn't move her head without shifting it around, and she was dealing with the pain… badly. Flailing. Angry, uncoordinated flailing. She was missing almost everything around her, hell, she had driven Telavis away from Leader, forcing him to withdraw his sword and back away to a safe distance where her anguished strikes couldn't hit him by accident. Bad. Bad. She should have thought about this, strategised more… she wasn't good at small unit tactics, not yet. Clever was. In a single shot, he'd turned the battlefield into chaos for everyone, not just his group. Leader quietly drank from a red flask, and the gaping wound on his chest started to seal. Shit. They went from a three-on-two to a three-on-three… well, with Taylor's weakness and Crawa's flailing, it was more of a one-on-three. Shit. Shit.

Phlegm came closer, an expression of absolute anger on his sagging face. He knew who she was, the one who had helped make Stormveil harder and harder to assault. This was personal for him. As he approached, she saw more details of his armour, and a hint of recognition came to her. Rusty, fairly crude, and those of his colleagues were much the same. These were the same four Tarnished that had assaulted the castle a few days ago, and had found themselves completely wiped out by her little defences. Come to think of it, dying to a single sword strike might actually be fairly merciful… after all, she'd burned them to death. His sword raised up, and he readied himself to slice her apart. Wait - he'd elected to kill her with a sword, instead of something more sadistic. Probably out of necessity more than anything else. But it gave her an opening… after all, why kill her? She started spluttering.

"If you let me live, I'll show you how to get around the defences!"

She was lying through her teeth. No way she'd team up with these people under any circumstances. Phlegm paused, though. He was mulling it over in his head, seeing if she was telling the truth, wondering about the possibilities, possibly considering selling her off to this 'Roundtable'. She breathed out hard through her nose, sending a fresh spurt of blood down onto her face. Her breathing, which was recovering, returned to a pained wheeze. She tried to channel her most pitiable moments, and… there. He wasn't pitying her. Calculation had rushed away, the instincts that might have let him see what was coming. Instead, he saw what he could do, what revenge he could take for his painful death at her hands. He advanced, his other hand reaching for a knife at his belt, a grin spreading across his face. In any other circumstance, she'd be utterly paralysed with terror. As it was?

He'd paused. And that was all she needed. He was close to her, and she had nothing inhibiting her movement. The air driven out of her by Clever's kick had returned, and the anger at these four idiots was back at full force. She lashed out with her feet, and kicked him between the legs. Learned her lesson from Clever - no holding back, just pounded upwards with the kind of force she'd usually reserve for stamping on a cockroach. Speaking of which, she did feel something crunch. Phlegm wheezed, and this time she didn't just wait. Instead, she scrambled to her feet… well, half-scrambled, half-leapt in his general direction, burying him in a tangle of gangle. Phlegm fell, and she kneed him in the crotch again - shit, he had some armour down there, and rage was starting to overpower pain. She had to play dirtier. Ideas came to mind… and one kept coming to the forefront. She didn't like this plan, but in the moment, everything seemed reasonable so long as it kept her alive.

She bit Phlegm's nose. There was really no other way of describing it, she opened her mouth and sank her chompers into his nose, biting downwards with all the power she could muster. It felt awful, it was sweaty, there were far too many bones, and it was generally foul-tasting. The taste of copper had already flooded her mouth when she was headbutted in the face, so the nose really didn't make much of a difference, but she could imagine tiny flecks of meat sticking between her teeth, maybe going down her throat - no, no, just focus on biting the nose, don't think about the disgusting implications. She bit down while Phlegm squealed in a distressingly high-pitched voice, and when he started moving in a purposeful way, she started shaking her head from side to side like a dog, and kneed him a few more times in the crotch for good measure. Her conscious brain was utterly horrified at all of this. But… well, she was sleep-deprived, until earlier today she'd been buzzing with bubbles underneath her skin, she'd been forced to wrestle a Tarnished, she'd seen six men chopped into various pieces in front of her, had ridden on a grafted scion across Stormhill, and had tried to give these guys an out instead of siccing her allies on them. She had tried, they could have played along and gone on their merry way, but no. And now she was going to kick them in their unmentionables and bite their noses until they fucked off.

She was under a lot of pressure right now.

As was Phlegm's nose, which was coming scarily close to being torn off. Well, she assumed. Didn't have much experience with the resistance of noses to biting, funnily enough. She'd been hanging on for too long, and with a final burst of energy, she let go of his nose and slammed her forehead into his face. At this point, his face was a mess of blood and bruises, and he was almost completely still - she could see his eyes under bruised eyelids, staring cautiously at her. She growled, trying to perform a strange combination of all the people she'd met who had deeply intimidated her (read: damn near everyone).

"Stay down. Or I'll bite it off."

Phlegm remained silent, face a purple-red mess, eyes hazy with confusion and a likely concussion. Promptly, she stood and ran off, trying to find something else to do. Phlegm was down. Reed was dead. Leader was currently having a vicious fight with Telavis, desperately trying to hold his own. Clever was menacing Crawa with his sword - an ugly thing, but he clearly knew how to use it. A thought occurred - Phlegm's sword, she could take it, use it, help in some way. Taylor tried to move, but there was something wrapped around her ankle. She looked down to see Phlegm hadn't taken her advice. Gone was caution. He was pissed. Unfortunately for him, he was also on the ground, and could barely see. Her actions were completely instinctual, which now she thought about it was probably a little worrying. She brought her boot up and slammed it down on his face, feeling his nose splinter, feeling tiny wounds open all over as his skin was forced tight against his bones, shredding itself as it was pulled tight as a glove. She kept slamming down until he stopped struggling and let her ankle go. Potiphar rolled his way out of the grass and promptly sat on his chest, arms braced for some serious injury-infliction. Taylor barely noticed. She couldn't even fully process what she'd done, too busy rushing off to do something. The night was chaos, the grass swayed above her head in delicate waves, and her mouth was full of blood.

Her head whipped around, red matter dripping off her chin, and she tried to get an impression of things. Telavis could handle himself, he was stronger than her in almost every aspect. And yet he was playing with Leader, engaging in a proper sword fight - thrusts, parries, ripostes, no bullshit whatsoever. She could see him holding back with each strike, clearly telegraphing himself, doing everything possible to give Leader a proper fighting chance. Goddamn, over-honourable, war-addicted bastard loan shark of a knight. He could handle himself, he shouldn't be… gah. She shrieked, red-flecked spit accompanying her order.

"Get on with it!"

Damn it, she paid his salary in freshly harvested murder-currency, she got to order him around in combat. She'd seen those stupid wings of his, he shouldn't just be entertaining himself with an honest sword fight. The knight looked at her with cold eyes… then relented. The last thing she saw before rushing off to help Crawa was a bright, multicoloured light sprouting from his… back, accompanied by a nauseating crack and a pained scream. Whatever he'd done had clearly turned Leader into a pile of mush, given that the sound of swords clashing came to an abrupt and painful end. Crawa was struggling… Clever had done exactly what he needed to do, she had to give him credit for that, if nothing else. The bolt in her neck stopped her from moving her head properly, and he'd started delivering careful nicks here and there, painful but never truly damaging. Enough to hurt her, but not enough to get her adrenaline to pump and her natural painkillers to work their magic. She was flinching backwards as he advanced, maintaining eye contact all the while. He was exploiting her vulnerabilities, and gone was the angry flailing, now she was scuttling backwards like a… well, like a frightened child. In her own way, she was impressed - this looked like a perfect strategy for dealing with someone like Crawa, a person with incredible strength and limited experience. Of course, being impressed was negligible compared to the overwhelming protective anger she was currently feeling.

If asked at the time, Taylor couldn't have responded to any questions due to being angry and panicked and also in the middle of a fight. If asked later, she wouldn't have quite been able to explain why she felt protective of Crawa. The girl was stronger than her, faster than her, definitely older than her. And Taylor had hardened herself a little, distanced herself from her fellows, hardened herself enough to keep her job and her life going. Crawa, though… there was something about her that made Taylor think. Taylor wanted to get home. Angharad wanted to survive. Telavis wanted to find his master. Potiphar wanted to follow Taylor and eat corpses. Crawa… just wanted to fly, and hear stories. Her desires were unsophisticated and uncomplicated, and she was content to be completely physically altered into something barely recognisable as human. Taylor envied her, just a little. Definitely couldn't bring herself to hate her or even dislike her. And that all came to the fore when Clever was menacing her with that long knife… she barely even thought, not about what she was doing, nor the implications, she simply grabbed something from the ground and charged at him, barely aware of what that thing even was.

She realised what it was when it sank between his shoulder blades. Clever choked, his throat starting to fill with blood, his lungs deflating as Reed's discarded sword pierced him through. Taylor said nothing, just snarled like a wild animal and shoved him to the ground. Crawa paused for a second, then rushed over and stomped on his head repeatedly while shrieking at the top of her lungs, at a volume that almost burst Taylor's eardrums. Potiphar rumbled over and kicked him in the head as well, and the man groaned, blood pooling around him. Taylor's hands felt numb. She'd stabbed a man. She'd stabbed him, she'd killed him. Nepheli had just been a wound, this was… this was stabbing a man in the back, hearing him choke to death on himself, seeing his blood spread outwards and soaking the grass. The sword refused to drop, her hands unwilling to relax. Telavis stomped over, wiping his own sword clean on the grass. Taylor was still staring at the dark pool, dark as the place she'd been in before the gold had come, reflecting the full moon with not a single ripple in sight. She barely noticed Potiphar patting her on the leg, the little chap brimming with concern. Taylor stared down at him. The jar stared back, then angled his head back towards the pile of dead and dying Tarnished. Taylor groaned.

"Fine."

She didn't watch him trundle back to start consuming the bodies. That was his business. She'd killed a man, and sure, it had been self defence, but she'd killed a man. What right did she have to judge a jar that wanted to eat people who were already dead, one of whom she'd stomped on until he stopped moving, and one other. The one she'd killed. God, she'd suspected that he knew something about her home, sure, it was a fairly groundless thought - just a reaction to the word 'chocolate' - but it was something. A tiny thread to cling onto, a shred of familiarity that she'd just stabbed in the back. Her eyes flicked to the shining Erdtree, still visible even while she was surrounded by tall grass. Whatever had made that, the… Greater Will, Golden Order, whatever, was this a joke? At her expense? Show her a hint of familiarity, then let her cut it down instinctually because this world had broken something inside her, something that couldn't really be repaired. The tiny knot of emotions and restraints that kept people civilised, stopped them from spiralling into paranoia and violence, the tiny knot on which rested everything civilised… had she torn it? Was she completely gone?

Taylor walked blankly away back to the centre of the circle, leaving Clever behind with a sword protruding from his back. She felt numb .Telavis looked down at the body, then turned with a grunt, dismissive. He'd surely seen worse. And Crawa…. she'd stomped on the man's head a few times, and then scuttled off to retrieve one of the swords accidentally dropped in the fight. And immediately after this act was completed, she scuttled over to Taylor with a distressing look on her face. Not distressed. Distressing.

"We did it!"

Taylor stared blankly at her, and the scion kept babbling.

"I helped! Oh, they were fiends, they tried their best to fight us, but even treachery couldn't unmake us, no, no, and no again!"

She leapt up and down a few times, swords still whirling. Her skin was bubbling with the power of Runes. Taylor felt sick.

"We killed them."

Crawa paused, and peered closer into Taylor's eyes. Whatever she saw, it made her raise four hands to her mouth in shock, and some of her larger arms immediately stretched out to rest around her shoulders.

"Oh, you're… oh dear. I'm sorry. They'll get better - Lord Godrick says they always get better, no matter how much you kill them. So, really, we're just putting them to sleep for a while, teaching them a lesson about hospitality!"

"How do you… do it?"

"With my swords."

Taylor pinched the bridge of her nose - her fingers came away stained with red. Crawa, finally, noticed the dismal state of her face and… gave her a handkerchief alongside a frantic apology. An elegantly embroidered handkerchief, which was stored somewhere on her person and was probably worth more than the rest of Taylor's clothes - inlaid with gold thread, delicately woven complex patterns forming knights, women in flowing dresses… belonged in a museum. Eh. She wiped the blood away, groaning all the while, the pain finally catching up with her. Finally, she properly responded.

