#sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Thirteen

Summary: The Lands Between are filled with horror upon horror. Delia rushes from one tragedy to the next, until she reaches the one she’s not sure she can take- the price for Rogier’s life.

Author’s Notes: Holy crap, y’all, 5.2K words on this one. And to think, this is a chapter I was worried about making a decent word count for. But I love pain, so it ended up being no problem at all. 😏 Please let me know if I break y’all’s hearts as much as my own!

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: character deaths (yes, plural), canon-typical violence, abstract horror? I think? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

It was a fitful night’s rest, for both of them. 

Rogier mumbled and murmured, groaning and thrashing, but never waking. He was feverish and shaky. Delia spoke softly to him until he calmed, dozing until it all began again.

When she rose, she felt just as exhausted as she had the night before. She saw a scrap of parchment on the bedside table that she hadn’t noticed the night before. It was a letter, written in Rogier’s trembling hand. 

“I forgot to tell you, but it seems D has a younger brother. I heard he lies in a deep sleep in the aqueduct beside the Eternal City of Nokron. And it’s said he stood before the Prince of Death not far beyond that spot.” She clutched the page to herself, tucking it into her shirt. She pulled on her armor, startling as something clinked softly to the floor. 

Seluvis’s potion rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the bedpost. Delia picked it up with a shaking hand, turning the vial over slowly. 

Could it stop…?

No. 

She’d seen the puppet’s bodies in Seluvis’s basement chamber. 

But… she wasn’t Seluvis. 

She looked back to Rogier, murmuring unintelligibly as he slept. Besides the movement of his lips, he was still as a stone. 

She gently lifted the blanket from his legs. The roots had grown higher, wrapping themselves through and around his thighs. She swallowed hard. 

She was running out of time. 

She might already be too late. 

She steeled herself, raising her travel medallion. 

It was time for some answers. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

“So, you had Nepheli drink the potion? Truly? 
Hmm. Then perhaps something was amiss with it.
It's concocted from the finest ingredients. But perhaps I should review the recipe.” Delia was opening her mouth to make half hearted, sympathetic noises when Seluvis went on. “I may have expected too much of her, to begin with.” She snapped her mouth shut, incensed. She had to take a deep breath and push down her anger before speaking.

“What exactly was this potion meant to do?”

Seluvis waved a hand absently, turning to his spellbooks. “Never you mind, it would be far above your understanding.

Delia couldn’t bite her tongue before the words came out. “Really? And I suppose this potion has nothing to do with the puppets in your chambers near Ranni’s tower?”

Seluvis stiffened, turning slowly. The metal mask he wore hid his expression, but Delia could hear the rage in the breath he sucked in.

“You break into a man’s private chambers, rooting about as you please?”

“That’s right.” She stepped closer, lacing her voice with as much venom as she could summon. “And now that I know your little secret, you’ll answer my questions. Unless you share the opinion that my lady would find those chambers… intriguing.” Seluvis flinched, and Delia felt a shot of triumph race up her spine.

“What is it that you wish to know?” Seluvis ground out.

“Does the potion cause harm?” “Physical? No.”

“Does it cause any lasting damage of any kind?”

She could hear the sneer in his voice when he answered. “No.”

She fought to keep her voice steady. “And the body. It remains… it stays… would this keep it from being…” Her voice had begun to shake. She sensed the moment Seluvis scented the weakness in her.

“The body remains in stasis, pristine. Immune to the effects of the world around it. It can be used to fight for you, for menial labor, or to run your errands. Or,” and here, his voice filled with a lecherous glee. “You can use it for more… intimate-”

“No,” Delia hissed. “All I need to know is that it can stop the spread of Death, and that the person can be freed.”

“Death?” There was real shock in Seluvis’s voice. He studied her for a long, tense moment. He spoke slowly. “I see no reason that it can’t. And a person can be freed.” He paused for dramatic effect. Delia straightened, scowling threateningly. “Yes, I’m sure it would work. Although I would need a potion of a… stronger caliber.”

“A stronger caliber?” she snapped.

“I will need to… test a recipe. Come back tomorrow.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Let’s just say that I have a… scheme, if you will. I would much prefer that it not cross Lady Ranni’s path. And this shall be a most interesting experiment, indeed.”

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Getting the promised information from Seluvis took much longer than Delia would have liked. But she got it, and set out across Limgrave to speak to this Sellen. 

She startled when she laid eyes on the sorceress. 

“Well, well… Seluvis is not a name I ever wanted to hear again…”

Delia had recognized her from Seluvis’s basement chambers. She had anxiously asked if his potioncraft could be trusted. Sellen had assured her that they could. 

“Just beware the cost.”

Now Delia was riding hard back to the Mistwood, anxious to tell Blaidd what the sorceress had said.

“If General Radahn were to die, the stars would resume their movement. And so, too, would Ranni's destiny.”

All they had to do was kill a god.

Blaidd was eager to move forward, pacing away even as Delia finished speaking. “You’re coming too, right? To Radahn’s festivities… I’ll meet you at Redmane Castle in Caelid. The way ahead is pleasingly simple. We fight, sword and fang.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Delia. “I just have to make one stop first.”

Blaidd gave her an odd look, measuring.

She could feel herself crack under his scrutiny. “Then I’ll see you there soon.”

He let the matter lie.

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“Good, I've been waiting for you. It's finally complete. The perfection of my draught, gleaming nectar-sweet.” Seluvis held out a vial of amber liquid that seemed to glow softly. “Give this to your… friend.” Delia bristled. “It should keep him docile.” “I only want it to keep him alive,” growled Delia.

“Yes, yes. As you’ve said. Although if you do change your mind, your secret will be safe with me.”

Delia clenched her fists, nearly crushing the potion before releasing her grip. She put it carefully away, turning before she killed Seluvis where he stood.

“You’ll need this bell, if you wish to summon him.”

“I don’t.”

“You’ll need it all the same. If it breaks, well… it wouldn’t be pretty.”

She needed him. Just for a little while longer.

She snatched the bell from Seluvis’s outstretched hand, grimacing as she cradled it in her palm.

That didn’t mean she had to like him.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Delia didn’t want to administer the potion. It still made her feel ill at ease. So, rather than make straight for her room, she sought out D. 

“D, can you help me?”

He inclined his head. Delia reached into her pack, withdrawing the dagger. She’d wrapped it in an old piece of cloth, but the moment the blade was revealed, D’s posture, impossibly, straightened. 

"Well, what have we here? How did you get your hands on that dagger?”

Delia paused, unsure whether she should reveal Fia’s name. D seemed to sense her hesitation. “...Well. That hardly matters. I know very well whose dagger it is. Why don't I return it to them for you? Good work, bringing this to me."

Delia handed over the knife, murmuring her thanks. But she couldn’t settle the pit in her stomach. 

“Any change?” Roderika’s voice startled her out of her stupor. The young noble watched her, expression hopeful. Delia shook her head and the other girl’s face fell.

“Not yet, but… I might have a solution.” Roderika’s expression brightened, but Delia shook her head. “I’m not sure whether it will work.”

“You’ll let me know if you need anything, though?”

Delia nodded, forcing a smile. She said hello to Hewg, receiving a grunt in return, and then rounded the corner. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. 

Rogier was as she’d left him, lying with his head turned toward the door. She padded across the room and lowered herself onto the bed. She reached forward to lift his head, allowing herself a moment to caress his cheek. 

She withdrew the potion from her satchel, examining it again. She told herself that she was running out of options. She told herself that this would work. 

She tipped his head gently back. He moaned in his sleep, shifting slightly. She lifted the bottle, losing her resolve at the last moment. She traced one finger lightly over his lips and then steeled herself again. 

She poured the contents into his mouth. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he coughed. His eyelids fluttered without opening as he began to writhe. 

Delia started to panic. “Rogier?” She leapt to her feet, hauling him up until he was nearly sitting. His eyes fluttered again, the barest hint of green peeking from between his dark lashes. 

His muttering had begun again, frantic. She heard him say “no” and then unmistakably, she heard her name. She looked up and met his eyes, wide and disbelieving. 

“Rogier?” Her eyes flitted all over him; his flushed cheeks, his unfocused pupils, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Her heart soared- he was awake. She grasped at his hands, but he weakly pulled them back. She looked at him in shock- he’d never recoiled from her touch before. 

She nearly fell backward at his expression. His eyes burned with anger. With betrayal. His lip had curled up. She took him in, dropping his hands, struck dumb by shock. 

