Two days.
Two days that we traveled, until we learned of Bellard's fate.
Back at the bridge, when we awoke, we found the corpse of a boar lying dead at our feet; its throat seemingly torn into by the fangs of a certain wolfman. As per his word, Blaidd was long gone, but not before leaving us a present to subsist off of for the time being.
It was then that I learned from Kalé about how to skin a boar.
It was a fairly clean operation at first, much to my surprise. But, while working on skinning its back left leg, my knife accidentally nicked a large vein that wriggled a little too close to the surface of the boar's skin during its lifetime. We hung the thing up on a tree by its head before this happened, for ease of access, which sounded like a good idea at the time. But the law of gravity is an unforgiving thing; I never had such a large volume of blood spray all over me. And in such a short amount of time too; I was coated crimson before I even had a chance to close my eyes.
Kalé couldn't help but point a finger and laugh his "arse" off, falling to the ground and cackling at my distraught expression. Even Melina stifled a giggle; I felt whole heatedly betrayed. Looking back on it, it was rather humorous. After the day we had prior, it felt like a breath of fresh air. A moment of uplifted hearts and, granted, the vague taste of iron.
And in fate's cruel fashion, it was the last cheerful experience we had.
For the next two days, we made our way south, finding nothing but death and suffering in our way. Three settlements we came across; three husks of what used to be two lively towns and a village. The places were sacked, raided, and razed to the ground; nothing but stone foundations and collapsed charcoal beams remained. The bodies were overwhelming, tossed into large piles and burned to ash.
Some of the victims revived, any that were left with holes in their skulls and arrows through their hearts had already come back to life, loitering around their destroyed homes with vacant looks on their faces. It was then that I learned a spirit, or rune, will have no body to return to if that body is destroyed beyond a certain point. If the skeleton remains, you can revive. If you are split in two, dissolved to bones by acid, or even blown into a hundred pieces; you can revive. But if your body is burned, razed down to ash, then you will lose your body, and become something similar to what people thought of ghosts being on earth.
You will either become a spirit if you hold onto a purpose, or more commonly, a rune if you have nothing left, no regret that supersedes the alluring call of the void. Melina's words made all the more sense. Those bodies that were burned, they will never return.
As for the survivors…
No.
Calling them that doesn't even feel right.
…
…
As for the people that were lucky their corpses didn't get burned; they told us their stories, harrowing as it was, and begged us for food. They may have revived, but their foodstuffs were still taken. They may be alive, but unless they can secure food, water, and shelter, then they will only continue to suffer and perish here.
As for their stories, I couldn't help but feel sick.
Their patchy accounts described a mob, a body of more than 500 armed men, moving about without even bothering to march. They went where they pleased, moved how they pleased, and attacked whomever they pleased. They descended upon the village at night, torches as numerous as a swarm of fireflies. They killed the husbands and their sons, had their way with their wives and their daughters, and stole everything their hands could carry, before they burned it all to the ground.
They say the armed men, the soldiers, had green and red surcoats.
Godrick's lot.
One man with a dead expression said that there was one that lead the mob, herded them as they went about their ways. When I pressed him, he said he never got a good look, but there was definitely somebody in the mob "calling the shots."
Like all the others, he begged me for food. While we had strips of boar, we had already given nearly all of it to the survivors of the decimated town we came across the day prior. If we gave any more away, we'd run out before we reach Bellard. I can go without food for two days; I'd just suck it up. But Kalé stopped me from giving any more away.
"We don't know the situation in Bellard." He said with a serious expression. "If we give away all our food now, we are in some trouble if Castle Morne is under siege. Our chances of finding more food there would be dashed."
Despite myself, I conceited. So I turn down the man with the dead expression, and even found my mind wondering something.
"Why stay here if you don't have any more food?" I asked. "Can't you go somewhere that has it?"
He gave me a look that was equally angered as it was surprised.
"And do what!?" He shouted, disturbing the solemn silence that had hung over the village. "Leave myself to beasts in the forest?"
I said something wrong. I tried to take it back, but the man grunted, crossing his arms.
"If we go, if we leave and we starve on the road, something bad will find us. Something bad always finds us. We will stay here and wait until Edgar comes for us. No matter how many times we need to die, there's no reason to go anywhere else but stay where Morne's Soldiers know where to find us."
I apologized and retreated. His words made some sense, and I felt bad. But I flinched when the man cursed under his breath, loud enough to make sure I could hear him. He cursed me, spat on my name, and wished that I'll die a gruesome death.
All because he knew I was Tarnished.
I knew I angered him; he had the right to snap at me. But I lost all sympathy for him on a dime, caring not if the scavenging dogs find him in the night.
We left the village soon after that, and when we came across the third destroyed town later that day, we unanimously agreed to move on. We already know the story, already know what to expect if we enter that burnt graveyard. And the biggest reason; the reason I don't want to acknowledge but is a reason all the same: we don't want to deal with the scornful looks they'll give us when we refuse to share.
