Roard picks at his spear's wicked head, catching his fingernail on the areas where the edge has rolled.
Blood of his slain opponents still crust the kite-shaped blade, rust has begun to take hold near the tip. The crimson cloth he has fastened under the head is tattered, the pole creaks with every move he makes. If the spear didn't hold sentimental value, he would have discarded it long ago. But, despite its weathering age, it continues to give him good service. It could definitely use some serious sharpening, if there were any blacksmiths nearby to perform such an action.
He rests on the north edge of his outpost, closest to Stormhill's gate. His frogmouth helm lies on the ground between his legs, it's ashen plume waves about in the light breeze. His shield, a massive and heavy piece of equipment, acts as his seat, his spear rests in his gauntlet covered hands.
His Soldiers, his men, move about around him, preparing for their closely approaching visitor.
Signs of a storm roll over Godrick's castle, creeping into the borders of Limgrave. It promises lightning, it promises rain, and it promises the arrival. Roard isn't nervous, but he is uneasy.
He sent his report of the Tarnished that killed one of men and escaped to the capital, expecting some form of reply. He made sure to mention how the Tarnished escaped, how the fiend was able to simply disappear into the breaches, an unheard of ability before recently. He needed to let Leyndell know, and he expected something to come of it. What he didn't expect, was how Leyndell would reply.
I almost feel sorry for you, Tarnished.
There's something the capital knows, as to what, Roard hasn't got a clue. Maybe they see this Tarnished as that much of a threat, or maybe they're just simply intrigued by it's presence. Whatever it is, the capital trusted one of its elite guard to address the matter.
A soldier runs up to him, salutes, and waits for Roard to address him.
It only means one thing, he's here.
Roard plays along anyway.
"Go ahead Demir."
The soldier straightens a little more, the other soldiers around him draw closer.
"Sir, the Sentinel has arrived."
Roard nods.
"Good."
He stands up, taking his spear and helmet with him.
"Soldiers! In formation!"
A shout of acknowledgment echoes through the camp, and every soldier follows Roard up to the gate. They get in line perpendicular to the gateway, With Roard at the end of the line. Noises of boots and clicking armor diminishes to silence, as they all stand at attention.
A minute goes by, maybe more, before the distant noises of hooves on cobblestone echo through the narrow canyon beyond the gateway.
Not a soldier dares to look, Roard does.
Between the battlements and lanterns, moving in a brutish manner, a Tree Sentinel treads the stone path toward the awaiting soldiers. In the darkness of the canyon, golden armor glints in the lantern light. Hooves as large as Roard's head slam one after another, heavy armor clangs together like loose chains. An ornamental halberd that could slay a dragon, a shield as large as a cottage. It's a formidable sight.
The head of the horse comes into view first.
It is a Graceborn, a breed found only on Altus Plateau. The beasts are titanic, aggressive, not to mention fast. No soul, not even a Tarnished, could hope to outrun it, and it alone is enough to level this whole outpost. But it is the man that rides this violent steed, that Roard keeps an eye on.
A Sentinel, in the flesh.
They are larger than Roard imagined, equipped to be able to take on even the Caelid wilds with ease. His armor is bulky, helmet topped with a plume that resembles the branches of a tree. This titan of a soldier saunters into Limgrave, the soldiers tense up as he passes by. He's easily four time the height of the soldiers, many times more massive too. One swing of that colossal halberd, and half of Roard's men would lose their heads. The disparity is obvious, and Roard finds himself a little tense when the Sentinel stops next to him.
The Sentinel looks down from atop his mount, Roard's head barely reaches the stirrups. The Sentinel's voice is booming, muffled so it sounds more like waking thunder than any man.
"Roard, knight of Godrick."
"Sentinel." Roard responds.
The Graceborn turns as the Sentinel gives the reins a tug, it makes Roard uneasy to know a single kick from the beast could probably tear him in half.
"Where is the Tarnished."
Roard's helmet doesn't let him look so high up, he manages what he can.
"Southwest, my scouts have confirmed it."
"Have they engaged?"
"No, they have merely kept watch."
Roard chews on his tongue, wondering how much he should disclose. The Sentinel must of caught on.
"Continue."
Damn, he's sharp too.
