Stormveil was finally in sight, but it was of such Brobdingnagian proportions that it took another month to get anywhere close.
The land seemed to gain life, its previous rocky countenance now a far cry from the lushness that increased as they made their way forward. The number of Farum-Azula ruins spiked, and the concentration of animals grew. Wolves, deer, boars, and all manner of birds howled, snorted, and chittered.
Perhaps for the first time since leaving the Altus Plateau, the Lands Between felt... alive.
Soon enough, they passed the Southern Liurnian Highway and reached the large bridge that connected Liurnia to Limgrave.
It had been long shattered in the game, but now a regiment of soldiers clad in familiar red-green armour guarded its entrance. They checked and exchanged small bags of gold among caravans that periodically passed through.
Where once there was a maddened Troll in the game, now stood his oath-bound soldiers.
People. Civilization.
Sure, they had encountered occasional settlements in North and East Liurnia, but the villagers had gazed upon them with fear. Their terror was odd, especially toward Godrick, whom they saw as death incarnate, though his Greatspear was anything but.
Perhaps they had never seen a Demigod before.
"Earnan," Godrick said softly, and their platoon halted.
"Yes, my Lord!" Earnan snapped to attention, saluting Godrick from his horse.
"Go, inform them of my coming," Godrick commanded, gesturing towards the soldiers ahead. "But ensure it doth not escape our walls. None beyond Stormveil must know of this."
Earnan thought for a second before saluting Godrick and riding off.
At last... 'tis time I ceased wandering like a nomad.
***
The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and the faint, lingering trace of incense. The stone ceilings were supported by pillars so ancient that their history was lost to time, while the massive courtroom—bigger than most noble houses—was decorated with lifelike statues carved into the walls.
Candles and chandeliers lit the room, shedding light upon a nearly empty space. An enormous carpet extended out from the giant twin stone doors, lined by five seats on either side, leading to a dais supporting a throne upon which only a Demigod could sit.
Only two of the ten seats were filled. Both were occupied by tall, imposing men. One bearded and pale, the other rugged and scarred, their attention focused on the numerous manuscripts and maps scattered across the massive table at the centre.
Commander Edgar and Orlan—the only two survivors from the original ten.
As Regent of Limgrave, Taraghlan was tasked with consolidating his lord's power but had failed miserably. The land had only delved further into chaos upon their arrival.
One Commander was lost in battle.
Six had turned traitor.
All of Limgrave was plunged into a political and power struggle.
"I've failed the lord," Taraghlan whispered as he tiredly cradled his head, reclining on his lavishly decorated seat. It was the seat closest to the dais, reserved for the advisor, but he didn't believe he deserved it.
His stark white hair had begun to grey, and his wrinkles had deepened. Caressing the wrinkled finger around his neck was the only thing that gave him some solace, kindling the weak embers within his heart.
His eyes flicked toward the gargantuan throne next to him, admiring the Golden Greataxe that lay upon its seat. It was emblazoned with the figure of a beast, representing the strength of Godfrey, First Elden Lord and patriarch of the golden lineage, whose likeness was carved right behind the aforementioned throne.
It was the very same weapon Godfrey had given up before proceeding on the Long March.
'Ah, when will my Lord arrive?' he thought morosely.
"No, we have failed Lord Godrick," Edgar mumbled, brushing his gauntleted hand through his overgrown hair. "Castle Morne has fallen, and Fort Haemrick has denounced us, putting us on equal footing with ordinary bandits and thieves."
"Haemrick goes too far," Orlan rumbled, his large hand squeezing his armrest. "What right does he have? This is Lord Godrick's domain, not his! Has the storm scrambled his brains? Where is his honour?"
"He never had any to begin with, Knight Commander," Taraghlan scoffed before slamming his hand into the table. "This is no time to lament and hurl curses at those who will never hear us. Those are the habits of lesser men. We are not lesser men."
"What more can we do, Regent?" Edgar looked at Taraghlan helplessly. "That damned council of traitors has sanctioned us to the point of bankruptcy. I can only do so much. Loyalty cannot feed starving men."
"Loyalty can sate me," Orlan spat as he frowned, his scars dancing across his face as it contorted. "My body may eat my flesh, but never my spirit."
"My men are not like you," Edgar shot back.
"Then they are lesser men," Orlan grinned nastily.
"You—!!!"
"ENOUGH!!!"
Taraghlan snapped as he stood up, his eyes burning with rage.
"The Golden Order has branded us traitors! The very land we swore to shield now turns its scorn upon us! Our Lord, to whom we owe fealty, would deem us failures! And yet you quarrel and squabble like petulant babes!"