“Why?” His whisper was harsh. She met his gaze again, catching a hint of honest hurt there. But already, his eyes were sliding shut, body slumping down. “Why would you…”

“No, no, no, no,” she whispered. “Rogier, no, please.” She fumbled to keep him upright, but he was heavier than before. Her thoughts raced, desperately searching for a better route. But it was too late for that. It was all she could do to lower him back to the bed without bumping his head on the headboard. She stared at him in

“What have I done?” she whispered. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

She rode like mad south into the Caelid Wilds. Despair and doubt made her reckless, cutting her way through anything that stood in her path. 

Blaidd was waiting in the courtyard when she arrived, breathless and heartbroken. “Ah, there you are. Took your sweet time. The players are all made up, and waiting for the curtain…” She nodded at him, as distracted as he usually was. “Let’s give them a show to remember, eh.”

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention. “Just don’t you go dying on me. For Ranni’s sake, too.” She nodded again, firmer this time. 

“Let’s kill a god.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

It was a harrowing battle. Radahn was a fearsome foe with an unmatched skill in gravity sorceries, and Delia was left battered and sore after a long fight. Blaidd seemed pleased with their success, and she agreed to meet him in Nokron after checking in on Rogier. 

“The curtain’s riising… on the final act.”

She couldn’t be sure whether it was Blaidd’s portentous words or a strange sixth sense, but she knew something was wrong the moment she set foot in the Hold. Her skin crawled, heart pounding. 

Please, not Rogier. 

She hurried down the hall, stopping dead in her tracks in the doorway of the antechamber outside her room. 

D lay still, sprawled at the feet of a cloaked figure. 

Fia. 

She spoke without turning. “Finally, it is returned to its rightful place. The stolen hallowbrand, of the exalted noble. And now, I must bid you goodbye as well.” She turned then, glaring at Delia from beneath the fringe of her hood. “Though I ask you deliver this message to the Roundtable Hold. I am Fia, Deathbed Companion. Hark, Roundtable. Disturb not the Death of Godwyn, the exalted. We, who humbly live in Death… live in waiting, to one day welcome our Lord.” Her voice grew louder, stronger as she went on. “What right does anyone have to object? Our Lord will rise. The Lord of the many, and the meek.”

She raised her hands. Delia raised her sword. She lunged forward, but too late. The Deathbed Companion was gone. 

Delia fell to her knees beside D, struggling to turn his body. She wrestled his helm from his head, pressing her fingers to the pale flesh of his throat. 

Dead. 

She sobbed, turning to heave over her shoulder. 

“Delia?” Roderika’s voice was panicked. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, gods. Oh, D.” She slid to her knees beside Delia, clutching her shoulder with one hand. The other, she reached out shakily to lay on D’s arm. “Delia, the roots…”

Delia nodded woodenly. She’d seen them. 

“Is that what…”

“I think so.”

“And… and Rogier? This is what happened to him?” Delia nodded again. She couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat. 

“And… I think…” she choked on the words. “I think I made it worse.” That unleashed the flood of tears that had been frozen by horror.

“Darling.” Roderika wrapped both arms around Delia’s shuddering shoulders, pulling her to her chest. “How could you have made it worse?” 

It took several moments and lots of hushing from the younger girl before Delia could put together the words.

“I gave him a potion. I turned him into a puppet.”

“A… puppet?” Roderika’s voice shook- in terror or revulsion, Delia couldn’t tell. She felt the other girl release her shoulders and sagged forward, onto her hands. Her tears flowed freely now.

“A puppet. I-I was running out of time, he’d fallen asleep like he said he would and I-”

“Asleep? Delia, what do you mean ‘asleep’?”

“He told me…” she sniffled. “He told me he felt as though he would fall into a ‘fathomless slumber’. He told me he was afraid. And he did. He fell asleep and I couldn’t wake him up.” She leaned back and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, then scrubbed her hands roughly down her face. “So I gave him a potion that would preserve his body until I can cure him. But I… I think I made a mistake.”

Roderika was silent. Delia looked over her shoulder. Roderika’s expression was contemplative.

“Well… can it be undone?”

Delia sniffled again. “I never would have done it if I thought it couldn’t.” Her voice broke again. Roderika leaned forward, taking Delia in her arms again. 

“There, there,” she soothed. “I think you did your best.”

“I don’t think he’ll forgive me,” Delia confessed in a whisper.

For a long time, the two simply rocked together on the floor. Then, Roderika spoke. “I think he will.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

When Delia arrived at the crater in Limgrave, Blaidd was nowhere to be found. She waited for several minutes, even considering descending without him. 

Something stopped her.

Something was wrong.

She summoned Torrent, giving him his reins once she’d mounted. He had yet to steer her wrong. The steed ambled South, taking her down a path that seemed vaguely familiar. They followed the path until Delia heard something that made her recognize the area.

Howling.

They were near the Forlorn Hound Evergaol.

She spurred Torrent on, weaving up the path to the elevator and leaping from his back. The howling abruptly stopped as she ran across the elevator.

“Hello?” she called.

“Oh, it’s you.” Blaidd. “It’s me, Blaidd.” Delia felt a crazed laugh bubbling up at the thought that he thought that she might not recognize his voice. The sound died in her throat as he went on. “Old Iji trapped me in here. Told me I’d bring naught but bale to Lady Ranni. But there’s no chance that could happen. I’m part of her being. Her very shadow… I thought old Iji knew as much.”

Delia peered around, wondering why the gaol would not open. Her eyes landed on the gargoyle guard standing watch. She strode to it.

“Honestly,” muttered Blaidd, “I don’t know what’s going on anymore…” The stone key had been removed from its place in the gargoyle’s mouth. Delia breathed a sigh of relief, pulling one from her pack and slotting it. She watched the elevator light and was rewarded with Blaidd’s tall frame a moment later.

“My thanks, friend. I’m going to see mistress Ranni, now. I don’t know what came over old Iji, but even if the odds are slim, I need to check the mistress is safe.”

Delia blanched. “What about Nokron?”

Blaidd barked a laugh. “Oh, you certainly don’t need my help there. You’re quite the warrior, yourself, and more of a scholar than me.” His hand made a muffled thump as it landed on her shoulder. “We’ll see each other soon. Now, Ranni can finally set in motion the fight against her fate she’s dreamt of for so long.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

“Iji, what’s going on?”

The old troll looked up from his reading, sighing heavily. 

“I presume you've spoken with Blaidd? Very well. There is something you should know. The Two Fingers gave Blaidd to Lady Ranni, as a faithful follower. Her very shadow, incapable of treachery. But if Lady Ranni, as an Empyrean, resists being an instrument of the Two Fingers, the shadow will go mad, transforming from a follower into a horrid curse. But such is his destiny. In such matters, Blaidd's own thoughts hold no weight. It pains me so, but he must be neutralized. For Lady Ranni's sake.”

Neutralized. 

“Neutralized how?”

They watched each other for a long moment. When Iji spoke, his voice was heavy with sorrow. 

“However we must.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Delia crashed into the Hold.

She’d found them, in Nokron. 

Black boluses.

She was sure they would cure the Death Blight.

They had to.

Roderika called her name, but it didn’t slow her mad dash. She threw open the door without bothering to shut it, fumbling at the low table by the fireplace. There was a bowl and spoon there that she managed to pick up after a moment of grappling. She rushed to the bedside, dumping the boluses she’d collected into the bowl and using the spoon to smash them. Then she fell to her knees, raising the bowl and Rogier’s head. She poured the contents into his mouth, careful to slow herself enough to not choke him.

When the bowl was empty, she sat with her back against the bed, clutching his hand in both of hers. She saw Roderika peer around the door frame before retreating quietly down the hall. She closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

She dreamed as she dozed. She dreamed of Rogier, on his feet and buzzing with the energy she associated with him. She dreamed of his sparkling peridot eyes and the curve of his lips in his tiny, secret smile. 

She dreamed that he spun her around, lifting her in his arms, laughing all the while. She dreamed that he pressed her close to himself. 

She dreamed that he leant down and brushed his lips to hers. 

And then thrust his rapier through her stomach. 

She woke to Roderika’s soft touch on her shoulder. 

“Delia, are you alright? You were crying in your sleep.”

She reached up, smearing tears as she rubbed her eyes. 

“I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. She rose quickly, turning to toss aside the blanket from over Rogier’s legs. 

She blinked. 

Some of the roots had withered and browned. 

“Roderika,” she whispered. 

“I see it,” Roderika whispered back.

The two looked at each other, a slow smile spreading across Roderka’s face. For the first time in weeks, Delia let herself smile, too. 

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

“My lady.”