"Not what I… you know what, nevermind. Are you alright?"

Crawa froze, then tried to crane her neck to see the bolt. The moment she did, she flinched, and a distressingly young wail burst out of her throat.

"Ow, ow, ow! Take it out, take it out, take it out!"

Taylor paled, and flapped her hands to try and get her to stop thrashing. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was some weird consequence of her biology, maybe it was something to do with Runes. Either way, she was thrashing wildly, barely listening to Taylor's stuttered reassurances. Crawa complied only after a few agonisingly long seconds, and slumped to the ground with tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. Taylor stared closely at the bolt… embedded deep, probably lodged in a bone. Was she meant to remove these? Did that just make the bleeding worse, or… gah, she had no idea how to deal with arrow or bolt wounds, why did she - oh, 21st century, right. Crawa sniffed, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, and she seemed frighteningly close to hyperventilating.

"...am I going to die?"

Taylor blinked.

"No. No you're not. It's one bolt, just… just hold still."

"I don't want to die!"

"You won't die, Crawa, not if you-"

"Tell Lord Godrick I was useful, won't you?"

"Crawa."

"Find my sisters and yell at them, please, for leaving me alone. Except for Swuste, she… she's nice."

"You'll be fine. Please be quiet while I figure this out."

Crawa choked back a deep sob, some of her limbs kicking petulantly. Hm. How to do this - maybe… Telavis stomped over, resheathing his now-clean sword. He peered at the bolt and hummed, before walking away and returning with a small red flask from one of the bodies. He shook it, and Taylor could hear liquid sloshing inside. It took an embarrassingly long length of time for everything to click. That… made sense.

"Does that work on…"

"Crimson tears."

He nodded in a self-satisfied manner, even as she stared blankly. That answered exactly nothing. But if Telavis was confident… she lifted the flask up, and Crawa took a hesitant sip. Then, a greedy gulp, followed by rather more greedy gulps in quick succession. The bolt started to slowly emerge from the wound - this sort of thing seemed difficult for the flask to heal, it had to heal the wound enough to force the bolt out, then it had to heal again as the bolt shredded it more. Based on how she was chugging it, either this stuff tasted amazing, or it was relieving her pain, or she could feel in some abstract way how it was helping her. With a gasp, the flask came to an end and the bolt clattered to the floor. Her other injuries had healed up rather satisfactorily, too. Taylor's eyebrows raised higher and higher. That was… a miracle, is what it was. She'd been dreading getting Telavis to hold Crawa down while she pulled out the bolt, but this was almost comically easy. An idea occurred, and she returned to Phlegm. He was completely unconscious - good. Worked for her. His flask hung at his belt, and she gladly liberated it for a quick swig.

Her nose cracked as it began to reset, and a dozen little bruises and aches that she hadn't been aware of started to heal in seconds. The flask tasted amazing, whatever was inside it - crimson tears, according to Telavis - tasted like something between warm syrup and… toffee. But the sweetness wasn't overpowering, she could still detect hints of complex spices that were utterly foreign to her. Something like star anise, cloves, and things she couldn't actually name. That last point either reflected her limited palate, or the absolute strangeness of this place. Mulled wine. That was it. This stuff tasted like mulled wine, but with no acrid alcohol taste. She gulped it happily, and it momentarily washed away the guilt at what she'd done tonight, the callousness of it all, the casual brutality. The moment she withdrew the bottle from her lips, though, it all came back. She gritted her teeth and bore it. She had to keep moving, if she stopped, she'd be a sitting duck for… anyone. Had to keep going. Ideas were occurring now, pleasing minutiae she could sink into. Telavis blinked as she approached him.

"How do Tarnished come back? Does a jar need to-"

"No. Different method. Grace guides them, and returns them from death at places where grace has fallen."

A mechanical response, practised, no emotion to it.

"Alright… what happens if we take their stuff?"

Telavis gave her a look.

"...we cannot refill the flasks."

Ah. Shit. Not quite what she was thinking, but helpful to know. She'd been wondering why people didn't carry these things around as standard. So, a unique bonus possessed by the Tarnished… typical. Some people got all the luck.

"I was thinking about their weapons, their armour…"

Telavis shrugged. Taylor had an idea - if they stripped the Tarnished of their arms, their armour, surely they'd be set back a hell of a lot when they came back. Without these, they'd be unable to fight effectively, reduced to scavenging or charity. A delay. Maybe it wouldn't help much, but if it helped at all it seemed worth doing. A few orders, and Telavis was ripping their breastplates off while Taylor got to work on the gauntlets and boots. Crawa glanced their way, having been admiring her healed skin this entire time, and her golden eyes widened.

"Taylor! That's… that's very inappropriate!"

Taylor blinked.

"Uh."

"To strip your foes to the nude, goodness, I thought better-"

"I'm just taking their armour and weapons. Slow them down when they come back to life."

Crawa twitched a few times, and Taylor briefly imagined her going into some Telavis-esque grumble about honour, respecting the dead, respecting fallen opponents… instead, she burst into a distressingly Godrick-esque cackle. Apple didn't fall too far from the tree, it seemed.

"Oh, ho ho ho! Cunning! Fiendish! Why, imagine them running around in the cold in naught but their underclothes, ho, that would be a sight!"

She giggled childishly, then started to help in the process. Taylor ignored the sound of a sword descending beside her - Telavis hadn't been ordered to kill Phlegm, he'd just… done it. Automatically. If that didn't say something about this world, she didn't know what would. Armour was stripped and piled up, flasks were stolen and divided between themselves, weapons joined the scrap heap. Needed to burn it all, or bury it, do something to stop it coming back with them. They had been working on Phlegm, Reed, and Leader this entire time, pooling their efforts, staying close - these three had died near each other, while Clever had fallen some ways off.

As Taylor unfastened another boot, she realised something. Crawa's skin had pulsed with Runes, she'd obviously taken some from Reed. And Telavis, now she glanced his way, was also… glowing, a little, from both Phlegm and Leader. Her? She felt nothing. None of the carbonated bubbles inside her muscles, none of the erratically pulsing energy. In all the excitement, she'd barely been able to think about anything beyond surviving, and subsequently the gravity of what she'd done, the consequences of stabbing a man in the back out of instinct. But the Runes were absent, completely and utterly. Her head twisted to see where Clever's body had been lying. The pool was still there. The stalks were still bent. Everything was as it was… except for the body itself. Her eyes widened.

The body was gone.

Chapter Text

Clever had moved, he’d somehow managed to survive, drink a flask, and escape. Shit, shit, shit, he could warn other Tarnished, lead them here, do everything in his power to… wait. He was alive. The person who had recognised the word ‘chocolate’, while an actual noble hadn’t, was still around. She could ask him questions. Well, she needed to catch him first, and she turned sharply to Telavis and Crawa, who were only now starting to realise that one of the bodies had made a speedy getaway. The knight looked fairly blase about the whole affair, while the scion was positively furious at the idea that the same turd that had shot her in the neck was still alive. A flush of embarrassment rose up in Taylor’s chest - this was, in its own way, her fault. She should have checked, shouldn’t have let her emotions get the better of her, even if she could still remember the feeling of flesh parting around a sword, the sound of a gurgling breath from a throat filling with blood… no, no had to focus on the present. She’d been stressed, that was all. Had made a stupid mistake. Her voice was raised and angry, partially out of irritation, partially out of a desire to hide her embarrassment.

“He can’t have gotten far. Telavis, can you do the… the flying thing. Crawa, you’re with me. Potiphar, you too.”

The jar promptly hopped on her back and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, fists tightly clenched. Huh. It was funny - when she’d first arrived, Potiphar was probably her most capable ally, the only being that understood this place and had a mean right hook to boot. Now? Telavis, Crawa, Angharad… well, she hated to downplay the little fellow, but she had allies now who could fetch objects from high shelves. Still, good to have him around. Never knew when an angry sapient jar could be useful. Telavis gave her a curt nod, and enormous wings promptly sprouted from his back. Taylor blinked at the sight of them - only seen them once, after all, and barely half-glimpsed. They were splendid, all varieties of colours, shimmering like an oil slick or a hazy mirage, yet incontrovertibly solid. Crawa gasped, and Taylor tried to grab her attention before she got any ideas.

“Mind if I ride on-”

“Oh, yes, please, hop on!”
A few limbs extended in a makeshift ramp. As she clambered unsteadily on board, Taylor noticed that Telavis hadn’t remained in the air for very long. A single bound, a gentle glide, and a thunderous crash into the fields. More flashes, and he was back in the air. Hm. Not suitable for extended flight, then. Crawa followed Taylor’s gaze, and grumbled to herself.

“Bah, not real flying, I can go higher by jumping.”

“Come on, I’ll get you some wings later.”

“...just a giant flying squirrel, really…”

“Crawa.”

“Yes, yes, very well.”

And like that, they were off. Unlike their first ride through these fields, Taylor didn’t stay pressed to Crawa’s back. Instead, she rode higher, her head peeking above the grass, desperately searching for any hint of Clever’s movements. Her mind raced… OK, so she’d been stupid in not checking for a pulse, that was indisputable. But how could he have escaped so silently? Unless - ah. One of his own had been able to steal her bag from her without a single sound, maybe he had some capacity to become absolutely silent. As far as this world’s bullshit went, it wasn’t that absurd. Come to think of it, she was the one riding on a childish mass of limbs and swords, he was just exceptionally quiet. The bullshit was on the other foot, for once. How nice. They raced through the endless fields, grass parting easily, the only sound the rustling blades and Taylor’s own breathing. Well, that was only true for a little while. Crawa’s grumbling entered into the scene fairly quickly.

“Nothing?”

“No, keep going. He must have gone in this directi- gah, fuck.”

Crawa had leapt into the air with an excited giggle, and Taylor clung tightly as the wind screamed in her ear. The scion scanned the horizon while Taylor desperately tried to avoid becoming a screaming meteorite rapidly metamorphosing into a red pancake. With a whoop, she spied something.

“Found him! Found him!”

Well, Taylor assumed she said that. Rather hard to tell over the sound of her own racing heart and the howling of the wind. The ground crashed beneath them, and she vaguely saw Telavis moving towards what Crawa had seen. The chase picked up, a definite target granting Crawa’s limbs even greater speed. Telavis swooped overhead, the thousand colours streaming from his wings casting many-limbed shadows on the ground. Crawa hissed through gritted teeth:

“Oh, no, I saw him first.”

Taylor should probably have been happy for the additional speed, but honestly, after everything that had happened… she was just trying to not vomit all over Crawa’s fine cloak. Scuttling, swooping, cries of indignation, all of them split the night’s still air. Taylor cautiously poked her head back up, and… hm. Something was wrong. They were following a furrow in the grass, but there hadn’t been any furrows around the spot where Clever had vanished… gah. Everything clicked. Carried away, again, too lost in the moment to strategise properly. She leant back down to bark in Crawa’s ear.

“Wrong way! He never left the clearing.”

“What? But-”

“He can make himself silent, maybe he can make himself invisible, too.”

Crawa gasped, outraged at such duplicity. How dare the gentleman they’d almost killed try and escape them using underhanded tactics? Telavis glanced down from on high, curious at their sudden change in direction - a screamed order brought him down to earth in a thunderous crash, before his wings flared up once again to send him shooting towards the clearing. Damn it, damn it - Taylor felt like a complete moron. Of course he hadn’t left, there had been no tracks, and she’d been aware of his ability to hide… if she had been more careful, they’d have caught him by now. Maybe he was moving already, had long-since left them behind and hidden in a way they could never find. A desperate part of her mind considered lighting the entire field on fire, smoking him out… no, that would just be the crowning piece of idiocy. With a sinking feeling, she asked Crawa to jump up again, and the scion happily obeyed, delivering them with a crash into the centre of their old rest spot. Everything was as they had left it. The same pile of armour, weapons, the same half-stripped bodies…

Telavis landed next to them in a flash of light, and Taylor had an idea.