Orlan bowed his head in shame, but Edgar still retained hints of righteous anger.
Taraghlan internally groaned as he held the Mimic's veil in his robes.
O Godrick, forgive us. Your faith in me was misplaced.
But just then, the massive twin doors rumbled. Orlan and Edgar shot to their feet, their armoured hands on their weapons, while Taraghlan stood uncertainly, confusion evident on his face.
It took ten men to open the twin stone doors. Nobody was getting in unless it was a staggeringly important message or an enemy attack. With another rumble, the doors swung open with far greater speed than they should have.
Taraghlan's mind went blank as he beheld the man behind the doors.
No... that is no man. Not anymore.
His golden hair, long and unbound, cascaded down his back like the rays of the setting sun.
Eyes made of molten gold, shimmering in patterns that threatened to incite frenzy.
Bare shoulders broad as tree trunks and arms thick and corded with muscle.
Draped in the skin of a Runebear and grasping an Amber Greatspear that burst with the greenish-gold of a long-lost Rune.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the now deafeningly silent hall as he made his way toward the throne.
Nobody stopped him. Nobody spoke. They merely watched in muted disbelief as a Demigod, who towered over even the tallest of knights and made Orlan look like a child, took his rightful place at the head of the hall.
Fingers that could wrap around a man's head grasped the hilt of the Golden Axe and lifted it off the throne. It was heavy enough to crush metal with its weight, yet the Demigod raised it as though it were a feather.
He faced Taraghlan and the commanders, his presence suffocating.
"I am Godrick the Golden," he boomed, his thunderous voice rumbling in their chests. "Blessed of the Ancient Dragons, Harbinger of Lotted Life, and Conqueror of the Frenzied Flame. Your Lord and rightful heir to the Golden Lineage."
Godrick's Axe slammed into the floor with a tremendous crash that echoed around the hall.
"I command thee, kneel!"
Taraghlan, Edgar, and Orlan jerked and acquiesced as fast as they could, their hearts pounding like a drum.
"For I am the Lord of all that is Golden."
***
[Observe]
[Godfrey's->Godrick's Axe: Greataxe wielded by Godrick the Golden. This golden battleaxe is emblazoned with the figure of a beast, representing the strength of Godfrey, First Elden Lord and patriarch of the golden lineage.]
The throne perfectly fit his mighty nine-foot figure as he leaned back on the aged wood and metal. His entrance was grand enough to burn his image into the minds of his commanders, separating himself from their previous image of Godrick the Scrawny, but he had also made sure that no one else knew of his arrival.
Rumours of his return were inevitable, but confirmation was to be suppressed lest his plans fall into ruin.
"My Lord..." Taraghlan looked up at him with teary eyes suffused with both shame and hope. He could even see pride in them—the pride that only a father watching his son grow up could have. "I have failed you. We all have. The Starscourge is preparing for war. Traitors are in our midst. Limgrave has fallen to them. I beg you. Forgive me."
Taraghlan's sentences came out in short bursts, the sheer pressure of being before a Demigod in flesh and blood turning what was a strict, calm man into a flustered and terrified one.
Edgar and Orlan looked like frightened puppies, staring at the floor and not daring to look up. They even refused to flinch when Earnan, Forthus and Gilika entered the hall, taking their positions and kneeling before the throne.
"Earnan...?", Taraghlan whispered through tears.
"Taraghlan", Earnan nodded and gave his old friend a warm smile. "It's been a while."
Taraghlan's wide eyes grew even wider as he gazed upon the figure of Earnan which had grown fuller and stronger. His black skin gleamed as it reflected the candlelight, but what was truly eye-catching was the golden tattoo on his muscled arm.
The golden lines had changed from their original patterned appearance, a faint outline of a Greatspear flickering against the light.
"Taraghlan...", Godrick looked down and spoke softly as one hand gripped the Greatspear and the other his Greataxe.
"Thou hast led my forces to victory 'gainst Godefroy the Grafted. Thou hast journeyed across the Lands-Between in my name. For me, thou hast fought. For me, thou hast bled."
Tears flowed freely as relief crashed into Taraghlan akin to a tidal wave, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
"Thou canst never fail me."
Godrick glanced at the scattered papers, his sharp mind processing the information instantly.
"Limgrave hath fallen to traitors and war doth loom on the horizon."
His eyes flashed with bloodlust.
"Good. My reign shall be baptized with blood and gold."
***
Kingdom building arc incoming.