Aside from the village and towns, the path we took through the Peninsula had been heavily disturbed, the plants only recently starting to come back from being trampled underfoot. What's more, we found many things cast aside, left behind as this "Limgrave Mob" continued south. We'd find evidence of campsites, discarded footwear and armor, even some weapons and rotting food.
We also found bodies.
Anyone passing through would easily see such a large and untethered force coming, so none of the bodies were from innocent travelers. A very small number were Limgrave soldiers, seemingly killed by their comrades over probable disputes the mob is having. None have revived yet, which means the mob is close; not a day's travel ahead.
But the soldiers were a small number, and the rest of the bodies… were women.
Some were old, some were younger than me. Some dead, and some still alive.
I will not describe them; I will only say this:
My hatred for this mob has only increased, to the point I might find myself smiling if I kill one of them slowly, twisting my blade around, deep in their gut.
...
No.
Thinking like that is too far, even for this situation.
But they are wicked; I am certain of it.
...
Against my judgement, and in our group's best interest, we pressed on.
It was dawn of the third day on the Peninsula, when we heard the far-off sounds of war.
With it, Kalé stops dead in his tracks.
"Blast." He mutters.
I see what he's looking at; it bodes no fair news.
We exited out of a narrow canyon, which cut through a plateau stretching across the entirety of the Peninsula's southern realm. It acts as a natural barrier, and the place we find ourselves now is a region where the canyon widens for a spell, enough that something like a blue whale could lay perpendicular to the path and fit snugly between the adjacent rocky walls.
Ahead lies a looming wall built by man, a barricade of dark bricks that easily tower over a hundred feet into the air. It's easy enough to define its initial purpose; it's just like Stormhill Gate. An outer entrance, to Bellard if I were to guess. A structure built by Castle Morne to monitor foot traffic in and out of the city, a checkpoint capable of stopping a small army of 500 if its guards wanted to.
That checkpoint has a gaping hole in it, large enough to fit a dragon through.
I follow Kalé up to the destroyed wall, keeping an eye out for signs of the Limgrave Mob. Bricks litter the ground, signs of intense foot traffic pepper everything. A ravaged structure lies unmoving above my head, as dead of life as a corpse. There's evidence of the mob everywhere, but no sign of those red and green surcoats.
"Didn't think people are capable of this."
I say absentmindedly, giving one of the large bricks at my feet a kick. It doesn't budge an inch; it must weigh several tonnes. Countless others like it make up a graveyard of stone around us; I don't think even the explosion on the bridge would have the power to cause something like this.
"Don't think it was the soldiers."
Kalé says, studying the extent of the damage. His eyes perk up a little; he points at the right side of the gaping hole, nearly halfway up that sheer face.
"Those are claw marks."
On the wall, suddenly cutting off where the stone gives way to sky, a single gash has been left, etched deeply into the stone. More like it can be spotted all across the structure, rampant and erratic wounds, like something you could see out of Jurrasic Park.
I shiver, giving our surroundings a second glance over.
"So, an animal made this hole?"
Calling it a hole sounds far too mellow, the entire middle section of the wall is all over the ground.
Kalé nods.
"Aye. Question is: is this beast an ally of our little mob?"
I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering. Is that true? Does this rouge batalltion have some sort of pet?
If it's capable of this…
Is that smoke?
My legs find themselves pressing forward, before I can even finish my thought.
I make my way up until I'm standing at the heart of the wall, where the breeze changes on a dime. From here, Melina and I get a view of everything that lies ahead...
I feel my heart drop into my stomach.
It was smoke.
What I see, is a city.
A massive accumulation of buildings and houses and tracts, lined with streets and alleys and sewers. A civilization stretching over every square inch of the land ahead, taking up the entirety of the Weeping Peninsula's southern coast. It's huge, and that's coming from a kid who spent his life in the shadow of a city with nearly 200,000 living in it.
Each building slightly unique, yet that all follow a vaguely gothic theme. Grey brick and pale plaster homes, gunmetal hued shops and facilities. A second set of walls that circumnavigates the inner bloc, with small villages and towns bordering its outer expanse.
On the shorelines, swaying in the calm waters, fleets of wooden ships lay docked in segregated harbors, the skeletons of rolled up sails contrasting against the cyan waters in a scene vaguely reminiscent of a 1600s harbor.
Above it all, stretching into the sky, is a castle, a fortress, a stronghold. A massive structure, bigger than anything I've ever seen in this world besides the Erdtree itself. Sheer walls, jagged ramparts covered in siege timberworks and armed to the teeth. High enough up top that it scrapes the lowest clouds, towering over the city like a sleeping giant over a land of gnomes.
That must be Castle Morne, which means this expansive city is Bellard.
It's every bit as grand as Kalé made it out to be, easily capable of housing several hundreds of thousands of people. Such a view, that it makes me feel like a speck of dust in this wind; dwarfed in comparison to what lies ahead.