“Ahh...It was thee. Not Blaidd, it seemeth. Even in my slumber, I sensed it. It is in thy possession, is it not? The hidden treasure of Nokron?” Delia withdrew the blade from her sheath, holding it out to Ranni. “My thanks. Finally, all the pieces are in place. Soon must I begin my journey. Upon the dark path only I may tread. Ah, but before I leave, I shall entrust thee with this.”

She handed Delia an odd trinket, an hourglass with a woman inside.

“My thanks, for thy sterling efforts. A strange gift, perhaps, but a rare sort such as thee would welcome it, I am sure. I am certain now, fate steered us to our reunion. I must thank Torrent too, for his part.” Though her doll’s face did not change, there was warmth in Ranni’s voice. Delia smiled a tired smile. “You may leave now. It was but brief, but thou gavest me fine service.”

The smile snapped off her face, blood running cold. “Leave? But-”

“Mine part is not yet done,” interrupted Ranni. “But almost. Soon enough, I shall aid you with your friend.”

Delia choked back a sob. “My lady, he… he has already fallen asleep…” Ranni said nothing, templing her fingers in thought. “I… I gave him a potion from Seluvis…”

Ranni’s voice snapped. “From Seluvis?”

Delia hung her head in shame. “I didn’t know what to do. I was frightened, I-” Ranni held up a set of hands to pause her rambling.

“Thy intentions are true, of that I am certain. Thou was wise to give it him. Now wish well that it hold him until mine powers be returned to me.”

There was a high, thin, keening sound then, wrought with despair. It took too long for Delia to recognize that the sound came from her. 

Though Ranni’s face was unmoving as ever, there was sympathy in her eyes. 

“Seluvis made well his potions, snake that he was. And thine friend be strong of mind, to be still breathing.”

Was?

“Now, go.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

She went, with a sinking feeling, to Seluvis’s Rise.

She found him there, dead.

She couldn’t stop the curl of her lip, even as panic rose up in her chest.

He hadn’t told her how to free Rogier from the spell.

Ranni would know.

Ranni would fix it.

Numbly, she made her way to Iji.

“Oh, there you are. Good of you to drop by. Have you heard? Lady Ranni has departed on her journey. Along the dark path of the Empyrean, from Renna’s Rise, as she calls it. It would not have been possible without you. As Lady Ranni’s war counselor, and moreover, her childhood warden, I express my deepest gratitude. You, and only you, were Lady Ranni’s true champion.”

“That’s not true,” whispered Delia. Iji hummed a question at her. “I said that’s not true. You and Blaidd are her champions as much as I am.”

“Well,” Ijii said slowly. “That may be true, but you are the only one who broke her curse. Who set her fate in motion. And Blaidd…”

“Blaidd’s concern is only for her. His only thoughts, Iji, are of her.” Her voice was too sharp. Her ability to cope was wearing thinner by the day, by the horror of the things she’d seen and done.

Carefully, Iji lowered his book to rest on his anvil, giving her his full attention. He spoke gently, patiently. “I hope that you are not mistaken. Truly, I do.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He only picked up his book again, leaving Delia to her thoughts.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Renna’s Rise had been inaccessible before, shielded by some magic.

That magic was gone now. Delia made her way up the ladder, up the elevator, into the loft above. It was empty, save a chest and a portal. She opened the chest to find Ranni’s garb, there- her hat, her dress, her cloak. She fingered the thick fur of the cloak, thinking of Blaidd as she did.

Where had he gone?

She didn’t want to believe Iji’s words that he might turn against Ranni, turn against his own free will. But she hadn’t been able to find him after freeing him from the Evergaol, and she was beginning to fear for him.

Carefully, she folded Ranni’s clothes into a neat bundle, wrapping it all with a short length of rope. Her fingers brushed against the pamphlet Rogier had so lovingly created for her. She felt dizzy with despair. She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, looking to the portal.

Reaching forward, she let herself be tugged somewhere else.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Delia lifted the tiny doll with shaking hands.

“My lady?” There was no response. She gripped the doll slightly tighter, trying and failing to maintain some semblance of calm. “Lady Ranni.” Still nothing. She made an aggravated sound, shaking the doll lightly between her hands.

She took a deep breath. “I know you can hear me. And I’m not going to leave until you speak to me.”

The answering voice was dry. “Oh? A dogged fellow, aren't we? Or is it merely thy habit, to talk to dolls?” 

Delia sucked in a breath. She’d been half convinced that she was wrong, that this wouldn’t work.

“Fine...fine. I hadn't expected any soul to recognize me in this guise.” Delia arched an eyebrow at that. Really? “But now the cat is out the bag, I cannot allow thee thy freedoms. Perform for me a service, as recompense. Eliminate the Baleful Shadows which prowl these lands. The name of Ranni the Witch is already sullied by thee. I will not brook disobedience in this matter.”

Delia felt her hackles rise. Sullied? She bit her tongue. She couldn’t afford to lose her temper. Not now, not with Rogier’s life on the line. And so instead, she fought her way through dripping caverns, past ants as large as shacks, past a malformed star.

She fought through all of this, not easily, but without pause.

“Let us speak of the past awhile.”

Ranni told her tales of Empyreans and the Two Fingers. Of Blaidd, her vassal shadow, and of slaying her own flesh. Of Baleful Shadows, of Iji and Blaidd’s loyalty- especially Blaidd’s.

Delia fought.

“Blaidd, and Iji both… art willing to give too much to me.”

Until she reached a courtyard, drowned in an awful red glow.

“Ah, should I add thee to the list? Another one, kind of heart. As kind of heart as they.”

Until she saw Blaidd.

“O Shadow, thou’rt the last.”

Shadow. Not Blaidd.

She raised her sword just in time to block a devastating blow from Blai- the Shadow’s- sword.

“Tell the Two Fingers, that Ranni the Witch cometh, to rend thy flesh.” Ranni’s voice was powerful and angry. Delia sidestepped, rolled, used her blade’s enchantment to close the distance. With a powerful thrust, she drove it up, through the chest of the Shadow. “With a fateful wound, ne’er to heal.”

Delia choked back the involuntary sob that arose from killing one wearing the face of a friend.

“Beautifully fought,” Ranni soothed. “My thanks.”

Delia wrenched her blade free with a squelch, doing her damndest not to look at the mask at her feet.

“Now I can finally stand before them. We’ll meet again, my dear. Take this key, and bring me what it opens. And tell Blaidd, and Iji… I love them.” 

There was a tiny ringing sound in the cavern, and then a filigreed key dropped at Delia’s feet. She picked it up with a sigh. She looked up, toward the passage on the far side of the room. Something about it called to her. She moved toward it, hand on the hilt of her sword, and peeked through.

Her stomach dropped at the sight of a vast, roiling lake of Scarlet Rot.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

The path forward had been bloody and fraught with pain.

The key had opened a chest. The chest had produced a ring. The ring had raised questions. Questions had led her to Iji. Speaking with Iji had led her to Blaidd.

Blaidd, Ranni’s most loyal companion and protector. Blaidd, her own friend and helper. Blaidd, driven mad by the nature he sought to master. Blaidd, who had attacked her.

Blaidd, who she had killed.

She’d fallen to her knees at the steps, shock and grief silencing the wails clawing their way up their throat.

She had to tell Ranni. She had to tell Iji.

Iji’s words had haunted her as she numbly followed the draw of Grace.

“I’ll catch up with you soon enough, Blaidd. When I do, I only hope you’ll accept my apology.”

She’d had no tears left to cry when she found Ranni’s lifeless doll body, bloody and still. Her only thought as she knelt had been of Rogier, that she’d well and truly failed him now.

She hadn’t let herself look too closely at her own near-friendship with the witch. 

But she wasn’t dead, and that was one crisis averted for the time being. Delia had let herself be lulled into a sense of relief- that Ranni was alive, that everything would be alright.

Everything was not alright.

At the Hold, in Delia’s chambers, Ranni had produced a necklace, sharp edged and sapphire with scarlet sheen along the points.

Not a necklace. A blade.

Delia recoiled. She could no longer hear Ranni’s voice above the ringing in her ears. Each time she thought things couldn’t get worse, they did.

“It is the only way. If thou hasn’t the stomach for it, I can help thee not.”

“He’ll never forgive me,” Delia whispered.

“Neither wilt he forgive thee if he does not live to do so.”

Delia sucked in a shaky breath. “Is this… it’s because I…” She couldn’t finish the thought. 

She needn’t have tried. Ranni was shaking her head, slowly. “He was at Death’s door, my dear. Thou didst well by him.”

She lifted her hand slowly, offering the blade once more. Delia stared at it. 

She couldn’t do what Ranni asked.

She had to.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She pictured Rogier’s bright eyes and dark hair, the curve of his lips and the arch of his brows.

She blew out all the air in her lungs and reached for the blade.