"My scouts reported that a ball of light accompanies the Tarnished, though they cannot discern what it is."
Roard hesitates, he doesn't know what this Sentinel would do if he says something wrong. Maybe nothing, but he hesitates to test that.
"We know not if it's a weapon, I would advise caution."
Did that sound rude? The Sentinel could obviously face anything this world throws at it, it probably won't even be an issue if it's a weapon or not.
No halberd comes for Roard's neck, the Sentinel nods instead.
"Noted. Recall your scouts. I, will leave immediately."
The Sentinel doesn't wait for Roard's reply, he gives the reins a light flick.
The Graeborn obeys; Roard doesn't want to know what types of methods are used to break such a creature. The Sentinel passes through the outpost, before taking a right toward where the Tarnished was last sighted. Roard breaks eye contact, raising his voice.
"Redahr!"
A Soldier, one of Roard's fastest, marches to his side.
"Sir."
Roard points to the woods, from where the Sentinel disappeared into.
"Gather our scouts. Bring them here."
"Yes Sir."
Redhar breaks into a controlled run, jogging away until he too disappears into the forest. Roard dislodges his spear from where he stuck it in the ground, raising it so everyone will look to him.
"Everyone else, back to your posts!"
With that, the soldiers disperse.
One week earlier...
I slink through a network of winding tunnels, keeping my scavenged sword close.
Melina follows close behind, her aura of floating light never drawing further back than a few steps.
She keeps quiet, only talking to me when she notices something. It's been quite the ordeal, allowing her to watch my back. We've only known one another for three days, and our first day was rocky to say the least.
She saved my life, watched over me like a guardian angel. Either because she's delusional or empathetic, she believes in me. She's already done so much to spare me, physically and mentally.
What did I do during that time?
I whined like a baby.
I was selfish, blindly resenting her for not rescuing me sooner. I was stubborn, asking her to remove the spells on my memories when I have yet to do anything to warrant her aid. I was depressed, ready to lie down and die when I learned what world I've found myself in. Only one day, and I'd already shown Melina my worst. Crying in a cell, shouting accusations, and turning unresponsive. If I were her, I would have dropped such a character, deciding it's not worth it.
She's either truly kind, or she's desperate.
If it's the second one… oh I would cringe at my own foolishness. The worst type of characters in films and books. The incompetent one. The one the kind character has to put up with. I would be the gag, the one the audience laughs at. It makes me angry, angry at nobody but myself. What's worse, Melina hears those type of thoughts swirling in my mind. She's accepted I'm from a world not like her own, accepted that I've never seen true violence in my life. Accepted my faults, my weaknesses, my shortcomings, and my grievances to boot. She swallowed that bitter pill, on the off chance that I could actually succeed.
Holy crap, she really is desperate.
So, for now, she watches my back, keeps an eye out for any incoming threats. I want to trust her, considering how much trust she puts in me. But I still find myself glancing over my shoulder, making a double take on shadows even though I can't see in the dark.
Many such shadows populate this cave, brought on by the warm firelight sourcing from torches and bonfires that populate these tunnels. Water drips down from the stalagmites above, wood pops and cracks under the besiege of curling flames. My quickened footsteps echo, my breaths low and controlled. Crass armor that clings to me like withered reeds click and groan. The small din that emits off Melina's aura, it sounds like if shining light had a sound.
These are the noises I hear, echoing about in my strained ears.
Despite setting my mind on staying this dangerous course, my nerves are still shot. At the moment, I control my breaths because I'm a long distance runner, not because I'm level headed. If something leapt out from one of the shadows I stare so eagerly at, I might just die of shock.
Melina's aura whirls by, taking the lead when we near a bend in the tunnel. She disappears around the turn for a moment, I slow to a halt.
She returns, her aura flashing from bright to dim like a malfunctioning lightbulb.
There are people ahead.
I feel my heart skip a beat, both hands grip on my sword's handle.
I'm glad nobody can hear our conversation.
I take a cautionary step away from the bend, falling back to the closest wall.
Who are they? How many?
I want to ask more, but I rein in my stampeding thoughts. There's not much I can do about my heart, which starts to thunder in my chest.
Two, they are wanderers.
I don't remember much about the beginning of Elden Ring, and I won't know more until Melina's able to remove more layers of the spell. But what I do remember is the cave that acted as the game's tutorial, back near the area I awoke as a player, and where I awoke here.