It would make my mouth fall agape in wonder, if my mouth wasn't already frowning.
That sinking feeling never lets up; yet I can't look away.
Bellard is in chaos.
The sounds of snarls and roars reached my ears first, before the scent of smoke and death singed my nose. The taste of coal rests heavy in the air, and the sights of war plague everything. Fires rage in homes and businesses, small flashes of gleaming blades and shining armor glitter like countless stars in the streets. Houses collapse, brick towers crumble and break.
The screams of siege weaponry echo from within Morne's high walls, flaming projectiles the size of boulders sail through the air over those walls. They come crashing down, obliterating any obstacle in their path.
Tendrils of smoke rise from nearly every block, congregating into a dark cloud that rests over everything, giving the buildings and castle a bleak atmosphere.
It all sounds like distant thunder, with undertones of clashing swords and disgruntled cries settling in my ears.
It all looks like a scene out of dark fantasy, with the very air stagnating in my lungs.
It all feels like the end of the world, like the very existence of human civilization is at stake.
Kalé lets out a quickened breath at my side when he reaches me, Melina falters to my shoulder.
"The hell happened here?"
He mutters, seething beneath his words.
This is his hometown, one of those devastated houses down there is his. I can't possibly know how this scene makes him feel, but I can only imagine it.
So much suffering, so much death.
It is revolting.
The three of us seemingly become frozen in time, watching a great city gradually fall before our very eyes. Fiery boulders launched from Castle Morne slam into the streets, pulverizing the rooftops and walls of nearby buildings as they land. New fires start up from seemingly nowhere, orange flames flickering toward the sky like children born in the mantle breaking free of the earth's crust.
What's worse, is what looks like a giant bat that flies over the turmoil, staying aloft on jet black wings that catch the hot updrafts. Serpentine in form, with thick back legs, sharp teeth and claws, and a long tail; its end seemingly cut off, leaving a rounded off nub behind.
I feel something resurface within me; my eyes widen.
Agheel.
What is he doing here?
Agheel turns about face, surveying the battles below like a hawk, swooping down and landing with a hearty crunch. He touches down atop what looks like a chapel, destroying its steeple as he grinds to a halt. He rears his neck, and with an initial shriek, vomits flames. Dragonfire splashes into the streets below where he aims, washing over countless bodies. With it comes the accumulated cacophony of screams, as an untold number are burned alive. Agheel shuts off his blaze, scrunches up, and lets out a shrieking roar, one that carries over the entire city, echoes off Morne's walls, and makes a shiver run down my spine when it reaches my ears.
Kalé doesn't say anything about Agheel, doesn't even try to complain, crack a joke, or bicker like he normally does. He's at a loss for words, staring absentmindedly as his home falls to ruin in front of him.
Melina, what should we do?
She's silent for a moment.
…What do you make of this?
If what Kalé said is true, then Bellard should have nearly 4,000 soldiers. Even if Agheel is here too, a mob of 500 men should not be capable of this.
I flinch when Agheel takes off, severing the roof of a bell tower with a single flick of his tail.
Something else is going on.
I would agree.
I fall silent, Melina quietly studies me.
…
You want to help them. Do you not?
I grimace, gritting my teeth. I would, anyone with a heart would, right? But what can I do? If I try anything, I'll just get killed.
I do. But I'm not putting us in danger. Not for such a meaningless reason.
Then, for now, I suggest we form a new plan.
If Bellard is in this state, then we must guide Kalé elsewhere.
I look toward the merchant.
"Kalé…?"
I trail off; Kalé takes one step forward.
He takes another, and another, before he breaks into a run, pumping his spindly legs as he bolts right toward a grandiose scene of raging fires and mortal combat.
"They must have holed up in Morne!" He shouts at me, his gravelly voice straining from the volume. "We'll head straight there!"
My jaw drops.
What the?
Is he an idiot?
Run through all of that?
"Oh, and be sure you don't listen to his plans. They are always ill-conceived and scarcely thought out."
I almost want to laugh; Blaidd was right.
"Wait!" I shout, drawing my sword, sprinting after the merchant's shrinking form. "Wait just a second!"
Melina hurries after me, joining us, as we charge headfirst into an active warzone.
The outer homesteads are empty, everything overturned by terrified residents, before being ransacked by a large number of unkind hands.
Fields of staple crops left unattended, pastures and meadows simply barren, waterwheels slowly churning in streams without a soul to watch. It would be an eerie atmosphere if we came across this anywhere else.
The farms may be desolate, but it's the opposite experience when I reach Bellard's outer wall, sweating and fighting to keep my breath.
Kalé just kept running, leaving me in the dust. I know I'm carrying two weapons and nearly fifteen pounds of armor, but I'm a distance runner, a kid who trained for four years in Highschool to simply run. What is it with people and their stamina around here?
A cry of pain dashes away my clouded thoughts, making me cease up.