It took lifetimes to walk the few steps to her bed. It took longer to sit, and longer still to lay a hand on Rogier’s shoulder. She leaned forward to rest her head in the crook of his neck.

“You were right,” she whispered. “The boluses, they worked.” She stroked his sweaty hair back from where it brushed his eyebrows. Careful doses of the black boluses had killed the remainder of the magic roots, and those that hadn’t dried and falled had simply… disappeared.

If only she’d found them sooner.

She lay her head against his chest.

“Come, my dear. Be not afraid. I’ll not let him die, not now. Not after what thou hast done to see him through.”

She lifted her head, turning a tortured expression back to Ranni. “There’s no other way?”

The witch glided forward and rested a pair of hands on Delia’s shoulder, but said nothing.

Delia took in a shaky breath, drawing little comfort from Ranni’s cold hands. She pressed her cheek to Rogier’s. “I’m sorry,” she breathed.

Then she drew back and, with a savage thrust, drove the blade into his heart.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Six

Summary: Delia flees the Hold after a hurtful comment, only to be blindsided- twice- by the people once closest to the sorcerer she’s grown to care so much for.

Author’s Notes: 1.6K words! This is where we start bending the rules. 😈 I’ve tried to keep the timeline fairly accurate thus far. However, this being a fix-it fic, some manipulation is involved. Also the chapter I’m most iffy about. I’ve rewritten it multiple times and I’m still not sure, but I think I finally got it right.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mild language, suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Delia stormed through the Hold to the room she had claimed for herself. She bowed her head to Diallos and D as she passed, offered Roderika a tight smile. Hewg, bless him, didn’t even raise his head.

She made it to her room without incident, sliding down the door after it was shut. She drew up her knees, resting her arms and head on them.

She knew she was being unfair. She’d seen the look of recognition that flitted over Rogier’s face when she’d been unable to control her own. She knew he hadn’t meant the words the way they’d come across.

Still, it was good to have a problem she could sulk over, rather than swing a sword at.

And so she let herself sulk, to the count of 100. Then she raised herself to her feet, opened the door, and walked out again.

As she passed Fia’s room, the other woman’s clear voice reached her.

“My dear... Have you ever heard of black knifeprints?”

Delia turned, shaking her head. She stepped into the room, meaning to kneel as she often did.

“Dear Rogier likes to talk of it when abed.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Fia went on, but Delia heard only a steady drone. Only Rogier’s name snapped her back into attentiveness.

“-began to weep as he spoke… In truth I've heard tell from someone else, about the black knifeprints that fascinate dear Rogier so.” Fia reached forward, pressing a scrap of paper into Delia’s limp hand. “It wouldn't be right to give this to him, stuck as he is in the Roundtable Hold. Perhaps you could make use of it?”

Delia looked down at the paper- a bit of a map- and then back up. She studied Fia’s face. It was carefully blank, but there was a sly glint in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.

“Why give this to me, then?”

That seemed to catch the other woman off-guard.

“I heard that you lent a hand to dear Rogier. He seemed positively elated. He must be possessed of great mental fortitude. It anchors his will, and sustains him, despite his grievous wounds.You truly are a champion. To dear Rogier, and myself, too.”

Delia narrowed her eyes. There was a game here that she couldn’t see.

Nonetheless, it might serve as an excellent distraction for Rogier…

“Fine,” she said. Fia’s face broke into a smile, and Delia softened her voice. “Thank you.”

It was a long ride along the lakeside to the cave on Fia’s map. When she got there, the catacombs were dank and dark, musty and not a little frightening. She fought her way through, slashing about herself with Rogier’s rapier in a way that probably would have greatly dismayed him.

He did seem prim enough to know how to use it properly.

She wasn’t, but a blade was a blade. And with a little faith and a little trial and error, she was able to cast the phalanx of knives tied intrinsically to the weapon. The spell saved her more than once, knocking away skeletal hands while she hacked and stabbed at desiccated corpses.

At an opening bathed in a putrid yellow mist, she paused to collect herself. It was a strange magic she didn’t understand- some marking of the Two Fingers that she’d learned spelt a fight.

She braced herself, and then a step echoed through the passage. She whirled to see, of all people, D. Delia’s mind spun, searching for an explanation. She wasn’t often inclined to deception, but something about the way D spoke of his once-friend made her loathe to divulge any word of Rogier, no matter how trivial.

And she feared this was no trivial matter.

“Are you here to weed the Deathroot of the shade here?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, grateful for the easy excuse. Behind his mask, Delia couldn’t see D’s expression. But she felt his eyes narrow in suspicion. She held his gaze, careful not to give any indication of discomfort. Daring him with her expression to challenge her.

“Well I’ll help you fight. But,” he gestured to the passage behind her. “It’s not in there.”

Delia looked over her shoulder, realization dawning on her. He couldn’t see the veil. She cocked an eyebrow at D. “Something is.”

He turned to survey the doorway, head moving slowly up and down.

“Right, then. Let’s get going.” He strode forward, blade raised confidently over one shoulder. Delia scrambled after him, drawing Rogier’s rapier and raising it. D’s helmet flicked toward her. Her mind supplied an image of the side-eye she couldn’t physically see.

“You’ve been using that?”

“Does everyone have something to say about my choice of weaponry?” she grumbled.

D snorted. “I’ll let you know once I’ve seen you fight.” And then, they were fighting. A shadow, it would seem. Delia caught glimpses of a dark figure, flitting in the corners of her vision.

Some sixth sense made her move, but not quite quickly enough. Her cheek stung from a shallow cut she was just too slow to avoid. She stabbed out, attempting to picture the way Rogier had wielded the blade. She’d only watched him from the corner of her eye, but it had seemed an extension of his arm. She, on the other hand, felt like a fool. The thin spine was ill-suited to her sweeping cuts, and her fencing skill was sorely lacking.

She felt another slice across the back of her shoulder, catching the fabric of her jerkin as it went. She rolled back, putting some distance between herself and her attacker, trying to pinpoint the wraith.

She caught just a glimpse as she was rushed, throwing up her sword to block the hooked blade flying toward her. She shuddered when she realized that beneath the hood, her opponent seemed to have no face. Again, she rolled, trying to get distance. She took another cut to the back of her hand as she did. She had been fighting for some time, down the lakeside and through the catacombs, and she was growing tired. Dangerously so.

D seemed not to struggle at all. For all of Delia’s paltry blows, he unerringly turned to face the shadow as it struck, parrying and slashing in perfect synchronicity with the ghostly assassin’s movements.

He spun opposite the shadow, and Delia saw her opportunity to strike as the Black Knife turned her back. She lunged forward, driving her sword through the assassin’s abdomen. She could feel the moment the life left her. The body sagged, sliding off the rapier with a slick hissing noise.

“You need a new sword.” The bastard wasn’t even out of breath.

“Why? Because you dislike this one’s previous owner?”

D stiffened, and Delia squeezed her eyes shut. The day she’d had had sapped what little diplomacy she possessed.

“Because,” ground out D. “That is a sorcerer’s blade. Meant for staving off opponents who get too close, not fighting armies.”

“Of course,” said Delia. She dropped to the ground, resting her head in her hands. “Please, forgive me.”

D had already turned to go, Deathroot seemingly forgotten, but stopped in the doorway. “He cares about you,” he said. Delia sat in stunned silence. “He’ll never say it aloud, but I can see it. Don’t let his obsessions get you killed.” He paused. “Or his sword. He wouldn’t want that.”

He swept out, leaving Delia reeling. She was still shaking when she finally stepped forward, carefully wrapping her fingers around a blade that seemed to absorb light from the room around it. She turned it over in her hands, studying the characters hewn into the flat of it.

Hopefully Rogier would be able to make more sense of it than she.

She reached for the magical thread that would warp her back to the cave mouth, and then paused, looking at the Black Knife’s corpse. She nudged the body with her toe, half expecting it to rise from its prone position.

It didn’t.

She set to work pulling off the shifting armor and held it up to herself. She couldn’t tell it it would fit, but this seemed like a safe enough place to find out. She peeled her own warrior’s garb off, piece by piece, laying it carefully aside. Then she stepped into the greaves.

The boots seemed to mold to her feet.

She made short work of donning the rest of the gear, marveling at how the pieces seemed to stretch and constrict themselves to her form. When she took a step forward, she heard nothing at all. A slow smile spread across her face.

Since waking here, she’d felt as though she could hardly keep her head above water. Fighting alongside the likes of Nepheli Loux had crippled what little confidence she’d had. The other woman had swung her axes about her as bludgeons, forcing her enemies back by the sheer force of her will. Delia had always coveted that raw physical power. She favored stealthier combat, something all too rare in these hostile lands.