“What was that… thing you did to… uh, him.”

She gestured vaguely at the pile of broken bones that made up Leader. Telavis hummed, and the same thousand colours as before emerged from his back, in the distinct shape of a… tail. A very long tail. A tail that had been able to destroy a man in a single swing. She set aside the momentary surprise at seeing a grown, bearded man with a glowing tail - and, with some effort, ignored Crawa’s excited babbling - to strategise a little.

“How big can you make it?”

“Big.”

Descriptive as always. Her plan was relayed in a matter of seconds - no time to waste, not after she’d already wasted vital moments running in the complete wrong direction. Crawa crouched low to the ground, Potiphar detached from Taylor’s neck, and Taylor herself gritted her teeth and waited for the impact. With a grunt, Telavis extended the tail outwards, lashing it fiercely. The grass easily gave way, some of it bending, other parts simply shredding as an enormous scaled tail bulldozed everything in its path. Crawa peered around curiously, and Taylor looked for something else. No figures, just imprints - maybe Clever could hide himself, but he couldn’t hide the indents created by, say, throwing himself to the ground to escape an enormous damn tail. Nothing, nothing… there. She noticed movement, someone ducking to the ground - he hadn’t gotten far, injuries had clearly slowed him significantly. A murmured order, and Crawa wrapped a single large hand around Potiphar. The jar shivered, but remained still. Good. He was tough, and the grass should form a soft bed… should. Telavis was convinced he’d be fine. Taylor very, very much hoped he would be. Crawa squawked loudly as her arm rocketed upwards like a fleshy catapult.

“Fly, noble soldjar!”

God dammit.

Clever was invisible, inaudible, and yet she could still see Potiphar colliding with something. It hurt her eyes looking at it - there was something there, she was sure of it. Something was falling into the grass, wrestling with a particularly angry jar that was taking out a great deal of nervousness in the form of excessive violence delivered unto his nose and stomach. And yet her eyes refused to believe that there was anything present at all. The absence-presence made her head ache something fierce, which really didn’t improve her already fragile mood. Telavis sallied forth to intercept the struggling man, and Taylor shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“Stop hiding! If you don’t, he’ll just keep attacking until he hits something.”

Telavis grumbled in agreement. Clever froze… and the effect began to disperse. It was the strangest thing, seeing someone she was fully aware was there yet couldn’t perceive coming fully into sight. Slightly nauseating for reasons she couldn’t adequately explain, but deeply satisfying in every other respect. Crawa scuttled over, and Clever found himself rapidly being surrounded by a nest of limbs, not to mention an irritable jar. He tested his bonds a few times, straining slightly against Crawa’s grasp. Taylor hopped down from the scion’s back, her legs alarmingly wobbly, and stared into the face of the man she’d stabbed in the back with the full intent of killing him. Her emotions were mixed. She was happy that she hadn’t killed him, happy that she could ask him a few questions, but… she was looking into the face of a man she’d seen lying in a pool of his own blood, she’d heard choking on a sword in his chest… It was a thin, sly face, with eyes that cooly stared her down. Even trapped, even alone, he was still somewhat in control. Behind those eyes was something very familiar indeed - calculation. He was still scheming a way out, even now.

This close, she could examine him closer. Her eyes flicked over his armour, taking in features which were distinctly non-local. Another feeling joined the relief and guilt - dread. There was a tube sticking out of his collar, still marked with flecks of a familiar red liquid. Hm. Interesting. A tube leading from his flask to his mouth, meaning he didn’t need to actually get it out… clever. Very clever. And the tube didn’t look local, it looked like rubber. Her glasses were still cloudy, damn near impossible to clean at this point, but she couldn’t be more certain. Soft, cloudy material, completely alien to everything she’d seen so far in this world, but had seen in abundant quantities back home. A tiny part of her brain tried to rationalise it - maybe it was natural rubber, extracted from rubber trees, somehow treated and processed… no, no. It was too modern, and far too unique. Everything else in this world seemed confined to the Middle Ages or the Renaissance. And if people were able to extract rubber, surely there’d be a hell of a lot more of it lying around, surely it wouldn’t just be found in a Tarnished’s armour. Her dread mounted.

She leaned closer. His armour was all wrong, too. Sure, there was a battered overcoat/cloak hanging over it all, and some patches had been replaced with local equivalents, even a few plates of scavenged armour strapped in place… but underneath was something frighteningly modern. Black, with pouches everywhere, velcro, metal zippers… no doubting it. This was modern, looked like something she’d seen a SWAT team wearing. The sheen to it suggested synthetic fibres, there were plastic attachments here and there, everything was totally unnatural to the Lands Between. Her mind exploded with new ideas, terrifying implications, and above it all was raw, unalloyed, dread. How had he come here? How had that armour come here, at least? If someone else could, then, then… then maybe she hadn’t come here via her own powers. Maybe she had no powers at all. Maybe she could never get back… back… no, had to stop thinking about that. Focus on the present, keep moving, don’t look back. She glared back at the man who’d hurt one of the more innocent people she knew… who was still far too casual about murder for her liking. Well, you took what you could get.

“You’re not from here.”

The man smiled, his lips like two descaled anchovies sliding against one another.

“Neither are you.”

Her mind was still spinning, and her words were hesitant. Cold, calculating eyes, emotionless as a snakes’, stared into her golden ones. Taylor tried to keep speaking, even as an involuntary shiver went down her spine.

“How… how did you get here?”

“You first.”

“I can’t remember, that’s why I’m asking you.”

He laughed coldly, the action entirely planned, no part of it suggesting genuine humour.

“Funny. I’m in the same proverbial boat. One second I’m back on Earth, the next I’m here, and someone’s been fiddling with my eyes. Sound familiar?”

Her stomach dropped.

“Where, when… how? Who are you?”

She was coming close to panicked babbling, thoughts of getting home running through her head on repeat. She had to get home, maybe… maybe he was lying, maybe he’d scavenged this armour from someone… no, no, even in that case someone would have had to come from her world. That was the core problem, and it loomed high in her mind. How.

“You know, about ten years ago I could have been disciplined for answering that question. Hm, in fact, about ten years ago I’d have had the right to kill you on sight for attacking my team.”

Still, he mulled over the question, and she noticed something odd about him, something only really noticeable at close range. He was hot. Not attractive, but physically boiling. It was a cold night, but he seemed to radiate heat around him, the sickly, damp heat of a humid day, the kind of heat that clung to everything and made her feel somehow filthier. His next words were strangely hesitant, like he was struggling to remember something that had happened long ago. Made no sense - this was his name, how could he…

“Thomas Calvert. My patches are long-gone, but I used to be with the PRT. Team sent into Ellisburg after the Nilbog incident - unless they’ve changed the names while I was gone, of course. Ring any bells?”

Taylor blinked. What. She’d… attacked a PRT agent. Oh. She’d kicked a PRT agent repeatedly in his crotch. Wait, something else came to mind, something that only added to her building dread.

“That was years ago.”

“Oh? How long, may I ask?”

“Years. It was… 2011, when I left.”

“My, my, it has been a while.”

Taylor growled under her breath. His tone was far too casual, she was having an existential crisis and he was talking like this was a normal conversation. Her fingers kept twitching, no matter how she tried to control them. Her lungs were on the verge of hyperventilating. Damn it, she’d been competent, she had her life under some kind of control, had been thinking strategically and rationally… and a single asshole in modern armour was undoing everything, making her feel like she was back on the slopes of Stormhill with only Potiphar for company, half-covered in filth, wolf-winds descending all around. Her next question was accusatory, barely restrained from being a yell.

“What the hell is happening? Why are you - why did you attack us? Do you know how we arrived, do you know how to get back, do you...”

Words were spilling out without any sense, rhyme or reason. Confusion was overwhelming her, and she needed answers. Crawa was staring at them both wide-eyed, confused by the unfamiliar names. Telavis was only mildly curious, the stoic bastard. The man laughed again, and there was a slightly mad look in his eyes, something despairing, something that burned.

“Oh, you’re new. Hm. We weren’t going to attack you, just wanted to have a few answers, a little information we could sell on to the Roundtable. If you wanted, I could still sell that information - maybe even cut you in.”

He was lying. He had to be. The threat in the air had been palpable, there was no way they’d just been intending to ask a few questions. And his attempts at bribery were laughable… no, wait. That look in his eyes. He knew it was laughable, he was just fucking with her.

“You’re lying.”

Calvert shrugged noncommittally, and there was a spastic jerkiness to his actions, like he hadn’t shrugged in a long, long time and was only now rediscovering how the motion worked. Damn it, every little thing about this man was putting her on edge.

“How did you get here?”

“No idea. Woke up… hm, must’ve been in Liurnia. Wandered down here a few years back, been nicely established for some time. And you?”

“Stormhill. Not far.”

“And you’re working for Godrick, of all people. Can’t imagine that’s particularly enjoyable.”

Crawa tightened her grip, some of her hands itching to reach for his neck.

“Speak not of Lord Godrick, lest-”

“Tell your pet to shut up, her breath stinks.”

Crawa clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with mortification. Calvert gave Taylor a look.

“Really, you can’t expect to get back home by associating with him.”

“You know how to get home?”

Calvert mulled the question over, considering his answer. Taylor waited with baited breath, desperate for something. OK, so she hadn’t been brought here by her powers, so maybe she had no powers at all, that was bad on a variety of levels, but… maybe there was a way back. Maybe Calvert had just failed to pursue it himself, maybe it was too difficult for him, but… she couldn’t die anymore, she could just keep trying until she eventually succeeded, if she had a definite goal she could dedicate everything to it. Her hands kept shaking.

“No.”

And the world crumbled around her.

“...what?”

“No way back.”

No, no, he was lying. He had to be.

“You… wait, there are others, right? What about them, how did-”

“Only ever found another one of us, years and years ago… arrived after me, though. She had no idea how. Nor do I. And now there’s three at minimum.”

“There’s another person from Earth Bet, though?”

“Oh, I believe there’s a good few, found a few traces here and there. Mentions in books, rumours from Tarnished. Of course, only so many of us manage to make anything of ourselves… enjoy the golden eyes while you can. They’re a splendid bonus in the early days. Not sure how many simply went mad, or got themselves permanently killed or trapped. Presumably most. You’ve been very lucky thus far.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“Not here, and I don’t particularly care where she wound up. Probably long-since buried.”

“Who is she, what’s her name, what-”
“What, do you want to find her? No idea where she is now, I assume she didn’t make anything of herself. Some nonsense about the Volcano Manor. She called herself Quarrel - silly name, woman was convinced she was a parahuman. Delusional bandit, really - lost the gold in her eyes after less than a year.”

“Volcano-”

“Volcano Manor, yes. On Mount Gelmir.”

Fuck, fuck. The one other person from Earth Bet, and she was inaccessible, secluded behind a non-functional lift. All she had was Calvert. This smug bastard, who was having fun with her distress, taking glee in every reaction he elicited. Her thoughts spiralled into despair. God, how… how was she meant to get back home? Was it possible? How many others had been sent to this place, and how many had just… died? And how had they lost the gold in their eyes, was she condemned to the same fate? Would she wind up trapped with the same Tarnished she’d been keeping out of Stormveil at all costs? How long did she have left? Calvert hummed to himself thoughtfully.

“Though, may I ask you a small question? Just a small theory, really.”

“What?”

“What were you doing before you came here?”

Taylor froze. Her mind went back to the locker, to the filth, to the… the… she glared at Calvert, lips pressed tightly together.

“Ah. Now that, I anticipated. Quarrel was much the same. Refused to talk about it. I’ll tell you what I was doing. I was in the middle of Ellisburg, and I was about to have a very interesting little experience. Do you want to know what was happening to me, right when I left?”

Taylor stared blankly at him.

“Happy to tell you. An exchange, then - information for information. You tell me how to get into Stormveil, I tell you-”

“No. Tell me. Or we’ll drag you back to Stormveil and throw you in one of the cells until you feel like talking.”

“Now, that’s a bad threat. What, I get to go inside the castle I want to get into anyway? I get shelter, presumably food and water? Go ahead. Sounds fun.”