When I told Melina about it, she surmised such a place could exist. She told me a lengthy story about this world, and about something called the "Rune of Death". It was stolen, and with it, went the ability for some to pass on after they die. She told me that not everybody who is buried stays dead. There will be "wanderers", as she calls them, lost souls which wander aimlessly, knowing not who they are and where they go. They had a different name in the game, but I think I have an idea who she speaks of. I could best describe them as zombies with swords. Slow, weak, and cowardly. My memory does not extend past when I opened the doors to this graveyard, but I do remember these "wanderers". If I have a shot of defeating any opponent in this world, they might be my best bet.
Wanderers. I surmise. Do they know we're here?
The aura makes a motion as if Melina were shaking her head.
They have not, and if they have, they will make no move against us.
I take deep breaths, rising to my feet. If I were in a different situation, I would try to sneak by. But if I hope to be stronger, if I hope to never be captured and tortured again, I need to become a murderer, I will need to kill many. I can't help but think about that soldier; I think about him all the time. His dead expression, agape mouth. His warm blood, his limp form. I don't think I'll ever forget about it. But I need to fight, I need to. Even if it means seeing that scene again and again, I need to fight.
I steel myself, testing the weight of my sword.
It's a degraded blade, barely sharp enough to draw blood. I leeched it off a corpse in a coffin, which I had to force out of their rotting hands. It looks like an arming sword, with a crooked cross guard and missing pommel. With no counterweight, it's awkward to swing. But it's my only option, the other swords I could find have rusted away from water and the weather.
My armor is a similar story, I'm only wearing a chest piece and helmet that's much too large for me. I found boots, thought there too many hoes and stree lines to call them anything more than rags on my feet. Underneath that, my ragged clothes I've worn since I came here. They are the only clothes I have; I make do with what I have. The chest piece is multiple metal plates that overlap. Rivets connect them to each other and to the rotten leather base underneath. It looks to be form fitting, but it still rattles about on my torso like I were wearing a cardboard box. The helmet is just a steel skullcap, with leather fastenings that cover my ears. I need to constantly readjust it so it doesn't obscure my vision, and if I weren't putting my life on the line, I would take both pieces off. Like the sword, I took them from a dead guy in a coffin, where they were preserved from weathering for the most part. Added with the soldier I killed, I'm a murderer and a grave robber. It's funny, because for this world, I'm probably low on the list of morally degrading people.
With one more breath, I lift my sword, and readjust my helmet.
I'm shaking; I try not to notice it.
Plan of attack?
Melina wavers for a moment.
One is near the bend, it faced away from me. The other digs, it may not notice if we attack the first.
So, a sneak attack?
Yes. Transpiercing through the torso should suffice. But do not aim at the center of the wanderer's back, your blade may deflect off the spine.
I swallow.
Thanks for the grim lesson.
I draw closer, watching where I place my feet. It suddenly feels like I'm walking over is a landmine, everything looks like it'll make a noise if I put my weight on it. I flinch every time I do make a noise, I wouldn't be surprised if the wanderers could hear my rampaging heart.
Obviously not, but I can hear them.
Before I even clear the bend, I hear moans, the shuffling of feet, and the groan of fraying joints. When I peek out, I see my first victim.
The wanderer, as thin as a skeleton with skin, has its back turned, just as Melina said.
I can't spot the second one.
I cement my feet, I'm close enough that I could touch the wanderer if I reached out. My thoughts swim about in my head, my hands are sweaty.
Can I, do it? Can I kill, again?
Can I even pull it off?
What if this sword isn't sharp enough? What if I hit the spine?
They are not truly alive, they cannot feel pain.
…Yeah.
Yeah, they're like zombies.
Just zombies, just… zombies.
I grit my teeth, leveling my blade.
Calm down. It's like a zombie. It might bleed, it might cry. But it's a zombie, it's undead this time.
Flashes and images, I can see that soldier again.
Yeah, this is nothing like that time.
I take a sharp breath, and I lunge.
The shine of my blade zips through the air, adrenaline courses through my veins. I aim just left of the wander's center, putting my weight behind the stroke. When my blade meets flesh, there is an initial jerk of resistance.