But with this armor…

She spun on her heel, raising Rogier’s blade to eye level. The steel sang in the air, but her foot on the ground made no noise.

She had to show him.

She took herself through sets of stances.

She’d be wasting his time.

The moves were meant for a heavier, wider blade, but she had yet to find one better than the blade in her hand.

She shouldn’t be cruel. She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it.

She sighed, dropping her guard.

She wanted a hot meal and a good night’s rest.

She’d go to the Hold. She didn’t even have to talk to him.

She wanted to talk to him.

She set her shoulders, raised her hand to the wisp, and was off.

Off to the Hold and the man that were becoming her home.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter One

Summary: Rogier meets a Tarnished and finds what he’s been searching for- in more ways than one.

Author’s Notes: 1K words to start! The Tarnished isn’t named in this chapter, but she will be. 😉 thank you to my beloved @halfmoth-halfman for giving me an excuse to post this. 💙

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

If he hadn’t watched it happen, he probably wouldn’t have ever known. He’d just stepped forward to peek out the doorway when a figure landed on the stones before him without a sound. The same Tarnished who’d fought Margit. She froze, lavender eyes locked on him as he paused.

“Ah, nice to meet you. The pleasure’s mine.” When she didn’t move, he went on, turning on his infamous breezy charm. “Rogier’s the name. A sorcerer, as you might’ve guessed.” She straightened slowly, eyeing him warily.

Rogier shifted, growing a bit nervous. He’d thought she might be friendly, after his aid in her fight against the Omen. Now, though he could hardly begrudge her caution, he wasn’t so sure. And she was beautiful in a way that was vaguely intimidating all on its own. Sooty lashes brushed her cheeks as she blinked at him, one slim hand on her sword hilt.

“I’m looking for a little something, here in the castle. When I’m not hotfooting it from the troops, that is.” He cocked a rueful grin, hoping for some expression. Nothing. “But enough about me. What are you doing here in Stormveil Castle? This place is bristling with Tarnished hunters, you know.” He was rambling, now. “They sacrifice our kind, for grafting. Not exactly a place I’d stroll into without a purpose in mind…”

“I’m here to defeat Godrick.” Her voice was soft and rough, low in a way he hadn’t expected. He blinked, momentarily thrown off guard.

“I see. Here to challenge Godrick, and lay your hands upon a Great Rune, are you?” She nodded, and he could feel himself relaxing. If only a bit. Then her gaze seemed to catch on something he couldn’t see before coming back to him. Bitterness flooded his throat, nearly choking him in its intensity. “You can see it then, I take it? The guidance of grace.”

She nodded, and he tried to level his voice when he replied. “Well, enjoy it while you can. I’m Tarnished, like you. But unlike you, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of this guidance for the longest time.”

Her brow furrowed, and she stepped further into his little sanctuary. Rogier tried to mask the sharp spike of anxiety he felt, and was grateful when she came no further. He felt naked under her sharp gaze, pierced through and stripped of all his cavalier defenses. He tried to keep the panic and exasperation from his voice. “Still, I won’t forget how it felt when I first came here, to the Lands Between.” He’d erred too far on the side of caution. His voice was far more wistful than he would have liked.

The Tarnished hummed, finally taking her eyes from him to look around the room. He breathed out sharply, relieved. They rested for a moment on his fire, and Rogier extended a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the Tarnished sat. Rogier realized that she was just as nervous as he. On the one hand, it filled him with pride that he could intimidate a warrior as fierce as she. On the other, it filled him with relief to have a peaceful encounter like this. Had she any wish to strike at him, she’d have done it by now.

“I’m privy to a few magical battle arts,” he blurted. She looked up, eyebrows raised. Rogier stumbled on, lowering himself to sit across the fire from her. “Would you care to learn one? As a fellow Tarnished, once guided by grace, I’d love to help you out, if it please.”

A wry smile quirked one corner of her lips, highlighting a fine scar there. “I’m afraid I’ve no aptitude for magic. Cold steel’s more my speed.”

“Oh?” Rogier grinned. He drew his rapier, carefully, holding it out handle first. The Tarnished took it gently from his hands, turning the blade this way and that reverently. “Keen to learn another battle art, are we?”

She looked up, then back to the hilt in her hands. “It’s a fine blade,” she admitted, turning it back toward him. He took it from her hands and leaned back to slide the blade into its sheath. The soft hiss of steel raised his eyes, but he found only another hilt before him.

Rogier’s eyebrows lifted. The blade was rusted, chipped in places and somewhat dull. “You used this… to fight Margit?”

She shrugged a muscled shoulder, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll replace it eventually. Just haven’t found anything better, yet.” She looked up then. “Thank you, by the way.” At his blank look, she went on. “For helping me.”

“Oh, that. Of course. As I said, fellow Tarnished and all that. Happy to help you out.”

She hummed again, tilting her head. “That doesn’t seem to be the case amongst us all.”

Rogier grimaced. “Come across someone less friendly?”

“Several someones, in fact.” He waited, but she offered no further comment before standing. “Thank you for sharing your fire with me. I’d best be getting on, though.” And off she went through the door, silently as she’d come. As eager as Rogier had been to escape from her eyes, her absence left him feeling bereft of comfort. He sat for a long while after she went, watching the space where she’d been.

There was a certain despair that accompanied meeting new Tarnished. Sometimes, when they were particularly rude, Rogier allowed himself to gleefully imagine the moment that they, too, lost the ability to see the guidance as he had. But only for a wink.

Tonight, he found himself hoping that just this once, that moment might take a long, long time. Perhaps even long enough that he could discern what made her attention so captivating.

And in the depths of the castle, pierced with Death itself and barely able to drag himself away, as he crawled on shaking arms, fumbling his Roundtable medallion out of his pocket, the only thing that kept him awake enough to escape was the memory of those eyes, burning into and through him. The memory of feeling, and the hope of feeling again, seen. Truly seen, for the first time.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Five

Summary: Rogier reflects on the life he’s led, and the choices that have gotten him where he is. It would be wonderful to let Delia in… but he can’t.

Author’s Notes: 1K words! Here’s that introspection chapter I was so excited about. Hope y’all like it as much as I do. 😉

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: mild language, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Rogier sat awake for a long time after Delia nodded off. He sat, trying to school his thoughts into some semblance of organization. He failed.

He sat, reminding himself that he needed no one and nothing. He had no need of companionship, no need of a friendship he wouldn’t be around to see through.

Delia took a deep breath and Rogier stilled his own. She stayed asleep, nuzzling her cheek closer to him.

She was warm under his arm, a stark contrast to the icy numbness spreading up from his feet.

Perhaps just this once?

He thought of D, the friendship forged in their mutual searching, only to be shattered by their respective unwillingness to be swayed from their beliefs. Thought of Fia, the rare confidence he’d entrusted to her, before she wrung from him what she needed and released him back to the void.

No.

There were reasons he’d determined not to let himself grow attached to anyone. That discipline had served him well his whole life, and proven all of his fears well founded once he’d neglected it.

And yet…

He had known, from their first meeting, that D would never- could never- change his mind. To be cast out by every association for the so-called crime of sharing his soul, something entirely out of his power- an irony that struck Rogier with equal parts humor and heartache- and then to be parted from that soul? No feat of any goddess, let alone any man, would ever prise him from his place within the Order.

And he had seen in Fia, well before they ever even spoke, the calculation veiled by a soft voice and softer touch. She’d bent her ear to his rambling of Death; to his research into blasphemous rites; to his despair at his failing life and failed life’s work. He knew when he began to speak that it benefitted her to listen, and still he’d spoken. He’d gone willingly to her bed, wise to her schemes, but unable to turn from the comfort she’d offered. He hadn’t even been angry, when she’d drawn on his life to feed her dead god. How could he be? In her, he saw every fear of himself realized.

He had known D would never come to say goodbye. He’d said his goodbyes long ago.

He had known Fia would welcome him, Blight and all, and offer compassion, no matter how shallow and self-serving.

He had known better, thought himself cleverer, and paid dearly.

He looked down at Delia’s face, propped against his waist.

He knew nothing with her.

What could she possibly stand to gain from friendship with him? She was clearly bright, but she was no scholar. He feared his company was lackluster at best, and yet she’d sought him out. There had been true anguish when she’d seen him again, not empty pity.

She’d feared for his life.

He had released her of any obligation she might have felt, paid back the debt he owed her with interest- his rapier, freely given, was worth more than any blade she’d be like to find lying around without risking her life.

He’d released her. And she’d returned anyway. Returned bearing gifts, and asking only for his presence.