Bellard's outer wall, comparable to the gate back at the canyon in height. Girthy stone bricks make up the structure, which stretches east and west all the way to the opposing shorelines. No apparent damage lies on the wall, but the gate is wide open. I peek around the opening in that gate, taking a good look at the front of Bellard from ground level.
…
You know?
I can almost see it; I can imagine what this place must've looked like originally.
From the gate, a wide street rides the center of the city, carrying all the way through until connecting to the front of Castle Morne. The Castle itself looms directly ahead, sitting atop the slight incline of the city, giving off the illusion that it was a sheer mountain overlooking the masses. On the main street, a dense grid of buildings line the way on both sides, giving off a similar view the town had, but many times larger. In front of the buildings, hugging the street, are more stalls than I can count, where eager merchants and peddlers would call out at the passing crowds, bartering goods for trade.
The buildings themselves were a mix of almost pale plastered wood walls and darker timber outlines; I've seen a similar building design in pictures of German towns. Smooth stone foundations; a light grey hue of clay makes up the tiled rooftops.
Unseen from here, but lingering on the city's southern end, harbors full of barges and island-hopping vessels cling to the sandy shorelines. The docks filled with sailors offloading cargo, loiters and taskmasters mingling in the rhythm, harlots and con-men soliciting on the corners.
The parks, the bazaars, the taverns, the fountains. The gates, the cellars, the gazebos, the carriage fares. A young couple resting by the street, a little boy playing along with a puppy. Floods of crowds moving every which way, enjoying a difficult life to the fullest. The sun's golden rays, the scent of baked goods and roasted meats mingling with sea salt. The view of the Erdtree on the northern horizon, and the lingering thought that, just maybe, one can make a life in a doomed existence.
The scene would have looked wonderful; I'd truly think I was in another world.
But this is hell; a wicked reality. That image I could imagine is not this city.
The main street is ravaged by spilt blood and dismembered limbs, destroyed stalls overturned and set aflame. One of every ten houses reduced to rubble, fountains choked up with carrion, a half-decayed dog feasts on a dismembered arm. Bodies of soldiers and civilians alike choke up the alleyways, discarded spears and shattered swords clutter the inlaid gutters, washed over by crimson water.
Pillars of smoke climb up and choke the sunlight, and colossal fireballs vault over Morne's walls, arcing through the air and illuminating the clouds like shooting stars, careening overhead in slow motion.
Shouts, grunts, and cries echo between the buildings, clashing blades and severing flesh rings in my ears. Agheel's shrieking roar rolls over it all, making the very air quiver.
The smell of rotting iron clings to my nose; the air is thick with the scent of death. I can taste the brimstone, charcoal dust collects under my nails.
It's cold, so very cold.
These are the sights, sounds, and smells of war.
Groups tear into one another on the main street, black and white surcoats mixing with red and green ones. And amongst them, to my horror, are inhuman beasts, devils of cartoonish proportions that mindlessly swarm the scene.
These creatures look almost human, but their heads are large, their skin is ragged, and their nails are long. Like monsters from a children's book, they are chimeras of reptilian legs, malformed tails, and stunted wings. They move like unhinged maniacs, wildly swinging massive cleavers around without a shred of remorse.
They slaughter Bellard's soldiers, and to Godrick's…
They leave alone.
The hell? What are those things?
The Misbegotten.
Misbegotten…
The misbegotten let out chuffing victory cries, standing over their slain enemies. Godrick's soldiers give them disgusted looks, but carry on, disappearing into the alleyways, ready to kill more.
You know what? Now that I think about it, they look somewhat like a messed up version of those winged baboons from The Wizard of Oz, albeit more unhinged and revolting. They are vile to look at, and their noises all sound unnerving.
So, that is what happened.
I quickly enter through Bellard's wall, running to the nearest home for cover. Melina stays right by my side, peeking out from around the corner.
The misbegotten have rebelled.
That must be why Bellard failed to deal with the mob of Limgrave soldiers.
I clench my sword, joining Melina by popping my head out, just above her glowing form.
Rebelled? They didn't invade?
The closest misbegotten continue their chuffing cries, taking obvious pleasure in it. I can see nearly 80 peppering the main street, plaguing the scene like a sub-human infestation. Some keeled over, thrusting thin arms skyward. Others with fully developed wings perch on the rooftops, surveying the city like wakes of vultures.
Some find themselves in combat, and others… find themselves busy butchering bodies.
In a revolting fashion, the ones chopping into flesh, violently strip bloody chunks from their victims… and promptly scarf it down.
I gag.
They're not only monsters, but they're the man-eating kind too.
Disgusting.
Abhorrent.
Horrid.
They eat Bellard's soldiers, but they help themselves to the civilians too. Men, woman, even children; they devour them all, bit by bit. They revel in the blood, find pleasure in their actions.
These misbegotten…
The misbegotten are beings molded by the Crucible, a species similar to humans and albinaurics. Due to many reasons, their race was enslaved. A large number of them serve Bellard and its residents.