Taylor leaned closer, her eyes burning. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t dangle answers in front of her and then try to blackmail her into compromising her own defences. She’d been fucked around enough, she wasn’t going to let him do the same. Her next words were snarled from between clenched teeth, even Crawa leaning back slightly from the sheer spite she was radiating.

“Tell me, or I’ll let Godrick graft you.”

There it was. A hint of nervousness. A tiny, tiny hint… she could see him thinking, wondering if she was bluffing. She injected every hint of desperation she had into her eyes, refusing to budge for a second. She would. She wanted to get home at all costs. If that meant threatening someone who’d been willing to attack her group for a hint of profitable information… so be it. Calvert shrugged idly, trying to act as casual as possible.

“Familiar with trigger events, at all?”

A mute shake of her head. Telavis was staring impassively down, but Crawa was clearly restraining herself from speaking, fingers drumming idly on any available surface as she tried to work out some of her nervous energy.

“Moment of extreme trauma - happens before a person develops parahuman abilities. Sound familiar?”

What.

“And if I’m thinking correctly… we’re the rejects. We wanted powers. We deserved powers. And instead, we got dumped here. How’s that for luck?”

Taylor had thought that her world had already fallen away, that she was tumbling into uncertain depths - if she’d been falling before, now she was spiralling, drawn inexorably into a huge, dark whirlpool where there were no answers, no resolutions, just unstable, churning waters. Her hands shook, her skin felt like a loose glove, her breath kept catching in her throat as Calvert coldly smiled. What the - she was meant to have powers? Despite her best efforts, her mind kept going to the same vision. Triggering. Gaining powers. Ripping the locker door off its hinges, striding out stronger and bolder than before, finding a new life doing something that mattered, taking real control over her life, escaping… escaping everything. Being thrown out of her home had been bad, terrible even. Knowing that she had been this close to achieving something good, right before she was sent to the Lands Between… she felt sick.

“Wh-”

“Stop. Your confusion is yours, don’t expose me to it. Had quite enough of that when I met Quarrel. Now, if you’re done, I’d rather rejoin my men as soon as possible. We need to regroup, plan out our next actions. I’ve had enough setbacks, the last thing I need is a delay because some overly emotional teenager couldn’t handle herself.”

Taylor snapped, her voice curt, every one of her muscles coiled tightly around her bones. Calvert wasn’t leaving, not yet, she had to know more, he was the one tie she had to Earth Bet, the one person who could maybe… no, there was something in his eyes that unsettled her, something strangely empty, like everything had flowed out of him and all that remained was a hollow, lanky shell. He certainly looked like most of his innards had been scooped out and the skin was retreating inwards to compensate. Even if she didn’t want to spend a second longer around him, she didn’t want him to just… leave.

“And I need answers.”

“I don’t have any. What I’ve told you is everything I know, nothing more to tell. Now, if your charming associates could either let me go or kill me, I’ll be on my way.”

“You can’t leave, we’re… we’re both from Earth Bet, I’m sorry about your friends, but maybe we can-”

“Work together? I don’t think so. You’re inexperienced, clearly out of your depth, you could barely hold that sword. And your allies, I imagine, have no interest in working with Tarnished, nor does your master. You’ve pissed off enough Tarnished already, caused more than a few problems. You brought the Roundtable down on us, ruined years of work without even realising it. Work that you have no ability to repair, not with your skills. I doubt you’ll give me access to Stormveil, not with this walking shackle following you around. What could you have to offer me, then, except for… hm, I don’t suppose you were keeping up with Gerontius? You know, soap opera, was still running when I-”

“I didn’t.”

“Then you really do have nothing to offer. You have no skills, no advantages, no powers I could use. You accompanying me would be charity, and I’m afraid I’m all out. If you want some hard-earned advice from an old hand… give up. No getting home, no way, no how. You’re golden for the moment, but we all end up Tarnished in the end. You can’t die. You can’t escape. Get used to this world and carve yourself a piece of it, because the longer you cling to the idea of getting home, the longer you’re useless to everyone around you. This is your home now. Get used to it. I’d suggest moving on-”

“Stop it! I- I’m not stuck here, I’m not-”

“Crucible Knight, could you shut her up? Never enjoyed temper tantrums.”

Telavis growled.

“Worth a try.”

“Please, just-”

“What, say that I’m lying? Apologies for the disappointment, but it’s all quite true. I’ve been here a lot longer, seen a lot more, and there’s no trace of a route back. No-one else has found one, either. This world has magic, and they haven’t found a way. Look on the bright side, you’re, what… twelve? Have a whole life ahead of you, barely did anything at all back home, I imagine. I wasted decades before coming here, and I adapted well enough.”

Taylor sized him up with watering eyes. He… hadn’t adapted, not that she could see. He had armour, he had a weapon, he had a gang, but he had almost nothing else. And there was a look in his eyes, something desperate and hungry, a part that had been torn out when he came here and he’d never recovered. The first impression she’d had of Calvert was some kind of snake, a thin frame with thin lips and an impression of subtle cunning. Now… he looked like a mangy coyote. Half-rabid, half-dead, wandering around with his skin falling apart around him, completely delusional to what he had lost. His scaleless-anchovy lips slid open again, and he kept speaking absolute poison, his eyes flaring with sadistic satisfaction born of absolute misery. The same eyes locked onto hers, twitching in their sockets, looking strangely wrinkled, even… shrivelled, that was the word. Like old grapes, tinged with yellow. No gold. Just something sickening and jaundiced. There was nothing about him free of some kind of rot or decay - and still he radiated heat, another itch at the corner of her mind, agitating her thoughts, compounding the rising tension. Was this what waited for her? Was this it? A slow descent into becoming Tarnished, then… nothing? And he kept speaking, his shrivelled yellow eyes staring with ferocious intensity.

“So - girl, move on. Give up on all your old hopes, all those nice little ambitions, and move on, find something else to do with your life. Unless you think you can go and challenge a Shardbearer, you might as well find a ditch to crawl into and hide inside. You’ve got all the time in the world, after all. Maybe in a few decades, when you’ve done something worth commenting on, then we can talk properly. Once you get it, then you’ll be useful. There’s no way out for you if you just hide in Stormveil, you need to do something rigorous. The sooner you stop thinking about home, the sooner we can-”

Taylor broke. His words piled on top of one another, each one chipping away at the fragile control she had over herself. She was still bloodied from the fight with Nepheli, had stabbed Calvert in the back with the full intent of killing him. When her self-control cracked, when a flood of emotion she’d been bottling up for days came flooding out… she acted in a way that was depressingly predictable. His speech was interrupted by a sword piercing through his throat, clutched in her hands which, for the first time since the fight, had stopped shaking. Taylor screamed wordlessly at him, tears streaming down her face.

There were no words to say, none that mattered. She had nothing left. She was meant to a cape, and she was… what, a reject? A rejected cape, thrown into this world to die over and over for no conceivable reason. She barely felt Crawa’s many hands grasping her shoulders and pulling her away, couldn’t hear any of the soothing words she was murmuring - flavoured by utter confusion. He couldn’t be right, Calvert must have been lying, but… the armour hadn’t been. And his voice was familiar, there was no hint of a strange accent or a weird mode of speech. He’d talked about Ellisburg, Nilbog, parahumans. He was a modern man. He was from her world, and he’d come here, just like her. And he’d never escaped, had become Tarnished along the way. She felt… small. Incredibly small. She’d had powers before, she had a route back home, sure, the gold had interrupted her, but… there was nothing beyond the gold, was there? Nothing but a completely, pathetically normal person.

The body slumped to the ground in a crumpled heap, all the life draining out, his shrivelled eyes still mocking. She was just a kid, she wasn’t even a cape, just a… useless kid, stuck somewhere she didn’t understand. No, no, it wasn’t fair, she had to get home. She’d been about to trigger, about to change everything, why did… why did she deserve any of this? No, she needed to get back. Her dad needed her, she needed to get back to a world where she wasn’t constantly terrified, where she had a future of some kind, where she was at home. She… she had to see her mom’s grave again, she couldn’t just leave it alone, couldn’t just let her dad’s join it with no-one to mourn either of them. She had to… she had to…

It wasn’t fair.

Chapter Text

The sun dawned, and Taylor stared dully at it. She was slumped despondently on Crawa’s lumpy back, barely held in place by a few curled arms. Telavis was utterly stoic, as per usual. He’d barely processed what had happened with Calvert, simply contenting himself with dumping the bodies in a pile and burning them, scattering their armour to the winds and breaking anything that could be broken. When they came back from death, they’d almost certainly find themselves naked and defenceless. No matter where they ended up, that particular fate would be thoroughly unpleasant. Once, Taylor might have thought that was a tad sadistic, that maybe she should be a little more… restrained, refuse to descend to the level of everyone around her. Now? She felt empty. Seeing those bodies burning brought no thoughts, no guilt. The gnawing in her gut that had started when Calvert had stopped talking lingered, a constant pain that existed on the edge of her consciousness, coming into focus whenever she wasn’t concentrating on something else.

They’d started moving the moment the bodies went up in flames, and hadn’t stopped. Crawa didn’t seem to mind - whatever Godrick had done with her, it had clearly given her the stamina as well as the speed of a horse. The girl had been silent, watchful, appraisive. Refused to ask Taylor about what the man had been saying - parahumans, Ellisburg, all of it. Taylor was thankful for that, at least. Best way to avoid talking about uncomfortable topics was to talk about nothing at all. On the other hand… the longer the silence stretched, the more time she had to focus entirely on the gnawing, the way it seemed to eat her thoughts and leave nothing behind, dulled every emotion into monotone greys. Even the sprawling wilderness couldn’t inspire anything but a vague awareness that they could be attacked at any time. The red smear of Caelid on the horizon was still there, and she could barely muster a little nervousness at the prospect of that place being so close to her home.

Calvert hadn’t been lying. Everything he’d been saying… it was the same kind of thing she’d been thinking to herself this whole time, he’d just given voice to unspoken doubts. She had no powers. She had no way back. She’d been thrown here because… what, she was a reject? Did this just happen to some capes, did they… what was the word, ‘trigger’, that was it… and then vanish? A part of her wondered if she’d paid more attention, done more research, she’d have found out about this, she’d… no. Best that she was ignorant. If she thought that this was just something that happened, she’d have collapsed in Stormhill and refused to move, refused to leave the catacombs either. Instead, she’d walked out, found herself a job, and had promptly failed to achieve anything of note. Everything she’d been doing was focused on getting back home, and without the promise of powers that could do it for her… what was there left? Calvert had been here for almost ten years. Ten. Years. She’d been here less than a month, not counting however long it took for her to resurrect the first time.

If he’d found nothing, what chance did she have? He’d resurrect soon enough, get his men back together, and keep doing… something. Banditry, maybe. Plotting. Scheming. Maybe he’d try and get revenge on her… no. She got the feeling that she didn’t matter at all to him, she was just a minor curiosity that had attracted his attention for a brief while. If she’d gained any kind of insight into his character after their little conversation, it was that he genuinely didn’t care about what she got up to. Unless he could extract an advantage from her, she may as well not exist. Worth keeping an eye out for him, but… ah, who was she kidding. Stormveil was being attacked by Tarnished, and given that they could never die, they’d inevitably win. Gideon Ofnir. Yay, she had a name for the person trying to ruin the castle she was living in. He’d win, and any information she might have on the holes in their defences would be utterly useless. And like that, she’d be back to square one - Christ, square one, made it sound like there was progress to be made. She’d always been at square one, there wasn’t a square two, to say nothing of squares three and onwards. This was it. Her mind went back to the aftermath, to the sight of the burning bodies and the scattered equipment, the whispering of the grass in the night winds.

“Take them.”

Telavis looked at her with a single raised eyebrow, still working hard at ripping apart several pieces of armour with his bare hands, each tug a deafening wrench of metal, a squeak of straining leather. The grass was a constant hum in the background, the blades rasping against one another in a discordant chorus. More noise, more things to overwhelm her strained senses. Taylor looked up boldly at Telavis, her eyes still brighter than she wanted them to be.

“Hm?”