He looked down at the blanket over his legs. He really had nothing left to lose.

And he was so tired.

He looked back to her sleeping face, and felt a dangerous tug of fondness.

Instinct urged him to draw back, to raise his defenses and distance himself from her reach.

Instinct urged him to brush away the lock of hair that had slipped to flutter over her parted lips.

Instinct failed to warn him that she was about to wake up.

Her eyes opened, pinning him to the spot. He held his breath as they watched each other. She blinked sleepily at him, reaching up to rub the corner of her eye.

He was caught.

“Did I wake you?” he murmured. Delia shook her head, further disheveling her hair.

“No,” she said, voice raspy. “But your thoughts are loud.”

In that moment, looking down at her, this fierce and beautiful woman with mussed hair and blurry eyes, all of Rogier’s reservations became too quiet to hear.

“I’m afraid to sleep,” he admitted. And then stiffened in horror. The words had come out so easily that he hadn’t even processed them.

Delia sat up, raising a hand to Rogier’s cheek. Her lips were parted in anticipation of a question.

And because Rogier couldn’t bear to hear what she might ask, couldn’t bear to see how much he might tell her, because he was a coward, he searched his mind for what truth he might offer her to end this line of questioning before it began.

He let himself smile his wide, false smile. “I’ve just so many thoughts to put to paper, and so little time.”

Delia’s expression turned dubious the moment he smiled at her. But it was chased by a flash of raw hurt, so quick he almost missed it, and then a careful blankness.

Rogier paused and considered what he’d said. It dawned on him with a wave of self-loathing.

“So little time,” he’d said as she’d risen from resting against him.

Damnit.

She was up before he could find a way to right this latest of his wrongs.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” she said cheerily. “Thank you for letting me stay.” She spun on her heel, shoulders back and head held high. She gave Rogier no chance to collect his thoughts enough to speak. She was gone before he could open his mouth.

Rogier couldn’t determine whether or not he liked this new habit of watching the last space she’d been. But he knew he disliked the guilt that sat with him long after she’d gone.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Three

Summary: Rogier tries (and fails) to occupy his mind and time, alone in the Hold. With a little help, he’s about to have lots to think about.

Author’s Notes: Another measly 800 words! Setting the scene for what I hope to be the last chunk of game dialogue for a bit.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: none? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Rogier spent an indeterminate, but too long time, staring, again, where the Tarnished had been standing.

What just happened?

He couldn’t seem to process that kiss. It had been so long since he’d been touched, let alone kindly. Dare he say affectionately.

A door somewhere in the Hold slammed shut and he shook himself out of his stupor. He needed to get his mind off of-

He didn’t even know her name.

By Marika, he didn’t even know her name.

He drew himself up, such as it was, and lifted his chin in defiance of himself.

No need to pine for the touch of a woman he didn’t know, with whose presence he might never be graced again.

He didn’t pine. He needed no one.

That settled, he nodded to himself and then looked around the balcony, wistfully eyeing the rail he so often launched himself over. Never again.

He shook his head again. Not the kind of distraction he needed.

He looked toward the doorway. Surely, someone would be near enough to…

No. He didn’t want their pity. Their smug, vindicated disappointment. As it stood, he was outcast enough. And not without his own share of fault in the matter.

He resolved to keep himself occupied by his own devices.

He would list all of the spells he knew. He tilted his head back against the wall and let his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

Lavender eyes bored through him.

He opened his eyes, shifting. Perhaps he could categorize them. By the order in which he learned them?

He tried that, and found himself getting hung up on the details surrounding each discovery.

He heard the Tarnished’s voice. Indistinct and lyrical.

He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. Was he going mad? Was Death rotting his mind?

A step at the doorway. He dropped his hands, affecting his signature easy air, smile and all. He didn’t let himself think about how quickly it came to him, how effortless it had become to hide behind this mask.

The Tarnished rounded the corner, mouth set in a wide smile. Her arms were laden with an assortment of items- scrolls and tomes; quills and ink; a pillow, a blanket; a small brown sack. She dumped the lot at Rogier’s feet, planting her hands firmly on her hips and looking quite pleased with herself.

“Congratulations, on this motley of… items,” he said dryly. She huffed, dropping to lean against the bench by his legs. If he could have recoiled, could have moved his wretched afflicted legs away from her, he would have. He couldn’t. And so he only sat, at once longing to flee, and longing to reach forward and tuck her dark hair behind her delicate ear.

What?

“You might be a bit more grateful once you see what I’ve brought,” she said blithely. She tossed a tome at him, which he fumbled before grasping. He turned it over. Before he could read the cover, she was tossing more tomes over her shoulder and into his lap.

“Well, then!” he sputtered. He looked down, ready to offer a good natured, if iindignant pout. But she was beaming up at him and he found his own lips curling up to match.

“Good, I thought you might give me an earful. The smile’s better.”

Rogier’s face flushed. She had the decency to look down, at least attempting to hide her smirk. Rogier cleared his throat, grasping for what shreds of decorum he could gather.

“What’s all this, then?” he finally asked.

She shrugged, shuffling papers at her feet. “Mostly journals, I think. Just things I’ve collected along the way.” She nodded to the brown sack. “Some bread and dried fruit. Not much, but it’ll keep you.

“Anyway, I just thought you might appreciate them more than me. And,” she looked up again, shy this time. “You seem to be quite well-learned. I thought you might like some place to put down your thoughts.” She held out another book- plain and leather bound. He took it gently from her hands. Loose papers fluttered out, and the Tarnished scrambled to collect them.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to put those, but I thought you might find some use. I certainly won’t.”

Rogier blinked. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Time can move rather slowly, stuck here, you know.” She looked up at him, holding the papers out. She seemed transfixed by his confession. He couldn’t quite believe he’d said the words aloud, himself. He forced himself to hold her gaze. “A little conversation goes a long way.”

She smiled, a bit of mischief and a bit of regret rolled into one.

“Well, in that case…”

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Two

Summary: The Tarnished finds herself a new sword alongside her new friend, and finds herself wishing for a way to get under the sorcerer’s skin the way he has hers.

Author’s Notes: A measly 800 word, just a bit more dialogue to set the scene and establish character.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: none? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

��Rogier?”

He opened his eyes, tilting his hat up to see from beneath the brim of his hat. Delia stood before him, twisting her fingers nervously together. Her eyes darted between his face and the blanket over his legs, brows drawn low over her eyes.

Rogier seemed frozen for a moment before pasting on a wide smile. “Ah, we meet again after all. I apologize for any offense given by my bearing, but I’m quite unable to move, you see.” She felt her heart splinter. She’d known the moment she touched that bloodstain, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. The first person to show her genuine kindness in this godsforsaken land…

He continued before she could gather her thoughts enough to interject, sounding remote. “So. What do you need?”

She looked at him, face screwed up to hold back some emotion she couldn’t quite put a name to. He seemed to squirm for a blink as she studied him. Finally, she spoke.

“I’ve defeated Godrick.”

His eyebrows went up in surprise, mouth forming a perfect circle. “Ah.” She said nothing else, and aftee a moment, he continued. “You defeated Godrick and claimed yourself a Great Rune.” He smiled up at her, a bit more real, and this time she returned it. It seemed to be the first real smile he’d given since they met.

He grimaced, flinching, and then hummed. Under his breath, he said “Looks like we both got what we wanted out of Stormveil, didn’t we.” Her face fell, cool demeanor slipping between her fingers. He seemed to notice, because he opened his mouth, but then faltered.

He tugged at the blanket over his legs. She tracked the movement, trying not to let her distress bleed through. Rogier pasted a smile back on, and leaned to his side. “Well done, friend.” He turned. And in his hands was his rapier. “Something to mark the occasion.”

Delia blanched. Not his beautiful blade. “Go on, take it.”

She reeled back, unable and unwilling to tear her eyes away from the proffered sword.

“Rogier, I-” she faltered.

He softened his voice, regret dimming his smile. “As you might’ve guessed, I still can’t move. My fighting days are behind me.” He gestured toward her with the hilt. He went on, a bit more firmly. “No need to be polite, I’ve no use for it anymore.”

She stepped forward, tentative fingers wrapping around the hilt. She couldn’t. She had to. For a moment, Rogier’s grip on the blade held. Then, he pressed it toward her. “Please,” he murmured. “You need something better than that piece of scrap you used against Margit. Besides which, this way I’m still helping you out, in a way.” He smiled up at her, but it seemed hollow.

Silently, Delia pulled her own newly acquired sword from her scabbard. It was a wide blade hewn of bright steel. She held it to Rogier, whose eyes went wide in appraisal. “Actually, I already did replace the piece of scrap.” Eager hands reached forward to run across the metal, testing the balance and edge. He seemed impressed.