I take deep breaths, trying to get that image out of my head. The misbegotten closest to us; it was using a man's head like a jawbreaker.
If they have rebelled, then they outnumber Bellard's soldiers by magnitudes.
This city is finished.
Enslaved? Rebelled?
I grit my teeth, seething.
To commit such disgusting acts, and take pleasure in doing it…
Even if they were enslaved, even if they hated the people of Bellard from the bottom of their twisted hearts…
Are you saying we need to leave?
Yes.
To stay would only mean to ensure our deaths.
What about Kalé?
She falls silent.
I didn't see the merchant; he could be anywhere. I don't think he's been caught, but following him seems impossible.
We can't just leave him here.
Dangerous or not, it's our responsibility to see him home. It's what I signed us up for.
This is his home, but it can be argued that his home doesn't exist anymore. To say my task is finished… How would I feel if I was Kalé? Find my home is destroyed and I'm in immediate danger, and my bodyguard just bids me farewell? I'd resent him.
I steel myself.
Come on. Let's find Kalé and convince him to leave with us. We'll figure it out as we go from there.
Melina sighs.
Very well.
Then, we will repeat our actions here, from back when we sought out Roard.
Melina leads the way, and steers the two of us away from danger; simple enough.
Alright. Lead the-
A scream.
A scream of fear.
It's crisp, sharp… and it comes from the main street.
I peek back out, ignoring the misbegotten.
A young lady, a stuttering and stumbling young lady, collapses to the ground just outside of an alleyway on the street's right side, finding herself out in the open. She has blond hair, wears a dress stained with blood, and has what looks like a black blindfold tied over her eyes. She looks shaken; the scream came from her.
"My lady!"
A deep voice bellows, as a soldier in a black and white surcoat, a steel helmet tipped with a sword ornament, exits the alleyway, coming to the aid of the young lady. He brings her to her feet in a rush, forcefully guiding her along.
"Do not slow down!" He barks.
A noise of a primitive blade driving into flesh, a soldier gargles somewhere nearby. From that same alleyway, cleaver dripping with fresh blood; a misbegotten stalks out, snarling at the two retreating figures. It gives chase, with one, then two more following close behind. They move like rabid animals on two legs, chasing the soldier and young woman with a bloodlust that practically hangs over their manic eyes.
The soldier and young woman make it to the other side of the street, two houses down from where Melina and I watch. They disappear into another alleyway; the misbegotten trio not five steps behind them. The soldier can move faster than he was; I'm certain of it. But I know the reason he's slow, know the reason why the misbegotten will catch up.
That young lady, guided along and nearly tripping on every step. I've seen the movements she's made before, many times before. That young lady is blind.
Lance! Wait!
Before I know it, I'm running, chasing after the misbegotten trio.
...
Why did I go? Why am I putting myself in danger? I might never know, or the answer might just be so foolish that I couldn't fully comprehend it, even if I tried.
I'll save them.
That was the only thought on my mind.
I rear the corner, and sure enough, the misbegotten caught up.
In the shadows of the surrounding buildings, in an area set aside for storage crates and pots, the soldier spears the leading misbegotten through the throat with his sword, sending that crimson stained tip straight through where the jugular should be. A lethal wound. The misbegotten falters, letting out an inhuman grunt.
But it doesn't die; it clamps that wide mouth over the soldier's head, biting down with a vice-like force.
Something crunches within its mouth, the soldier's body goes slack. I keep running, preparing my sword. The leading misbegotten opens its mouth, that straight sword still lodged in its throat. The other two run by, caring little when their fellow finally falters, succumbing to its lethal wound.
The runes come to me, but I don't care.
The young lady had tripped; she tries to crawl away on the smooth brick floor. The two remaining misbegotten close in, ready to murder her here and now.
I won't make it in time.
"NO!"
I roar, unslinging Roard's partisan from my back. Without a second to plan, without a moment to even consider my actions; I leap to gain leverage, hurling the spear as hard as I can.
In track and field, I rarely touched the javelins. They sounded fun, but like with shotput; I was really bad at them. I have no experience throwing things, and I didn't expect my throw to bear fruit.
I aimed for the misbegotten closest to the young lady, its cleaver already raised.
As one would expect, my throw completely misses.
But the partisan finds purchase the other misbegotten, digging right into its sword arm at the socket. Roard's Partisan is an ascended weapon, capable of cutting past its edge, inclined to split stone like it was made of wax. The spear completely takes the misbegotten's arm off, carrying on unaffected.
The misbegotten wails; its cleaver and severed arm falls with a hearty thump to the floor.
The other, just for a moment, falters.
Just a second; after that second and the cleaver begins to fall again.
But a second is all I needed.
I plow into that misbegotten, swinging my sword with all my might.