Blood that reeks of rot sprays out, covering my clenching hands. I feel vibrations in my handle as the wanderer contorts, emitting a strained shock of pain. The blade runs through, meeting resistance again, before it erupts out the other side, it's dull edge taking knotted flesh and thin colonies of fat with it. It slipped right between the ribs, there was nothing to stop it.
I shiver, shock runs down my spine. It dawns on me for a moment when I take in what I've done, but I grunt, shoving the growing despair off.
Damn it all.
I nearly collided into the wanderer, I put too much momentum into the thrust. The wanderer moans, it's head partially twisting to look back at me. It was holding a sword, it was doing something with its other hand. That sword can't reach me, not from this angle.
Our eyes meet, and I almost smile.
Its eyes are dead, I can't read any emotion in those voids for pupils.
Just like Melina.
They really are dead.
I quickly plant my foot on the wanderer's lower back, huffing in effort as I kick the zombified figure off my blade. The wanderer collapses to the floor, twitching as nearly black blood leaks out its new wound. When it ceases to move, familiar flecks of light leech out of its skin wrapped form, taking flight like a handful of fireflies. They draw to me, stick onto me, and disappear under my pale skin. Those must have been runes, thought there wasn't nearly as many this time around.
I nearly let out a sight of relief, I took the leap. I don't feel good about what I've done, not in the slightest. But if this world is kill or be killed… It's either me or them.
Do not be complacent. Melina circles about me in a quickened fashion, catching my attention. The other wanderer has noticed us.
I nearly jump out of skin. I forgot there were two. I readjust my helmet, holding onto it as I whip my head about.
Where!?
Something shiny makes an arc for my head, flashing as it comes in at a high angle.
My years learning martial arts save me; I dive away.
A thin blade skids atop my helmet, nearly severing my fingers. The noise of metal against metal rings in my ears; I fight to gain my footing as soon as I hit the ground.
One of the most important rules of fencing: don't take your eyes off your opponent. Don't watch their blade, don't watch only their hands or feet. Certainly don't lose focus.
My instructor would laugh at me.
I wonder what she's doing right now. It's still summer vacation, so she's probably sleeping in.
Who?
I turn to face the other wanderer, who stumbles to a stop.
Nothing, just a thought.
The wanderer slowly turns its head, it would be a menacing sight if the creature didn't look like it's drunk. It begins to slowly shuffle toward me, that sword being held like a dead limb.
What's the play this time?
The aura revolves around the tip of my sword like a satellite. She's either having fun, or she likes to circle things.
A stab will always be effective, especially against armored foes. But it is an obvious attack and can be hard to land.
Thinking about how long a fencing match can go for, I can wholly agree.
A wander is uncoordinated and slow. They do not know how to fight; I would suggest that you parry their next attack if you can manage it.
Parrying? That wasn't part of the original game.
This isn't a game. I remind myself. Anything's possible.
Melina acts like she didn't hear me.
They are too weak to swing their sword, they use their weight to attack. If you can redirect the swing, then they will be open to a counterattack. The wanderer continues to hobble toward me, taking up no stance to speak of. Like a puppet with a blade, it makes no effort to defend itself.
I keep moving to stop my legs from locking up. Despite my actions, I'm terrified.
I know what parrying is, but I've never done it before.
What if I screw up?
The aura rests on the tip of my blade.
Then let us practice.
I start.
Now!?
Yes, now. Make yourself scarce.
I back away, putting distance from the wanderer until I'm on the other side of the tunnel. The aura hops off my blade, rising to the sky.
Follow my movements with your blade, keep your hands opposite of the tip.
My eyes flick to the wanderer over and over; it stumbles unendingly toward me.
Eyes off the wanderer. Eyes on me.
If you wish to guarantee yourself safety in this encounter, you must learn now. We cannot leave it up to chance with a dodge.
I grit my teeth, and I force to look away.
It's getting closer.
It is.
She leaves it at that and begins to move in a diagonal line.
Follow my movements, hands opposite the tip.
The heck does that mean? I hesitate, hearing the shuffling footsteps draw closer. This is a crazy idea.
Lance.
Begrudgingly, I point my blade at the aura. She moves diagonally downwards, I follow. She rises, and makes the same diagonal motion again.