Delia took in a breath. “Does that change your mind?” He hummed absently, looking up to her from where he still studied her new sword. Then he realized what she was asking and that new light dulled.

Delia could kick herself.

“No. No, it does not change my mind.” He handed back her sword, tilting his head down to retreat beneath the brim of his hat. Delia stamped down a pang of hurt and irritation. She found herself frustrated, not for the first time in their interactions, at his sudden withdrawal.

“Unlike you, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of this guidance for the longest time.”

She wondered how long that time was. She had learned precious little about her own kind in her travels thus far, but from what meager information she had managed to glean, she was under the distinct impression that most of the other Tarnished she’d met had been here for years. Decades, even. Ageless, even after the abandonment of grace, but searching. Ever searching.

She thought of the echo she’d seen when she’d touched the bloodstain beneath Stormveil. Rogier’s bloodstain. The arch of his back as he was pierced through and lifted from his feet. The blanket over his legs now.

She desperately wanted to ask, wanted to know what had happened, and why he couldn’t cure it with magic. What she could do to help, and why he sat here, all alone, removed from the rest of the Hold.

She bit her lip, and took a deep breath.

She knelt, and bit back a triumphant grin at the utter shock in his expression. She leaned forward, hands on his knees, and pressed her lips to his cheek as her heart hammered. Rogier sucked in a breath, so quietly she almost missed it. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“Thank you,” she whispered. He said nothing, blinking rapidly. She stood, and turned, and without another word, walked away from the balcony.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Four

Summary: Delia finds an opportunity to get some answers, and to get some rest. She also gets a warning she’s not like to forget.

Author’s Notes: 900 words this time. Hell yeah. Lots more game dialogue this time, as Delia gets educated. This chapter features a notorious set of lines about “long before” and “soon” (iykyk). Honestly, I don’t find it to be as contradictory as most people do, but I added three words that I feel give the timeline clarity.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: none? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

“The misshapen corpse under Stormveil?”

He stared at her.

Not at her- through her. She worried that she might have overstepped. That he might not answer.

“That is a sacred relic,” he began slowly. “Of the black knives plot. As that famed night of assassination is known. It happened during the Golden Age of the Erdtree, long before the shattering of the Elden Ring. Someone stole a fragment of the Rune of Death from Maliketh, the Black Blade. And on a bitter night some time later, murdered Godwyn the Golden.”

Delia sucked in a sharp breath. “Marika’s favorite child?”

Rogier nodded. “That was the first recorded death of a demigod in all history.”

“Marika must have been out of her mind with grief,” murmured Delia. Rogier was watching her with an interesting expression. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“She was. Though most don’t seem to consider that.”

Delia shrugged. “It’s a horrible thing.”

“Indeed it was. And it became the catalyst. Soon, in Marika’s grief, the Elden Ring was smashed. And thus sprang forth the war known as the Shattering.”

“The war in which the rest of Marika’s children fought over the pieces? Of the Elden Ring?”

Rogier offered a tiny smile. “You’re a quick study.”

“You’re a good teacher,” returned Delia. She smiled when his face flushed. “How do you know all this?”

“I once wished to become a scholar, you see. I've spent many an hour scouring the archives for knowledge of that fateful plot.” He reached for her, taking her hand in his. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “The world has grown crooked, and if you intend to put it to rights, you'd better understand what happened to make it this way, mm?”

She thought of D’s words to her when they’d met again in the Hold.

“I serve the Golden Order. That I might put this crooked land to rights.”

“And… that thing is to blame for the shape I'm in now…” Rogier was staring at their joined hands, a pained expression on his handsome face. Delia squeezed.

“Are you acquainted with a man named Rogier? You know, the piteous fellow hiding away on the balcony. He was a formidable spellblade, in times past. Don’t let his easy air deceive you. He was wise beyond his years, stout of heart and clear of mind.”

He looked up, a mad urgency in his eyes as he leaned toward her. He pulled her forward, over his covered legs, clutching her hands at his chest. “I urge the utmost caution. Don't disturb the corpse more than necessary…”

“No more, though. You see him now, ravaged by thorns, muttering and rambling… like he’s half dead already. I can’t stomach to watch. Take well the lesson, friend. That’ s how you end up, when seduced by Those Who Live in Death. When grace is sullied, it rots people from the inside. Breaks them.”

She could feel the roots writhing- beneath fabric or flesh, she couldn’t tell. Carefully, she leaned forward to rest her head on the sorcerer’s chest.

Rogier’s heart thundered beneath her ear. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

There was a long silence that followed. Rogier let one hand release hers, haltingly resting it on her shoulder blades.

Delia pressed closer, curling into his touch. If she’d ever been touched kindly, in her life Before, she didn’t remember it. She let her eyes drift shut, determined to take whatever he was willing to offer.

Under Rogier’s soft touch, the weight of the last weeks piled down. She felt herself tugged downward, deeper toward sleep.

He cleared his throat, startling her from her doze. “Thank you. You… have no reason to show me these kindnesses.” She leaned back to look at him. He released her, hand and shoulder, as though scalded. Some indecipherable look flitted over his features, and then he scowled. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Delia,” she said. She watched as he mouthed it to himself, as though testing the shape of it on his tongue.

“Thank you, Delia. For all of this.” He gestured to the collection of trinkets she’d brought. “You are too kind by half. I… I don’t know if I can repay you.” He seemed discomfited by the admission. That gave her the courage to capitalize on the brash idea she hadn’t been willing to entertain.

“You can,” she said quickly. She pulled herself up, reaching behind her. She pulled forward the blanket she’d brought. “You can keep watch while I sleep.”

Rogier’s eyebrows lifted. “I assure you that it’s quite safe here-”

“Please,” Delia interrupted. She realized she was wringing the blanket between her fingers when his expression softened. “It would make me feel better.”

He held his breath for what seemed an age, and then gave one short nod. “Very well, then. Will you be comfortable? There are beds, elsewhere in the Hold…”

Delia shook her head. She clambered onto the bench beside him and lay, gently lowering her head to rest on his hip, careful not to press on any roots. “Here’s fine,” she said softly.

Rogier’s arm hovered over her until she took hold of it, pulling it down to rest on her shoulder so she could clasp his hand in hers.

She couldn’t be sure whether her mind made it up, but she thought she felt him tighten his hold as she slipped into dreams.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Twelve

Summary: Time marches ever forward. Delia can feel it- racing beneath her skin, hounding her every step. She can feel it sliding between her fingers like sand through an hourglass.

Author’s Notes: 3.4K words! No real notes for this one. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? Unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Liurnia was strange. It was cold, wet, and generally gloomy. Delia rode hard, hoping to find this manor and be done with the place so she could return to the Hold again. She’d only been gone a little over a day, but she missed Rogier fiercely. 

So far, she’d run into a strange girl, the strange man from one of the many caves of Limgrave, and the thieving Tarnished who’d stolen the strange girl’s necklace. There were strange frog men, and crustaceans larger than shacks. She tried in vain to keep to the dimly visible trail of strange lanterns in view as Torrent carried her through the dreary lands. Lucky for her, his step never faltered. 

She fixated on what little horizon she could see above the fog and the treetops, to almost no avail. And then the trees broke, revealing a crumbling and sunken village. She felt her hope rising before she heard a familiar voice. 

“Lanya... Lanya... It's me Diallos. Answer me, would you?”

Her heart sank when she caught sight of the body, and even more at the look of misery on her friend’s face.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

It was a mad dash North that found her gaping around a spectacular library. The Carian queen sat, stroking her strange egg, murmuring in her melodic, strange voice. She’d put up an incredible fight, but now sat docile and distracted. And Rogier had been right. 

Ranni was here, somewhere. 

The disembodied voice had sent chills down Delia’s spine. 

“Upon my name as Ranni the Witch, Mother's rich slumber shall not be disturbed by thee.
Foul trespasser.
Send word far and wide of the last Queen of Caria, Rennala of the Full Moon, and the majesty of the night she conjureth.”

Delia had searched the Academy top to bottom to no avail, and Rennala seemed unable to hear her queries. She left frustrated, casting a final glance back to the overflowing shelves and their contents. 

Rogier would love this place.

She only hoped she’d be able to make good on her promise to him. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

To think, she’d never have found this place if she hadn’t been rolling away from a stray spell. A great castle loomed, ramparts high enough to blot out the sun in the distance. She stood in awe. 

“Well. Look at you.” She spun, hand going to the hilt of her greatsword. “We don't receive many visitors. I presume you are a Tarnished. What brings you here?”

A great troll, sat by a great anvil. 