My blade buries deep, entering in from the left clavicle as I practically tackle the inhuman beast. The sword nearly reaches the heart; it cuts an entire lung in half, erratically crashing through the ribs. The misbegotten should falter from such an injury, any other living thing would.
But, as if it were a zombie, the misbegotten surges back to its feet, spinning on me as I yank my blade out.
It lets out an inhuman snarl, moving as if my lethal attack was a mere scratch.
Lance! Block!
That wide maw, coming right for my face. The misbegotten's eyes, not even looking at me as that gaping mouth opens. It merely stares at the sky, giving off such an unnerving look that I nearly mess up my timing.
But I block, shoving the length of my blade in the way of that large mouth. The top half of the skull slams down like an unsanitary guillotine, biting down onto my sword… and shattering it instantly.
…Huh?
It broke.
This sword...
It survived parrying a knight's spear assault, braved crashing into an armored gauntlet, and resisted the shuddering shockwave of an explosion. And it broke, just like that.
...Bastard.
Without thinking, more of a knee jerk response; I spin my broken sword around into a reverse grip, and bury its shattered tip directly into the misbegotten's wayward eye.
Jagged metal eviscerates the sensory organ, breaks through the sphenoid bone, and severs the brainstem.
The misbegotten becomes a corpse on me before I'm able to heave it off. The runes come.
Are you alright?
I'm fine.
Shaken up, but fine. My heart is rampaging in my chest, and my fingers feel all tingly; but I'm okay otherwise.
Thanks for asking.
I might just be a little mad; I really liked that sword.
I finish off the remaining sprawled misbegotten with its own cleaver, heaving the heavy weapon and bringing it down with terrible form. The resulting splash of blood only slightly sates my growing disdain for these creatures; I leave the cleaver embedded in the misbegotten's head. As to why it didn't try to rise after its initial injury, I'll never know. It just stayed there, twitching and waiting for death.
Runes; I'm turning away as they come.
The young lady, the blind and weakened young lady, whimpers to herself; she gave up trying to get away and resigned herself to curl up into a ball.
Her hand clings tightly to a strange trinket tied on a string around her neck. It's an object in the shape of a "V"; vaguely taking on the appearance of two fingers making a peace sign. The young lady holds tightly to the trinket, as if it were her saving grace. My mind immediately flags the trinket; I recognize it. As to what its purpose is, and why my past self dealt with such an object; it's beyond me.
Must be some sort of charm.
She winces at my approaching footsteps, but calms when she hears my voice.
"Hey. Are you alright?"
I hold out an outstretched hand.
The young lady slowly rises to a sitting position, her head tilting about as she searches for my voice.
"Hello? Who's there?"
"A friend." I answer. "Need a hand?"
She gingerly extends a gloved hand, which I take, hoisting her up. For a moment, just a second, I see someone else. An old friend from middle school; a blind girl whom I helped raise off the tile floor on the first day of seventh grade. A sting runs through my chest, but the feeling quickly subsides.
The blind girl keeps her grip on me, finding her balance. She's shaking something fierce; it looks like she might just collapse if someone were to simply flick her. But she takes a few deep breaths, letting go when she finally finds her balance.
"Thank you."
She says, never turning her head to look directly at me. Screams and clashing blades still permeate the air, the smell of fires and severed flesh still cling to the nose. We're still in the middle of a warzone, but I find myself smiling.
"You're welcome."
I saved someone.
A few misbegotten on the main street noticed that blind girl stumble by. They weren't planning to give chase; three of their own would easily suffice to kill a single soldier and a blind girl.
But those misbegotten recognized the girl, knew who she was.
The idea of supreme revenge polluted their minds, revitalized their bloodlust. They wanted to kill her, rend her, feast on her flesh. It was an alluring idea, they just couldn't help themselves.
They wanted a piece too.
They gave chase as well, hoping to receive their just desserts.
But this party of six snarling maws and 12 manic eyes found only the dead soldier with a shattered skull and crumpled helmet, and the butchered corpses of three of their fallen brethren.
The girl, and that young man with a floating light who chased after the initial trio, are nowhere to be found.
They can't be seen, but their scent still hangs in the air. They're nearby.
The six misbegotten chatter with one another, angrily expressing ideas and theories alike. Their language is rather simple; very few among their number are capable of the human tongue.
Likewise, their ideas are rather simple.
They are free to roam Bellard, attack whoever they please. And they all come to a general consensus in their abrasive tongue; they will track down the boy and girl. They know that girl; she is the daughter of Edgar the Stern.
How great would it be? They agreed upon. If they could kill her?
Oh, the allure of the idea. A supreme form of revenge indeed!
They could use her as a hostage, use her to coax Edgar out of his castle. That would be a great idea too, but the misbegotten didn't think of that. They only thought about killing her and feasting on her flesh.
The misbegotten are an often-misunderstood race; small groups of their populace can be rather charming, and even loyal.
But the misbegotten of Bellard… something is wrong with them.