“Take them. The Runes.”

Her skin was bubbling, her muscles were pulsing with the transient powers of Runes. They’d flowed into her immediately after Calvert’s death, fewer than Nepheli, but… potent. Still. Nepheli’s Runes had made her feel sick, Calvert’s Runes were almost painful to hold onto. Every twitch, every tiny burst of power felt like a tiny reminder of his words, his eyes, his smile. It shouldn’t have been possible, but the power felt tainted in some way. Her skin felt more and more clammy the longer she held onto it, her eyes itched and felt dry, her teeth felt like they were covered in grit. Calvert had been a shit, a turd who decided to make her life more miserable… what, because he could? He hadn’t even tried to extract information from her, no insight into Stormveil’s defences. It left a foul taste in her mouth, like her achievements hadn’t been recognised, like Calvert had won that encounter, somehow. She’d killed him, dammit, how could he have won. Either way, the Runes were making her feel sick. She disliked it with Nepheli, she hated it with Calvert.

“I don’t want them. And I want to pay you back.”

“...you’re sure?”

“I’m certain. I don’t care if they make me stronger, I don’t want them in me.”

“Very well.”

He sounded almost reluctant - what, like she’d earned these, done what she needed to do? Was he not going to ask for these, was he a kindly loan shark? No - a flash of anger ran through her, stronger than usual, almost blinding her. She wanted these gone, and Telavis could go fuck himself if he wanted her to hang onto them. It felt violating to have them bubbling in her flesh, every flash of energy that ran through her muscles was mixed with a shiver of disgust. The knight extended his forearm, Taylor clasped it, and the Runes fled into him. The moment of connection happened again, and she felt the same boiling mass of life that she’d felt the other day. The... Crucible, or something. It purred happily as she fed Runes to it, and Telavis seemed to look a little stronger than before, a little more energised. When he returned to disassembling the armour, he wrenched the metal apart, and Crawa slammed multiple hands over her ears to drown out the noise. Taylor didn’t mind. For the first time since Calvert’s death, she had quiet.

A cowardly part of her wanted to run away here and now, maybe convince Crawa to abandon her father, set off into the wilderness to try and carve a new life where none of the Tarnished would find her - not until the gold faded from her eyes and she wound up just like them. Maybe she could blend in once that happened, get lost in the same cycle of bloodshed they were trapped in. Turn into someone like Calvert. Maybe one day someone else would show up wearing foreign clothes, speaking in a familiar accent, and they’d find a girl with a face like a mangy coyote. A girl that’d tell them things they didn’t want to hear, and would grin when she was killed for her trouble. A girl with slightly shrivelled, jaundiced eyes, treating death like an inconvenience and their reaction like the tantrum of an overly emotional teenager. Surrounded by allies as bad as her, crouching in the wilderness ready to ambush anyone who looked like a likely cove.

No.

She… she couldn’t end up like that. Couldn’t just struggle her way through life with no mind to anything better. She had a castle, damn it - and no wonder Calvert had lost the gold in his eyes, no wonder he’d become Tarnished. What did he know, anyway? He was wearing rusted armour, he was surrounded by three people while she had a small army waiting in Stormveil. For all she knew, he’d abandoned any kind of hope, abandoned any kind of dream of getting back home. Maybe that was the key to it - maybe becoming Tarnished was a matter of losing hope, becoming a self-interested shithead only willing to advance themselves at all costs. Maybe. Maybe not. And the dreams - what had those meant? Did rejecting them make her destined to become Tarnished, did the others have those dreams? Gah, more questions she should have asked Calvert before sticking a sword in his throat. Her hands twitched idly at the memory, still stained with blood with no stream around to clean them off.

She couldn’t just wait around for the world to change, couldn’t just give up because her first route to getting home was taken away. This world had magic, surely they’d have something useful. Just because Calvert had given up didn’t mean she had to - maybe he’d become Tarnished too soon, lost access to vital allies because of it. She had to cling to her golden eyes, had to resist whatever had changed him. Whatever it was, she needed to avoid it at all costs. Maybe if she stayed golden for long enough, she could get the help she needed. Though the thought of clinging to what was, in the end, an involuntary alteration to her own body made her feel a little dirty. Rubbed her up the wrong way. For the time being, she held on tight to the scion beneath her. Crawa tilted her head upwards, still moving steadily through the grass.

“Are you well?”

“Fine. Just… tired.”

Crawa hummed, her expression quizzical yet… innocent. It was obvious that she wanted to ask questions, but didn’t quite have the confidence to ask anything genuinely probing..

“Earth… Bet?”

Taylor stiffened.

“Is this your home? It is a strange name… to be called ‘dirt two’.”

“This place is called Stormhill. Imagine living in a place just called ‘windy hill’.”

Crawa snorted.

“Bah.”

They fell back into a slightly more comfortable silence. Crawa didn’t think she came from another world, at least - Taylor imagined she’d make more of a fuss about that. Still thought she was a foreigner, albeit one who couldn’t go back home. Even then, being unable to go back to a country was vastly different to being unable to go back to a world. The landscape passed them by, noticeably dipping - they were coming closer to the entrance to Stormhill, the Stormgate where Godrick had inexplicably stationed far too many soldiers. Crawa started chattering idly, enjoying filling up the quiet with pointless bits of gossip - nervous energy after the excitement of the previous night, exploding outwards in the form of meaningless words that took the place of more… direct words composing intrusive questions.

“...and the maids keep talking about the banished knights that fath- Lord Godrick has stationed in the castle. I don’t understand why they keep giggling about their… cod pieces. From what I’ve seen, they don’t even have any fish...”

Taylor blinked, but remained mum. She was not going to explain what a codpiece was, or why the maids kept giggling about them. Come to think of it, though, the knights did have rather extravagant… ah, nevermind. Best not to think about it. It was odd, being around Crawa talking about absolutely nothing was faintly comforting. Helped take her mind off what had just happened with Calvert. And fuck, she’d just thought about him again, and the gnawing was back, and she was thinking about being stuck here and the long, hard path she’d have to take to get home if it was at all possible. Gah. Fuck. She tried to focus on Crawa again, on the nonsense she insisted on talking about with a rapid, excited patter. How often did the girl get to smalltalk?

“...and ever since the last seamster was thrown off the wall, I’ve been stuck with this cloak - you know this used to be a tapestry?”

Taylor stared. Now she looked at it… goodness, it was a tapestry, a very fine one admittedly, altered to look somewhat more cloak-like. Godrick was a cheapskate, it seemed, though…

“Why did the last seamster get thrown off the wall?”

“His outfits never fit Lord Godrick quite right. Always chafing.”

Understandable. The ill-fitting clothes part, not the wall-tossing part. She could see it now - the impossibility of making clothes that fit a man with far too many limbs, who probably kept adding more as the years wore on. The stress. The pressure. The sheer amount of fabric wasted on every attempt. Eventually culminating in being tossed over the battlements with a faint sense of relief. If he’d resurrected, presumably he’d just… left. Never came back, and for good damn reason. If Godrick tossed her off another cliff, she’d probably just cut her losses and try her luck with the wilds. She’d beaten one Tarnished in hand-to-hand combat… well, foot-to-crotch combat, but she still won. Maybe there was a life for her out here, one where her authority extended as far as her boot’s ability to marmalise testic… no. She needed a plan, needed to focus more actively on getting home, exploring every avenue this world had to offer. She glanced vaguely towards the towering Erdtree.

Something clicked. The gold light. The Erdtree. The golden eyes. Whatever linked all of them - the Greater Will, Golden Order, whatever - it had something to do with damn near everything. She’d focused on it when she thought it was her power, ignored it when it revealed itself as quite different, but now? She had no powers to rely on, and the golden light had been present from her arrival. If anything knew about the process of getting from one world to another, and back again, it would be that golden light - next time she met it, she’d ask it for a proper name. ‘The golden light’ sounded too vague, and she wasn’t quite willing to call it the Greater Will, not until she more fully understood it. Maybe there were books in Stormveil on the topic, maybe Angharad could translate a few for - no, if she was going to be here for the long haul, she needed to learn how to read the language here. She already spoke it, shouldn’t be too hard. Crawa stopped speaking, and Taylor jerked back to awareness - the scion had asked a question. Taylor was about to shamefully ask for her to repeat, when Telavis spoke.

“My abilities are my own. Incantations of the Primordial Crucible.”

Taylor blinked. Crawa spoke excitedly.

“But, Sir Telavis, could I learn it? Your wings are a little… limited, ‘tis true, but they could be a step to true flight!”

Telavis stiffened at the implication that his wings were ‘limited’ in any way, shape or form. Taylor stiffened as she realised that Telavis was being pressured to talk about the thing that had, presumably, gotten him imprisoned, exiled, who knew what else.

“Difficult, young one.”

“I can do difficult! I’m a scion of the Golden Lineage, surely-”

“The Crucible is potent. To channel it is dangerous. Too dangerous for thee.”

Crawa slowed her pace, her expression becoming crestfallen.

“...oh.”

She paused.

“I’ve… never heard of this ‘Crucible’. What is it, Sir Knight?”

Taylor spoke up, trying to avert a potential catastrophe. She really didn’t want to be partially responsible for a religious war.

“Hey, aren’t we getting closer to t-”

Telavis interrupted, and his voice had the regular steady beat that only came about when he was quoting, lost in old memories that had suddenly become clearer.

“The Primordial Crucible is a mass of life, the birthplace of beasts. To channel it is to harness the fundamental strength of the world, the very deepest roots of the Erdtree.”

Crawa hummed.

“...I must confess, I’ve never heard of it. Could-”

“Hey, aren’t we getting closer to the camp? Would you look at tha-”

This time no-one interrupted her. She simply slowed to a halt. Stormgate was approaching, and it was bad. Not the condition of the soldiers - most of them were worse for wear, but they were still alive, mostly. The place hadn’t suffered a full-scale assault. Like she’d imagined, Gideon Ofnir would have sent his men the long (and safe) way around, or they’d have dashed through. Or, she thought, maybe they had access to that same cloaking ability as Calvert and his men. Either way, the camp had been untouched. Not that it mattered. The place was awful, and her eyes couldn’t help but widen at the sight of the place, even as the soldiers slowly marched out to meet them.

They descended through a narrow ravine - good choke point, but full of issues. The barricades were shoddy and half-rotten, the soldiers stationed in such a way that running past was damn easy. Further down, she saw one of those grey giants - trolls, she remembered them being called - standing ready to ambush anyone. Good move, but complicated by one major flaw. To allow the troll to act properly, they needed to clear a wide space. By clearing a wide space, they had to remove barricades, station troops at poor locations, generally make the entire thing as easy to pass as humanly possible. Instead of a secure gate, she saw a battleground where the only way a Tarnished could get bogged down and killed was if they chose to stop and fight a giant troll surrounded by crossbowmen. Just beyond, she caught sight of a scattered cluster of tents in a ruined structure - no defences, no organisation, just a mass of troops thrown down in a fairly good location and expected to manage it properly, even as their minds decayed and their lord contented himself with sitting in a castle, stuffing himself with boar and augmenting himself with new limbs.

One of the soldiers came close to the strange quartet of travellers, raising a hand to stop them. He peered close, and Taylor opened her eyes as wide as she could - gold, see? The soldier accepted her with a grunt, though he remained at a safe distance from the scion. Oddly blase about that, though - then again, the man looked dusty, the passage of years caked into his armour and carved into his face. Maybe he just couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing, and defaulted to bland calm in the meanwhile. Crawa didn’t push into his personal space, thankfully, and remained silent and staring. Shy, Taylor thought.

“What do you want?”

Taylor puffed herself up. She really didn’t feel like doing this, but… well, she had to. Even after the business with Calvert, she had a job to do. Stormveil had libraries, resources she needed to access. And if she needed to work for Godrick for that to happen, so be it. Her voice was loud, vaguely edging into the territory of the bombastic. Telavis didn’t react at all, but Crawa shrunk slightly. Another gnaw. She was probably reminding Crawa of her dad.

“I’ve come on behalf of Lord Godrick! He wants you and your men to return to Stormveil immediately.”