Hands opposite the tip Lance.
I feel flustered.
What does that even mean?
The wanderer has crossed the halfway point, its moans drawing closer and closer by the second.
I will show you. Plant your feet.
I know what that means.
When I nod, the aura draws close, cutting the distance between Melina and I in half. I unconsciously go to take a step back, but my mind clicks.
Oh!
I stay where I am, keeping my sword tip aimed at Melina. Naturally, at this distance, I raise my hands to lower the blade, until my sword is nearly parallel with my body, and my arms are raised above my head. She wants me to block with the sword. I wish she just started by saying that.
Good. Repeat.
I make the motion over and over.
The wanderer is upon me, Melina flies up next to my head.
Do not retreat, wait until the wanderer lunges, then make the motion.
The same motion? I don't just block?
Yes. Do not block.
I bite the inside of my cheek, shaking my head in disbelief.
This is crazy.
The wanderer raises its sword, extending it completely skyward. I feel adrenaline make my hands go cold.
The blade comes arcing down.
Now.
My heart jumps a beat, and I go through the motion.
Time feels like it slows down once our blades meet. My tip meets the other blade halfway down, with an initial vibration of a collision. The wanderer's sword begins to ride down mine, closing in on my head like a guillotine.
My eyes widen.
What have I done? I just guided that sword straight to my face. I'm about to die.
My hands are already going through the motion, rising. But I feel like it's too late. Whatever Melina taught me, it feels like I missed my chance, messed up the timing or something.
It's reached halfway down my sword, still closing in.
I grimace, moving my head to try and duck away.
Down and down goes the tip of my blade, closer and closer the wanderer's draws near.
It's a quarter of the way, an eighth, a sixteenth. It'll deflect off my cross guard, it'll hit my forehead dead center. It might cleave my head in two, might take an eye or simply lodge itself into my skull.
This helmet is worthless, this sword is worthless.
What Melina taught me, in the few seconds I bought by retreating, is useless.
I can't duck away in time, can't even close my eyes in time.
I can only stare, as that sword comes down to claim my life.
I should have blocked; I should have dodged. I'm an idiot.
But something changes; a sudden flip in momentum right when my hands rise past the falling blade.
It redirects, riding back up my sword. But it's not rising.
It's being deflected.
I watch in awe, as the wanderer's sword careens away to my left, riding my lowering blade down and away from me. The wanderer can't stop, can't bring its sword back. Its tip nicks my left eyebrow, showers me with sparks.
Down and down it goes, becoming trapped by its own momentum.
It slips off my sword tip, never drawing even a drop of my blood. The wander falls by, it's head inches from mine.
It looks confused, puzzled as to how I'm still standing, and it's the one falling.
Now! Melina yells. Swing your blade!
I jerk my hands up and to the right, twisting my shoulders and torso to accommodate.
"Graaaah!" I bellow, putting everything I have into the swing.
My sword rises, meeting the wanderer's falling form at the neck. It connects near Adams Apple, and time speeds up. Resistance, an intense vibration as my sword crashes into frail bone. A loud snap, a bubbly suction sound; then my blood sullied sword drops into my field of vision.
A head spins away, a silent wanderer spills hard to the floor. Its sword clatters, body twitches before drawing still.
I take in quickened breaths, my sword still extended out ahead of me. Crimson liquid drips from it, new chips from where it struck bone fluster the edge. My helmet partially covers my vision, my stance begins to fail when the adrenaline wear off.
I drop to a knee, and I clutch my chest.
I take quickened breaths as a chill runs through me; that was way too close.
I work to steady my breathing. The wanderer fails to rise again, its severed head tumbles away and into the shadows.
I drop my sword, staring at my shaking hands.
Fear, horror, and excitement swims about my head, making me feel dizzy.
"Holy crap." I mutter.
I fall to both knees, finding myself staring at the ceiling.
"I almost died… again."
The aura flies over, and lands lightly on my nose. I might be imagining it, but it feels like something physical touches down.
Yes. But you have won.
Runes fly about before leeching into my skin, and the cave draws to silence. Nothing but the drip of water, the roar of fire, and my exasperated breaths.
"…Yeah." I give a small grin, becoming filled with a sense of melancholy, relief, and frail joy.
"Yeah. I won."