Something spread like the plague amongst their numbers, drove them to turn on their masters, to commit terrible atrocities without even a thought to question them. Their will has been stolen from them, their gripes and concerns mutated into partial cannibalism and overwhelming bloodlust. This plague...
This plague claimed their minds in the name of madness.
One can see it in their eyes if they search; they could see something boiling and festering within the darkness of the pupils. An erratic flame, only now taking root. Swirling vortexes of frenzy, driving their very runes over the edge.
I drag the young lady along, keeping Roard's partisan in my free hand.
She does her best to keep up with me, though I have to slow down considerably.
We slip through alleyways covered in shadows, passing by buildings that tower above like the walls of some elaborate maze. I initially planned to take the girl out of Bellard's walls; find someplace safe to hide her, before coming back for Kalé.
But Melina alerted me; six misbegotten were about to enter from the main street.
Without so much as an explanation, I took the young lady's hand, and simply said:
"We need to run."
We continue to run now, following Melina who leads the way, flying along just overhead. I wanted to loop around, and make it back to that front gate. But the alleyways here are a maze, none of which lead the way to the exit.
Every time, each turn where we have the chance to retrace our steps, something holds us up. Whether it be a band of Godrick's soldiers, a collapsed passageway, or a loitering misbegotten; we're forced to venture deeper into Bellard.
Through alley after alley, I see things.
Small gardens, fountains, even a well. Storage crates, outdoor kitchens, even what looks like a small gazebo. It feels like a different world in these darkened corridors.
We run across larger openings, areas where wide streets etch through the city.
Wherever it be, it's stained by war.
Battling armies, rouge battalions, and festering skirmishes; burning carts, collapsing houses, and-
Agheel's black silhouette swoops by overhead, blasting the girl and I with a gust of wind.
Everywhere spells danger, and when Melina yells at me to stop, I think for a second that the danger finally found us. But a familiar merchant exits the alleyway directly ahead of us, running so fast that he needs to keep a hand planted on his red santa hat.
He spots us, and skids to a complete halt. He looks surprised to see something not hostile, and gives the young lady panting beside me a double take.
But he quickly collects himself, and gestures to another passage to his right.
I nod.
We follow his lead, and he brings us to a set of cellar doors a few blocks later; he heaves one open.
"Quickly now."
He says in a hurried voice. I help the young lady down the steps, taking care to watch her footing. Melina slips in, and Kalé slams the cellar door shut above him, locking it by sliding a thick bar of metal across the handles.
In the darkness, we wait, as six misbegotten enter the tract a few moments later, following our scent like it's doctrine.
?
They grind to a halt…
Where did the scent go? It simply disappeared.
For a smell so fresh, to immediately cease to exist… did they grow wings and fly away?
If the misbegotten look down, they might notice the cellar doors at their feet. They might have been able to put two and two together; they might have claimed their prize yet.
But they look skyward, angrily bickering at one another with chuffs and snarls, before they turn back, retracing their steps.
...
...
...
They have left.
"They're gone." I translate.
Down in the darkness, Kalé and I share a sigh of relief.
"Good riddance." Kalé remarks, traveling further into the cellar. "Bastards are an insufferable sort."
He fetches what looks to be a lantern from the darkness of a cubby lining the basement wall, holding it up to Melina.
"If you would please."
Kindling, accept this meager flame.
The wick ignites, bathing the four of us and our surroundings in a warm firelight, overtaking Melina's meager glow.
We're in a rather large room, slightly bigger than the one Roard had me imprisoned in. While the cramped ceiling and stone walls make bad memories resurface, I quell them.
We're safe because of this room.
A rustic table rests near the center, three separate chairs propped up idly on its top. Kalé takes one of these chairs down, plopping the lantern onto the tabletop.
He positions the other two, taking the initiative to help the blind girl to one of them. He brushes off residual cobwebs and dust, guiding her to sit down.
"Here, my lady."
"Thank you."
Besides the table and chairs, the room is stocked full of shelves, which are filled with different assortments of sacks and chests. What looks to be a coat hanger rests in the corner by the stairs, a large board with pinned papers line the opposite wall. The ceiling has a chandelier, though the candles have all since melted to wax stubs.
After Kalé finished helping the young lady, he takes a seat himself; I'm the last to join at the table.
I prop Roard's partisan up against the closest wall, giving the whole place a second glance. I initially thought Kalé brought us to the nearest hiding place he could see; just some random local's basement. But he's far too familiar with the place.
"So, is this your house?"
Despite our situation, Kalé gives a chuckle.
"Aye. Though what you see is the portion I don't show to many."
His house rests just above us.
Which means… is this a secret room or something?
Doesn't seem very secret, those cellar doors are rather obvious.
It only vaguely occurs to me how lucky we are. Running into Kalé so close to his own home? In a city this large? One could call it a miracle.
Seems my luck is holding up, at the very least.
When I sit, Melina makes herself comfortable atop the lantern, perching like an insect.