The soldier stared, dumbly. With a grumble, she withdrew the banner, waving it in his face. Every item of identification was presented and barely understood. Great. She needed to be mean.

“And if you don’t, I’ll…”

Hm. Who knew how sharp their memories were of Godrick or Stormveil?

“...I’ll have you reassigned to Caelid.”

The soldier’s eyes widened.

“Uh.”

“That’s right, Caelid. Lord Godrick wants to expand out there. In fact, he wants a rematch with Malenia, so you’ll need to go looking for her. Or maybe I should get you assigned to the diplomatic mission to General Radahn?”

The soldier looked like he was about to be sick.

“In fact, the Fell Omen’s been getting a bit rusty, maybe I should let you and your men help him out as practice dummies.”

“Sorry! Please, we’ll… we’ll get ready to go. Just, not Caelid. My lady. Please.”

His tone slipped into despairing begging, and Taylor felt another gnaw of guilt.

“...should I go and tell the camp, or-”

“No, I’ll do it. Just get moving.”

She wasn’t going to trust him to convince the camp to move out - last thing she needed was to show up in Stormveil with this guard and maybe some of his buddies. She needed a small army, something to back up the castle from the oncoming wave of Tarnished while she got the route to Liurnia working. If she could divide their forces, maybe she could… no, no, leave the long term thinking for later. For now, there was a camp to recruit. Crawa scuttled her way down, eyes wide, staring at every single thing around her. The rotten barricades, the miserable soldiers, the troll quietly picking his teeth with a branch that, for Taylor, would have been a fairly large club. The ravine opened up to the sprawling steppes of Limgrave, and Taylor froze. Stormhill was a windswept moor, barely inhabitable, suitable for defence and very little else. Limgrave was… a place. An actual place. God, if she’d been dumped here, maybe… no, she’d have died anyway, but she’d have had a marginally nicer time leading up to that death.

The steppes sprawled into the distance, vibrant green grass as far as the eye could see, eventually giving way to scattered forests and ruined buildings. No cities, no towns, not even a village. But it was far more vibrant than grey Stormhill, and the animals wandering around in the wilderness were actual animals, not savage wolves or enormous eagles. Deer, sheep, rams, normal animals that would exist in a normal place. Even the air felt better here. The good mood ended the moment she took in the whole camp, though. It was awful, worse than the barricades or the completely useless choke point. Sprawling tents in half-ruined buildings, mangy dogs patrolling alongside dejected soldiers. No defences that she could see, nothing but, again, half-hearted barricades manned by far too few soldiers. Damn it, hadn’t Godrick wanted to establish a choke point here, they were on the wrong damn side - put them in Stormhill, let them funnel troops downwards to intercept Tarnished. Still a bad strategy, but better than putting the undefended base camp in the place where all the Tarnished would be coming from in the first place.

Just… gah.

The revelations Calvert had dropped on her were one thing, but this was unprofessional. Every part of her was getting angry at this, in a completely organic fashion and not remotely as a coping mechanism for the knowledge that she’d be stuck in this world for years, potentially, until she figured out a way back home. Not a coping mechanism at all, no sir. A knight trotted over on an exhausted horse, larger than any of the men around her by far. Seriously, she was on a grafted scion, and he was still heads and shoulders above her. On the ground, he’d have been a damn monolith. She squared her shoulders and stared into the dark eyeslit on his helmet.

“Lord Godrick is recalling you to Stormveil. Move it, or he’ll reassign you all to Caelid.”

The knight stared, and Taylor felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down her back.

“Well? Get moving, or I’ll get you assigned on a diplomatic mission to Mount Gelmir.”

Silence.

“...maybe a prisoner exchange with Caria Manor?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m working for Lord Godrick. This is Crawa, one of his own scions. Here’s his banner. Do you want more proof, can I stand around here for even longer?”

“You’re new.”

Shit. He was smarter than the others, clearly still had some more scraps of sanity about him.

“Yes, I’m new. Is that a problem?”

She glanced around imperiously, but her voice betrayed her worry.

“Where is everyone? This camp looks deserted.”

The knight remained still for a second, then let out a long, dejected sigh.

“Recalled. Good. No point being out here, Knight-Commander said it was stupid…”

“You’re not in charge?”

“I am now. Knight-Commander left years ago with over half our men, Lord Godrick wouldn’t send us any reinforcements.”

Shit, was Godrick’s army suffering desertions? When she’d seen that map of his camps, she’d thought to herself that this was an abominable mess of an army, but nonetheless a loyal one. Even the most out-of-place camp could be drained for soldiers, if Godrick resorted to defending Stormveil and Stormveil alone, then he could have a damn ferocious defence at his disposal. But if they were leaving… shit. She’d have less resources than she suspected. There were a good few soldiers here, but not the amount she’d anticipated.

“Why did he leave? And where to?”

“Fort Haight, to the south. Wanted to retake it from House Haight - told him it was pointless. Defends nothing. Does nothing. Waste of space.”

And now there were rebel houses? Damn it, Godrick’s rule was shaky, it needed all the reinforcement it could possibly muster.

“Do you know if he succeeded?”

“Think so. Sent a messenger to tell us he’d taken it… but that was years ago. Hard to understand. Some kind of bloody battle, something to do with ‘waiting until it’s right’. Years of waiting. Demihumans might have killed them all by now.”

Taylor pondered this. So, not a desertion, just an unplanned and unapproved military expedition into rebel territory. That was nice. Maybe he’d lost most of his men, maybe he’d failed completely and just wanted to save face, maybe he’d won but had done nothing for years… or maybe he’d won and, like this knight said, had just been ripped apart by years of attrition. It was a possibility. She vaguely remembered Fort Haight on the maps - a tiny thing, really, barely worth the men it would take to hold it. It didn’t project control over the surrounding area in a meaningful way, not against Tarnished, and didn’t seem to even supervise any major routes. It was a backwater place of no significance. So why had the Knight-Commander here insisted on taking half their men to capture it? If anything, it seemed… intelligent. Not in the sense that it was smart, intelligent in the sense that he still had his wits about him, enough force of will to motivate his troops into marching to a far-off destination, apparently to achieve total success.

“How many men do you have here, now?”

“Thirty, m’lady. But…”

He shrugged. She read the inference. Only so many were actually useful in combat, a whole raft would be basically catatonic at this point. Useless for anything but a life-or-death struggle where fighting was quite literally happening before their eyes. So, less than thirty… which meant at least thirty had left, probably more, to this pointless military expedition. A few more orders, and the knight was on his way, bellowing at troops to stand up and start packing away the tents, stashing supplies for the long march back to Stormveil. Already, life was returning - just getting orders of any kind was enough to break some of the men out of their stupor, send them staggering vaguely in the direction of the castle. The knight was, more or less, simply herding them after a point, guiding these half-dead men in the right direction - good thing that he was, too, a few were starting to wonder in the vague direction of Caelid, or south to Fort Haight. Very suggestible, these lads. Taylor looked out, crestfallen, at the mass of men moving vaguely towards her current home.

“Telavis… how many men do you think we’ll need?”

The Crucible Knight hummed, scratched his wild beard. He knew about her plans, the route to Liurnia, the necessity for more defenders against the Tarnished. And he’d fought in bigger wars than this, for a hell of a lot longer than anyone else.

“More.”
And that made his opinion all the more damning. Shit. She’d gone out, traumatised herself, and all she got was a lousy thirty-strong unit, not to mention a troll. Pointless. They needed way more than that to be a fully functional force. The way to Liurnia might take a good long while to repair properly - who knew how bad the road was? And presumably Tarnished would be attacking them fairly regularly outside the walls, with no Fell Omen to defend them… gah. She tugged out a map from her bag, studying it closely. On Crawa’s back, it had taken about a full day to reach Stormgate. Reaching Fort Haight would be… impracticable. It was practically at the other end of Godrick’s domain, it’d take days to reach it, even assuming they travelled without incident. No point. Take what they could get… wait.

An idea.

Thinking of the halfway intelligent people she’d met, the ones amenable to reason, the list was fairly small. Godrick’s soldiers could be reasoned with if she had his authority backing her up, even the ones who’d been outside of Stormveil for a good long while. The Tarnished were too obsessed with growing stronger to ever be of use, and the rest of the soldiers seemed to hate them unreservedly. And that left… a horseman. On the way to Stormveil, she’d been stopped in the road by a carriage trundling on by. Most of the people attending to the carriage were half-dead, barely cognisant of the world around them. But the men guarding them were downright intelligent, and their horses looked a hell of a lot healthier than anything she’d seen so far. An idea was blossoming, a product of both the normal calculation she’d built up during her time here, and the faint air of desperation that Calvert had induced. She’d be here for a long damn time, and she wasn’t going to sit back and half-ass everything because it was easier. Under no circumstances would she become like him. She had a castle. She wasn’t going to lose it.

And a full cavalry force, harassing the Tarnished, chasing them down and harrying them from every direction, scouting outwards to get a good read on their movements… the Tarnished had the advantage of surprise in almost every damn encounter. They could go where they pleased, they may as well only come into existence when they entered Stormveil… or her presence, whichever happened first. With a genuine cavalry force, they might have a chance. A muffled order sent Crawa scuttling to the knight, who backed away slightly at the, admittedly, alarming sight of the scion beaming up at him.

“Sorry, one more thing. A while back, I met some of these… horsemen, guarding a carriage pulled by two trolls. Who are they, exactly?”

“Hm. Kaiden mercenaries, sounds like. When Lord Godrick called us up for service, most of the nobles started hiring them, instead.”

Mercenaries. Oh, better and better. If they accepted regular money - great, Godrick probably had oodles of it. If they only accepted the legal tender of murder-coins, then she could give them more than they’d never need. A perpetual supply of Tarnished to kill, an endless quantity of money to be made. And they were, seemingly, sane. The idea had come together. Now, all she needed was a little more support. The knight rode off at top speed, eager to catch a few men who were starting to inch westwards in their wanderings. The troll hopped down from on high, a wave of dust exploding beneath him. With a loud grumble, he followed the rest of the soldiers. It might have just been thirty men (and a few dogs, and a troll), but it looked fantastic to her. Calvert couldn’t have done this, he had three allies - she had thirty right here, not to mention everyone in Stormveil. He’d scrabbled around for a living (presumably), growing more and more despairing with everything and everyone. And she’d decided to sit down and build something.

So there.

Time passed. The unit left. Everything was done. But something lingered - Taylor wasn’t quite sure if she was dreaming or awake. Details seemed simultaneously real and fabricated. Crawa had been… tired, she remembered that much. She definitely remembered her being tired, damn exhausted after their long ride across Stormhill. She had wanted some food, water, maybe even a nap. Taylor was sure that much was real… but why was she here, wandering amidst the remaining tents? Was she relaxing… her feet were numb, she could barely tell if she was walking or floating. The latter would make sense, if this was a dream… but then again, she wasn’t entirely sure if this was. A monument in the centre of the camp squirmed with unrecognisable words, and further study yielded nothing but confusion. It was irritatingly close to something she understood, every symbol was achingly familiar, but it simply refused to be comprehended by her tiny brain. Maybe… maybe she should go back to her allies, her… friends? Were they friends? She’d put the thought aside before, always believing that she would be getting back home soon, that bonds were fairly pointless, but… now? Maybe she needed friends.

Taylor Hebert needed friends, newsflash of the century, brain. Dumbass dreaming piece of water and oatmeal, come to some original conclusions.

She hoped she was dreaming, otherwise her thoughts were just this dumb by default. Gah. She should wake up, if she was dreaming, or go back to her allies/friends, if she wasn’t. In the forest of disassembled tents, ruined buildings probably millennia old, discarded trash from centuries of continuous occupation… something caught her eye. One other tent, richer than the others by far. She walked closer… yeah, definitely more lavish, no doubt about it.