"This is my little hidey-hole. And it seconds as a place to conduct business." Kalé crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "First things first: Where did you two run off to?"
I give him an exasperated expression.
"You left us in the dust chief. We lost you at the outer wall."
He is lucky he still lives. He moved far too quickly into the city.
I translate, gesturing to the golden light between us.
"Melina says you're lucky to be alive. Charging headfirst into all of that was a stupid idea."
Kalé averts his gaze. He considers Melina.
"Oh. Uh. Well, my apologies."
Honestly…
"Um. Excuse me?"
The young lady pipes up, her hands clasped together on her lap. She's slightly hunched over, head facing the tabletop. We look her way; she takes our silence as an indication we're listening.
"Who might you people be? Are you friends of father?"
I raise an eyebrow, Kalé clicks his tongue.
"Something like that. We may not know your daddy, but we sure aren't friends of your indentured servants."
He undoes his relaxed posture and leans in, rapping his finger on the table.
"I guess introductions are in order. My name is Kalé. Wanderer, and purveyor of fine goods."
The young lady looks his way, her blindfold fastened tight over her clouded eyes.
"We're currently camping out under my abode. Should be safe down here for now."
I adjust my seating, subconsciously playing with the exposed links of chainmail that peek through the gashes and holes of my tattered shirt.
"My name is Lance. I am a Tarnished, but I guess I'm one of the good ones."
She flinches when I say the word "Tarnished", so I try to soften the blow.
"I was the one who saved you from the misbegotten."
Feels cheap to say so; like I'm playing my own horn. But I felt it was necessary to point it out. If what everyone says about my kind holds true, then a Tarnished would never put themselves in danger for the sake of another.
That might not be true, but it's what everyone thinks.
The young lady stifles her frown, turning her head to me.
"I thank you, Lance. My name is Irina."
She gives a small bow.
"I will be sure to have father reward you, if time would allow it."
?
Kalé answers the question plastered on my face.
"Mop up your attitude, mate. You're in the presence of royalty."
I stiffen up.
"Wait, what?"
Irina, the blind girl with blond hair and a black bandana over her eyes, turns her head toward Kalé, slightly frowning.
"I am not royalty. My father is merely the warden of Castle Morne. Neil Haight is the ruler of the Weeping Peninsula."
My mind does a strange thing; It remembers half of that name. Haight sounds familiar, but I draw a blank on Neil. I knew a Neil in school, but we never spoke. That name doesn't match up with anyone else.
Kalé hums in agreement.
"Aye, but that aristocrat never did care much for heirs; he treats you like his own daughter."
Irina slightly tilts her head.
"How do you know so much about Mister Haight?"
"Know his twin brother, and I've lived in and out of this city for a long time."
Kalé props his head up on one of his arms.
"And there is one indistinguishable fact in Bellard: Milady Irina is regarded as the "princess" of Castle Morne."
So, I saved a princess?
Huh.
I knit my eyebrows together.
"Wait. Miss Irina, if your father is warden of the castle, why were you out running around Bellard?"
Kalé grunts in agreement.
Irina tilts her head toward the floor. She considers her words, like she's deciding whether or not to trust us. Kalé and I exchange a questioning glance, and when Irina's words finally come; they start off slow.
"My father… he wanted me to escape, if nobody else."
She clasps her hands together again, holding fast onto that "V" shaped charm strung around her neck.
"Castle Morne's walls will fall any day now, so he asked me to flee with my escorts."
"... ...He... I... They... ..."
She sniffles, tears roll down her face from beneath her blindfold. I don't need to see her eyes to know what she's thinking about. She's recalling bad memories.
"I… begged him to come with me. His... His life matters too, right?"
She's on the verge of breaking down; I almost reach out to provide something. Anything. Just reassurance if I could.
"But… he…"
She clasps onto the trinket harder than ever before, shaking. It's obvious to tell she's in distress, but against my expectations, she takes a stuttering deep breath, wiping away her tears.
"Why father?"
She mumbles to herself, so quietly that I could barely hear it. She fixes her posture.
"He said he needs to stay. He told me that he needs to protect his people. He said it is his duty…"
She trails off, a large frown creasing her mouth. She seems to sink into deep thought, falling completely silent.
It appears that she has calmed, but her runes are still unstable.
Meaning?
Choose your words carefully.
She knows what I want to say; it's welling up in my throat. I should be more selfish; my chances for survival are the highest if I am.
I'm just stumbling from one situation into another.
I should just finish her father's wish; get Irina out of Bellard. As to where, I can only guess her father had an idea. I only hope she knows where. But doing what I'm desiring to do, would be to jump headfirst into the jaws of this war.
"Irina."
I follow Melina's advice; I choose my words carefully.
"You-"
Irina's head raises to fall level with mine, deciding to answer my questioning mind for me.
"Please, Sir Tarnished, rescue my father."
I stutter, blinking a few times.
"What?"
She presses, holding that charm like she was a catholic holding a crucifix.