Maybe for a knight? The embroidery was delicate, the material expensive, the space within expansive. But… why would they leave it behind, if it was for someone high-status? She’d never leave something like this behind, not if she had a choice in the matter. An idea occurred - maybe this was the old Knight-Commander’s, left behind for some bizarre reason. The guy had clearly been a little unstable, leaving behind his best tent sounded about right. With a shrug, she pushed the flap open and entered. Maybe there’d be something worth taking, a fine sword, some good armour, something she wouldn’t want to leave for Tarnished to scavenge. That was, if this was real. Or maybe this was still a dream, and she was just exploring deeper into the recesses of her own psyche, elegantly concealed behind an elaborate tent. She’d seen weirder. She entered confidently - dream or not, it was just a tent.

She regretted her decision to enter almost immediately. The interior was dark, warm, and utterly stank of copper. She recognised the smell, and had to force herself not to bolt immediately. Blood, and far too much of it, far too fresh, too. Unless this camp had been sacrificing people daily, there wouldn’t be enough fresh blood here to make that kind of smell. A shaky hand pushed the tent flap open again, giving a little illumination. Scarlet, everywhere - it hadn’t dried to the tacky brown colour that blood usually adopted after a long period of time, this looked like it had been shed only a few minutes ago. There were only a few scraps of furniture lying around, invariably broken or rotten. A few weapons, rusted into uselessness… and in the centre, an idol on a high stand. A bundle of horns, curling and coiling, wrapped around one another until they formed an impenetrable nest the size of her head. Each horn came to a wicked, sharp end, and the way the jagged edges gleamed suggested that people had handled this, passed it over their hands repeatedly, devotionally. She stared.

The bundle of horns pulsed, inwards and outwards, like a living heart. And crimson blood ran from the gaps in the tangle, softly dripping into the puddle which already flooded half the tent. A puddle that seemed deeper than it had any right to be, and if she looked too close, she thought she could even see a scrap of… something. Many scraps, floating eerily in the blood, squirming impurities, tiny fragments of ragged fire that wriggled like worms. Taylor backed away, eyes wide. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for any of this. Leave the horned heart to its business… and stay the hell away from Fort Haight. Just a nightmare, just a… just a nightmare, that was it. Had to be. As she emerged, though, she found no peace. No matter how far she walked from that tent, no matter how her steps increased to a sprint, she could still hear it.

Thump-thump.

An endless, pulsing, regular, heartbeat.

Thump-thump.

A heartbeat which brought forth fiery blood from horned arteries.

Thump-thump.

Taylor woke up, her heart beating… steadily. Regularly. Thump. Thump. No, she focused on anything else, anything but her heart - just a nightmare, just a stupid nightmare, product of an overstressed brain driven to strange places by everything she’d been through. A horned heart, that sounded like something a feverish brain would come up with after being told that it had no chance of getting back home. She stood, shaking off the dust - a nap, that was all. A quick nap before they went back to Stormveil, right? Just a quick snooze to recharge her batteries, nothing remarkable at all. Crawa was nearby, kicking idly in her sleep, mumbling something under her breath. Telavis hadn’t slept at all - she wondered if he even needed to, he seemed to just stand, perpetually. No wonder he was losing his memories.

She stood. She moved. She breathed. She ate. Did everything she was accustomed to doing, prepared herself to set off back to the castle behind the requisitioned unit. She’d succeeded, practically speaking. Nothing had gone wrong.

Nothing had happened to do with a horned heart.

And she had, most certainly and definitely, not seen anything blissfully truthful about it.

Chapter Text

Taylor tried her best to put the dream out of her mind, focusing on the minutiae of preparing to leave. No point staying in an exposed position for too long - best to get back to Stormveil as soon as humanly possible. Or graftedly possible, in Crawa's case. She focused on scavenging a little food from the camp, what little hadn't succumbed to decay at this point - it was strange, but food didn't seem to spoil very quickly out here. For whatever reason, when she gave a loaf of bread an exploratory sniff, it simply registered as 'faintly stale' as opposed to 'breeding a new ecosystem in its yeasty interior'. Maybe that was how Stormveil had been able to stay provisioned for so long, maybe it'd just stocked up centuries ago and had yet to run out. Well, maybe not entirely for that reason, but she could imagine it contributing. As for why food wasn't spoiling… she wasn't going to think about the implications of that, not now. Even as she explored a little, though, she refused to go into the area of the ruins which she thought might contain that ornate tent, left behind by a mad commander, filled with - no, no, had to stop thinking about it.

One worry kept nagging at her, though, no matter how she tried to set it aside. Her dreams had been… weird, sure. But there had been uniting themes. The golden light, the Erdtree, a sense of things coming together in a harmonious pattern. A horned heart that bled fiery blood… that was way out of keeping with the rest of her little bedtime hallucinations. A part of her kept remembering the last thing the golden light had said to her before it vanished, winking off like a broken lightbulb. Something like… 'doubt is necessary for faith', or something along those lines. She imagined the dreams getting stranger, the gold remaining absent, and… no. Had to keep moving. If she stayed still for too long, she'd get bogged down with worries and implications. If she kept moving, kept forcing herself onwards to some kind of goal, she could stay functional… and, ideally, she could stay untarnished. The memory of Calvert was still strong. No matter how she tried to shift it, those shrivelled yellow eyes, that mangy coyote-like face, and the words which came out of the scaleless-anchovy mouth… gah. Couldn't get it out of her head. How had he wound up like that, and how could she avoid it? And a part of her wondered if she'd made some critical misstep on her journey, if she'd gone somewhere she shouldn't. Maybe she should have been plotting to kill Godrick this whole time, like all the Tarnished were doing. Maybe she - no, had to stop doing this.

She had a mission. Return to Stormveil. Guard it. Recruit more soldiers to defend it. Do everything she could to get back home, access Stormveil's libraries, maybe once things had settled down she could try and get records from other places - the Lands Between were old, surely they'd have something. Calvert struck her as a conniving bastard, the kind of person that Godrick would have smeared across the floor in a fit of sheer paranoia. Maybe her own weakness was what had kept her alive in his court… but she needed to get stronger if she was going to defend Stormveil against Gideon Ofnir. Hm. She had a name now, for the person clearly trying to kill her and her boss. No face, though, which was a damn shame. A tiny spark of humour ran through her, though. 'All-Knowing'. No wonder Calvert wasn't working with the Roundtable, they clearly already had one imperious, overconfident asshat running around. No idea how long it would take for Calvert to come back from death, but the moment he did, she was anticipating a shitstorm coming down on her. Still, she had a new strategy for the castle - no more throwing Tarnished off bridges. Instead, pin them, steal their armour, break their weapons, requisition their flasks for their own usage. If it wasn't nailed down, steal it. If it was, get a crowbar and then steal the damn nails.

Crawa perked up as Taylor approached, bag full of food, skins full of water.

"Ah, are you ready to go?"

"Sure."

Taylor paused. She felt like she needed to say something to the kid… honestly, Crawa's relationship seemed less transactional than her others. Sure, she was promising to give the kid a bucket of wings, but that didn't sound like enough to convince anyone to go running around in the wilderness. She felt like she owed Crawa a talk.

"If you have… questions about the other night, go ahead."

Crawa blinked.

"...ah. I'm… goodness."

"Take your time, don't need to ask right now."

"No, no, I was simply… going through my list. Perhaps… hm, yes, that'll do. What did that man mean when he said you couldn't go back? And how did you come here?"

"Woke up in Stormhill, not sure how I got here in the first place. And… my home's a long way away. A very long way away. I don't know how to get back there, but I thought others might know how. I guess they don't."

Crawa's face shifted to an expression of pitying understanding.

"...when I was young, Lord Godrick used to tell my sisters and me a story."

Taylor remained silent, watching the scion carefully.

"Ancestor Godfrey - well, I suppose Lord Godfrey now - was sent away from the Lands Between. Queen Marika exiled him, marked him as the first Tarnished. He led his army out to the Lands Beyond, to fight forever. But he left us with a promise, that one day he would return to us… and we could all return to Leyndell together. To our home."

She sighed wistfully, and her voice became more dignified, almost stately. She adopted a slow rhythm, like she was reciting a poem.

"'O, we are the Golden Ones. The true and rightful heirs. Our land's grown old, now ashen, and cold. But look up, the Erdtree glows! One day, we'll return together, to our home, bathed in rays of gold. And grace will surely guide us safe. To our home, bathed in rays of gold.'"

Another sigh.

"...Lord Godrick used to tell us that we could go home, one day. And everything would be right again. Back to Leyndell, where we were all born…"

A single, spindly arm reached out to pat Taylor reassuringly on her shoulder.

"If grace could guide us home, even after so very long… maybe it could guide you, too?"

Taylor felt something in her throat. As advice went, it wasn't the best. She'd seen something golden in her dreams, and it hadn't led her to anything, just tried to bellow random precepts at her. But Crawa was pitying her, in a completely unreserved and unashamed way. The poem she'd recited sounded like something Godrick would like, what with the 'Golden Ones' thing. But it was heartfelt, and Crawa clearly took some comfort in it. Hell, she'd thought of Stormveil as this huge, decaying fortress, ancient and terrible. Utterly hostile, even if she'd managed to squirrel her way inside and turn its defences to her side. Now? It seemed sad. Was this what Godrick thought about, was this what he told his kids? That one day they could all go home, that the grey walls of Stormveil were just… a brief stop, a hiatus which would come to an end shortly. It reminded her just a little of staying with… her after her mom's death. Living out of bags, doing everything with a mind to going home soon, unwilling to lay down any kind of permanent roots. And as for Crawa, the idea of someone arguably worse-off than her just… trying to help, in her own little way, brought up feelings. A lot of feelings. Feelings she wasn't quite ready to wrestle with yet.

"Thanks, Crawa."

The scion beamed happily, limbs quivering in a way that suggested that she wanted to jump up and down in excitement. And again, Taylor got the impression that the kid very rarely got to talk to anyone these days. Certainly wasn't as jaded as everyone else around her. Telavis stomped over, and Taylro snapped back to reality. They had to get moving. And moving they got, Crawa rapidly scuttling through the camp along a half-paved road, and up into the ravine which held the Stormgate. Every barricade was unmanned, and Taylor could honestly see where Godrick had been coming from - even if this place was badly defended, even if its men could be better used elsewhere, it felt wrong just… leaving it empty. Maybe that was what distinguished good and bad commanders - being able to do what was right, even if it felt wrong. Bah, she was getting introspective. No point being introspective, it just made her feel miserable these days.

Still, she felt the loss of the soldiers keenly. Just a few, in the end. Thirty at most, a good number probably useless due to sheer age. When they'd been led away by their acting commander, she'd considered travelling alongside them. It'd make life safer, that was for sure. But… they were moving swiftly, no stopping for additional travellers. Honestly, she was just happy to see them moving at all, and if that meant no stopping, so be it. Crawa had been far too tired to travel, wearied by carrying two people and a jar for almost a full day. And there were defences to disassemble here, weapons to scatter, armour to break. Telavis had been doing it from the moment they stopped, doing everything in their power to deny the Tarnished a base camp. The larger barricades couldn't be meaningfully destroyed in the time they had available, but the place had definitely been made, somehow, more run-down. If the Tarnished wanted to set up shop here, they'd practically need to build it from scratch - though, they could still get some water from the well. She'd considered using it as a communal latrine, poison it completely. But, honestly, she was feeling gross enough. Either way, the camp was ruined, there were no armouries left to plunder, what they couldn't destroy they hid in secluded corners of the ruins. Didn't take long, but it was worthwhile work. And with it all done, they were on their way, a renewed Crawa scuttling along merrily, gossiping about everything and nothing.

Progress was swift. Better to stick to the roads now, it let them move much faster than before, and they'd had a small army crash through the landscape. So, wasn't like there were likely to be Tarnished waiting around every corner. Taylor shouldn't have thought that thought, she knew the moment she thought it. This was meant to be an uneventful jaunt, and she'd wound up with her confidence half-shattered and her mind filled with doubts. They'd won, in every way, and somehow she'd still lost. Luck was a fickle bitch that was committed to screwing her over at every opportunity, and tempting her was probably just going to make the entire situation worse. She kept her eyes peeled, scanning the horizon for any naked individuals with revenge in their eyes. Nothing. Just a few animals poking around the undergrowth, glancing up nervously at the sight of Crawa blazing down the road, limbs blurring into a loose fleshy cloud around her cloaked core. Their absence did raise a question, though - how long did it take for Tarnished to come back to life, if they didn't use the normal means of Erdtree burial? Days, weeks… hours?

She urged Crawa to move faster. Indeed, when sticking to the road, she couldn't help but see the signs of the Tarnished who had come to attack Stormveil. Bodies of soldiers wearing Godrick's heraldry lying half-concealed in the grass, roots slowly emerging to drag them underground. Fresh, if she was going to hazard a guess. Sooty marks where fires had been lit and summarily extinguished. Hoofmarks embedded deep into the soft earth, marking the passage of a whole group of people at once. Crawa noticed these and moved faster of her own accord. Taylor's stomach dropped when she saw a whisper of smoke on the horizon, standing right in their way. A whispered word, and they had ducked off the road and into the long grass. The absence of sight sparked a small panic in her chest, and Taylor poked her head up with all due haste. No Tarnished, but the smoke remained, a wisp that suggested a fairly recent camp. If her mental map was correct… it was just a little off the road. Probably isolated from the unit passing by. If the Tarnished had any brains, they'd have scattered to avoid the small army - no chance of beating them in a straight-up fight, after all.

Hm. Crawa, at Taylor's urging, started to creep forwards slowly, steadily. They'd made good time so far, they could afford a little bit of sneaking around. Her ears were peeled - nothing. Telavis was likewise watchful, but made no indication of detecting any movement. No Tarnished in the immediate vicinity, then. Crawa let out a tiny yelp as she stepped in something, and scrambled awkwardly to extricate herself. The experience was thoroughly disorienting for Taylor, who found herself being bounced every which way, almost tumbling entirely off Crawa's lumpy back. Potiphar's arms were uncomfortably tight around her neck as he desperately struggled to hang on. Telavis was utterly still. Stoic bastard. When Crawa sat upright to check her limb, Taylor actually did fall away with a grunt of indignation. At least the grass was soft, and Potiphar could finally let go. Crawa, in stark contrast to her usual conscientiousness, was utterly ignoring the rest of them. She was staring at her hand in faint disgust, and as she approached, Taylor could see why.

Bloodstained.

"Bah, disgusting! Oh, oh, goodness, goodness…"

Her thin, pale hand was soaked with blood. It struck her as odd that the girl should be so disturbed by a little bit of blood after having chopped someone into enough pieces to fit in a shoebox… but then again, Crawa was a bundle of contradictions. She peered closer - red. Bright red. Fresh. Taylor momentarily flashed back to the strange dream, the horned heart which wept ever-fresh blood… no, this was different. No fire, for one. Just normal, fresh blood. How was that comforting? Gah. As Crawa desperately wiped her hand clean using everything that came close - blades of grass, the dry earth, even a slightly incautious Potiphar - Taylor bent down to examine what Crawa had actually stepped in. It was barely visible, just a dark pool surrounded by half-crushed stalks… and surrounded by those stalks was a hand. Severed cleanly at the wrist, so cleanly that it almost looked like a red eye with a bone for a pupil was staring directly at her. Taylor shivered. Not good.

"Telavis, could you…?"

He soared upwards before she could even finish speaking, bearded face flicking around like a bloodhound who suspected a nearby quarry. Unusual, for him. His skin was bubbling with Runes, and his eyes were damn near popping out of their sockets as he scanned the horizon. His eyes briefly widened in recognition, and he plummeted back down with a crash, sending Potiphar rolling head-over-heels into Taylor's shins. Ow.

"Well? Anything?"

"Tarnished."

Shit.

"Where?"

"Dead."

…not the answer she expected. Hm. Technically a completely improper response to 'where', but she'd set that aside for now out of sheer graciousness. Dead Tarnished… what, had someone gotten to them first? Different hypotheticals swam before her eyes - Calvert's team maybe preying on hapless Tarnished, stealing their supplies before heading back to Limgrave. They already seemed like bandits, maybe they'd gone the whole hog and started stealing from their fellows. She couldn't imagine Calvert holding to any kind of mutual brotherhood with the rest of the Tarnished. Or perhaps it'd just been a standard patrol. Couldn't have been an animal, the cut to the hand was far too clean… and abruptly, she searched through the grass frantically. No body. Just a hand. Her skin started to break out in goosebumps. There were no furrows leading away from the hand, just a rustling path heading in the direction Telavis had seen the dead Tarnished. Which implied… someone had tried to escape whatever had killed the other Tarnished, had lost a hand for their trouble, and had been dragged back. Not good.

"Did you see anyone else?"

A mute shake of the head was his only response. So, no-one else. Interesting, very interesting. A moment of conflict welled up in her - she could just duck back on the road, head back to Stormveil at top speed. But… her curiosity was mounting. And in the end, if she just ran past a bunch of dead Tarnished, how was she committing herself to Stormveil's defence, fully and completely? Dead Tarnished might have armour, weapons, flasks… stuff to be stolen or broken, wiping them off the board. No, she had to investigate. She had enough doubts in her mind, a mystery like this would just be another thing to keep her awake at night.

"Crawa, we're going to get closer - get your swords out."

An eager nod, and the rasp of her golden swords emerging from their sheathes. Telavis mimicked her with his own greatsword. And Potiphar tried to look larger - he certainly looked heavier after eating a few of the Tarnished, but size clearly hadn't increased commensurately. She found herself wondering how jars grew at all… no, something to consider later. Her own spear was heavy and reassuring her hands - ideally, if she got in another fight, it wouldn't involve any biting. Though she could content herself with a bit of the old crotch-kicking, for tactical purposes. The quartet stalked through the grass, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Difficult, given the dry grass, but… well, at the end of the day, it wasn't like a single person could pose much of a threat. Push came to shove, Crawa could scuttle away with all of them in tow, dashing to Stormveil with all the haste that a whirling pile of limbs could muster. Which, as it turned out, was rather a lot.

She could still see the whisper of smoke on the horizon coming closer and closer, a constant reminder of how close she was coming to danger. The air was heavy with tension, but… well, surprisingly little blood. She'd have been able to detect the scent of copper, but no matter how close they came, she barely detected a single hint. She was readying herself for anything when the grass broke away to reveal a clearing - dammit, it couldn't have kept going for a few more moments? Just enough for her to get a few breaths, a little preparation… bah. Instead, she found herself choking back a half-drawn breath as the clearing spread before her, trying to get herself into something resembling readiness with less than a second's warning. In reality, she wound up stumbling, her glasses almost fell off her face, and she practically slapped herself in the nose in a frantic attempt to keep everything in place. Crawa giggled innocently, while Telavis completely ignored her. She waved off Potiphar's attempts to help, which basically amounted to poking her repeatedly until she straightened upright and stopped looking so unsteady.

As her eyes focused, the blur resolved into something more coherent. She almost wished it didn't. The clearing was ordinary enough, just a patch of earth too rocky for the grass to grow up fully. A small blackened mark indicated where a fire had been until fairly recently, ashes scattered and embers dwindling into nothing. The whisper of smoke overhead was barely present at this point - honestly, it'd been lucky that she'd even been able to see it in the first place. Well, by a given definition of the word 'lucky'. In these details, the campsite was perfectly ordinary. In every other detail, though… well, Crawa's reaction spelled it out fairly well. The girl scuttled backwards, half-hiding herself in the grass, eyes wide. Taylor realised, now more than ever, that for all her skill at eviscerating Tarnished, she was still operating mostly on instinct. When faced with something blandly horrific, all the humanity Godrick had clearly tried to graft out of existence returned to the fore. The bodies of three Tarnished lay in the clearing, and not only had they been cut apart… they'd been chewed on.

Three bodies, one of them missing a hand. Another missed an entire head, and a third had been hacked into multiple pieces. And somehow, there was barely any blood - a few drops here and there, a tiny pool, but none of the gallons she'd anticipated. And each body had obvious bite marks, and noticeable bruising where someone had squeezed on the torn ends of limbs. Her stomach turning, Taylor came closer to investigate a little more. She hoped to see something that said that an animal had done this - maybe someone with a particularly hungry dog. She'd seen Margit and Mohg (Onager's pets, not the exceedingly dangerous Omens) rip ungrafted limbs apart in a starving frenzy, she could definitely imagine a pack ripping these bodies apart like that. But… no. There was something about the bite marks, a certain narrowness, a bluntness which suggested something very different to a fanged canine maw. Whoever had done this had a mix of sharp and blunt teeth, a narrow bite, a familiar semicircle… had to be a human.

Her eyes flicked around, and the scene started to come together. Two of the Tarnished had been killed shortly after one another, no signs of struggle to be found. Hell, they looked like they were kneeling when they died, like they had been ready to accept this. But… one had clearly been set apart from the others, and had run for the hills when he saw his fellows being cut down. So, an ambush of some kind? She examined the thing they were kneeling to - no idols, nothing that struck her as immediately strange. It was just a wide, flat rock, with… hm. There was a layer of grit and dust on the surface, clearly broken recently by someone sitting down. So, that brought the number of people here up to four - two kneeling, one running, one sitting. Presumably the same one who had killed two and pursued the third.

So, they had knelt to someone who had promptly, and unexpectedly, killed them and… eaten them. Her mind abruptly filled with images of what this murderer had done. Strong, clearly, strong enough to hack through limbs like they were nothing… no blood, and the bruising around the stumps implied that they'd juiced them, squeezed tight until they had, what, some drink to go with their food? And the precision… they'd been at this for a while. She imagined running through the fields, panting desperately while a relentless murderer pursued her, lips probably still wet with blood, teeth jagged from years of tearing at raw corpses. Running into the grass, hiding from sight while the rustling made it obvious where she was at all times. A knife coming out of nowhere, a splitting pain in her wrist, and then… being dragged backwards, squealing like a stuck pig. She shook her head, tried to dispel the image.

"Ever seen anything like this?"

Telavis hummed thoughtfully while Crawa shook her head frantically, still backing away slightly into the grass. The knight continued to hum for a moment, until a few words finally broke through.

"Serpents."

Crawa gasped in horror, clapping a few hands over her mouth. Taylor raised a singular eyebrow.

"...going to explain that any further, or do you want to keep being cryptic?"

"Taylor, serpents are… enemies of the Erdtree. Enemies of everything. Man-eaters."

Crawa's voice dropped to a whisper for the last words, and the look of surreptitious shame that crossed her face made it clear that this was a taboo topic. Huh. Good to… know?

"Does eating Tarnished stop them from coming back?"

Shrugs. Fair enough, not like cannibalism was the most common activity (to her knowledge). She'd honestly be a little worried if either of them were totally knowledgeable on the topic. Well… a random lunatic had attacked them, swindled their way into their camp with the intent of eating them all. If it kept them down longer, so be it. She could see a few flasks lying around, a little armour… a few orders, and they set about their bloody work. Well, Telavis and Taylor did, Crawa politely remained at a distance. Potiphar graciously accepted any body parts thrown his way, stuffing them inside his hollow cavity with nauseating squelching noises. It was distressing how quickly Taylor was getting used to this procedure of removing armour, letting Telavis rip apart the studier pieces, doing her best to scatter the weapons to the winds before poaching the flasks and depositing them into her bag for later use. They were actually accumulating a good number of them at this point - two had been left over from the incident with Calvert's group, and now they had another three. Hell, maybe Godrick would accept them as gifts to make up for the lack of troops.

"Oh! Forgive me, maiden, I didn't mean to-"

Taylor froze. That was Crawa's voice, but who… she glanced up. Crawa trailed off, her voice There was someone else here. A woman, wearing all-white robes, most of them stained by the passage of time, the dirt of the road, and some… unmentionable red blotches. Her frame was sturdy, her face was broad and mostly veiled. All Taylor could see was a bold chin, powerful jaw muscles, and… red. Red smears all around her lips, which were quirking up into a smile.

"Oh!"

Her voice was distressingly girlish, sounding somehow younger than Crawa. And there was a thickness to it, like she was speaking around an obstruction in her throat. Taylor jumped to her feet, spear clutched in shaking hands.

"Seconds."