“A venerable blacksmith who's a little on the large side”, Blaidd had said. 

“Oh, pardon me. It's hardly my place to ask, is it. I am Iji. A blacksmith who once served the Carian royals.” She perked her ears at that. “An old codger who refuses to retire his rusty hammer. So, here I am, still quietly plying my trade, on this spot. Perhaps you'd like a display? These bones are old, but still able.”

“Iji,” she bowed slightly. “My name is Delia. Blaidd sent me.”

The troll recoiled slightly in shock. “Blaidd actually did that, did he? Quite a rare occurrence, for such a guarded soul as he. Perhaps he sensed something unusual about you. At any rate, if you're friendly with Blaidd, I've something else that might suit you.”

And with that, she’d made another new friend. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Iji had not exaggerated the manor’s defenses. Without his warnings, she’d have woken at the nearest grace numerous times. Even with the knowledge, she'd nearly been knocked from Torrent’s back repeatedly. He seemed to have a sixth sense as to where the beams would crash down, skillfully dodging each and every one while Delia held on for dear life. 

The manor grounds were no better. They crawled with grotesque, disembodied hands that scuttled over the paths, leaping this way and that and casting awful holding spells. 

And at the end, a spectral knight on horseback with a bow twice as long as Delia was tall. She found herself battered, panting, and bloody by the time she dropped her weapon, collapsing into the shallow pool. She tossed back her strange, magical flasks, letting their healing properties bolster her as she lay in the water. 

She couldn’t help imagining collapsing into her own bed beside Rogier. He’d touched her so tenderly when she’d returned from the catacombs with the Black Knife Assassin with only scrapes and bruises. Would he fawn now over her cracked ribs? Would he hasten to bind the cuts that lined her arms, oozing blood? Would he take her in his arms and press her to his chest?

She groaned as she pulled herself up, making for the archway across the courtyard. She rolled her wrists and shoulders, turned her head each direction. 

She stopped dead at the edge of the parapet. A great hillside with soaring towers rose above the mist before her, ethereal and haunted.

Ranni would be here, somewhere. 

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Delia felt a sense of sickening dread. Rogier listened as she breathlessly recounted her encounter with the lost demigod, but seemed absent and listless. The smoke green of his eyes was vaguely clouded and he didn’t track her hand motions as keenly as he was wont. He was too pale.

“I see... When Ranni shed her flesh, she shed the cursemark, too.” He paused, blinking slowly. “You know, not everyone would trust such a tale… But, if she in her current form is nothing more than the living doll you profess… Then perhaps it's true after all.”

His voice was soft. Thoughtful, but not his usual quick self. She knelt, reaching forward to stroke his cheek. He turned his head sharply, focused again. 

“Can you become Ranni's vassal to advance our agenda? While in her service, you'll be able to take a poke around on the sly and determine the location of her original body that bears the cursemark.”

Her shock must have shown on her face because his lips quirked in a brief smile as he looked down.

“I realize that I'm asking you to put yourself in grave danger. But I know you've got what it takes.” He looked up through his lashes. “Quite possibly the only one, in fact.”

Delia was already nodding. “I’ll do it.”

Rogier reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you.” His energy seemed to be bleeding out, concentration waning just as quickly as it had come to him. 

“Rogier?”

He looked up, eyes searching nothing before focusing in on her again. He grimaced. “I… don’t think I have long. It’s become… quite difficult. To think, to stay awake.”

She took a shuddering breath, drawing him to her chest. His fingertips skimmed her shoulders, her waist, resting tentatively at her sides. “Please…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Please do be careful. If anything were to happen to you… I could never forgive myself.”

She pressed him closer, curling protectively over him. “I’ll be careful.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

“Oh, is that so? Thou wouldst render me aid, is that thy proposal? Affording thyself opportunity to grope about for the cursemark's location, no doubt?”

Delia stood very still. The witch’s mocking tone and templed fingers made her anxious, and she did not know what to expect.

Did not know what to do, should this fail.

“Very well...
” She breathed out a silent thanks. “There's nothing wrong with a well-laid scheme. What's more, if my past and past wounds beckon to thee,
I am curious enough to see what thy destiny portends…
I'll allow it. Enter my service.
And good hunting to thee.”

That made Delia’s skin crawl. But she masked her discomfort, drawing from her observations of Rogier to smile easily as she bowed. “My lady,” she said. “What would you have me do?”

Ranni waved a dismissive hand. “There is, in my service, a half-wolven warrior by the name of Blaidd.” Delia could not mask her surprise at that revelation. If Ranni noticed, she gave no indication. “I would have thee join him in searching for the hidden treasure of Nokron, the Eternal City. I have called for Blaidd to greet thee below. Take from him the particulars.”

Delia bowed again, taking her dismissal. But the witch spoke again. “Ah, and there wilt thou find Iji, my war counselor, and Seluvis, preceptor in the sorcerous arts, also.” Another shock, but this time her face was turned away.

“Heed not their peculiarities; feel secure in gaining from them what advantage thou canst. I am sure the others will be doing just the same. Thou needst not indulge them unduly, but they too wish to appraise thy worth.
It hath been a passing long time since a newcomer entered my service, after all.”

Delia looked back over her shoulder, gaze slanted down in deference. “My lady, I am honored.” The witch said nothing, and so down the tower she went. 

She was startled to see a projection, rather than Iji himself. Ranni must be quite a powerful sorceress, indeed. He looked up from his reading at her approach. 

“Oh, so you were the one. Lady Ranni has explained everything. Again, I am Iji. The Carian royal family's dedicated blacksmith, and Lady Ranni's war counsellor. I am told that you are searching for Nokron with Blaidd. I will give you whatever guidance I can. And pray for your success. My apologies for the misleading words of warning. I never imagined that an audience, let alone service to Lady Ranni, was in your fate. I, for one, should have seen it, but I did not. Do forgive me, my fellow. Let us give all that we can of ourselves. Together, for Lady Ranni.”

This she accepted with grace, and continued down the tower steps. She was slightly less shocked to see Blaidd’s projection, but no less impressed with her new patroness. 

“Ahh, long time, friend. Blaidd, if you’ve forgotten.” 

Delia found herself grinning. “I could never forget you, Blaidd.”

He grinned back, toothy and lopsided. “Glad to have you in the service of mistress Ranni.” He straightened himself, smile falling from his jaws. “Well. Getting right to business… I’m still in Limgrave. The eternal city of Nokron lies somewhere at the bottom of this land. I’m planning to go below through the well in the Mistwood. See if I can’t find the road to Nokron from there…”

Delia nodded. “I’ll see you there soon.” Blaidd bowed slightly and turned away, and Delia went down the last flight of steps. 

“I see... You must be Ranni's new hireling.
Yes, yes, I've heard all about you.
I am Seluvis, preceptor in the sorcerous arts.
I don't know what it is the mistress sees in a provincial Tarnished like you, but since we have the misfortune of serving the same Lady,
I ask that you kindly try not to drag us all down with you.”

Delia bristled. “I wouldn’t concern yourself with me. I find it hard to believe we’ll cross paths… as I’m not certain how your services benefit our Lady.” She could sense the mage’s lip curling as he spoke.

“I reside… in another tower, close by. Come and pay me a visit… Should you wish to be of actual service to Mistress Ranni.
If it were up to me, I wouldn't waste my time on the likes of you. But who am I to stand against the wishes of my Lady?”

She turned to leave, unwilling to pay another moment’s attention to the preceptor. But she found the doorway blocked by a thick, white mist. She scowled, turning up the stairs. Perhaps the Mistress had some final command for her. 

Indeed, Ranni raised her head as Delia crested the steps, fingers still templed before her. 

“Ah, allow me to forewarn thee.
I shall soon enter my slumber. And it will be some time before I wake.” Delia’s blood ran cold with a sudden thought. “This doll's body is not without its hindrances… Still, I have high hopes for thee.
I look forward to the good news when I arise.”

Delia bowed, mind racing. “My Lady, I would ask… this sleep… how will you wake from it?”

The cold eyes studied her for a long moment. “And why, pray tell, dost thou asketh me such a question?”

Delia swallowed hard. “My friend said… he believes he’s falling into a ‘fathomless slumber’. I… am trying to save his life.”

The witch hummed. There was another long moment that she studied Delia with a calculating gaze. “Mine own ambitions are mine only focus.” 

Delia’s head and heart sank. She squeezed her eyes quickly shut to stem the flow of tears. 

“But render me thine aid, Tarnished. And when mine goals are achieved, I shall see to thine friend.” Delia’s head snapped up in disbelief. “For I know the worth of a loyal companion, and wouldst aid thine campaign if thou proved thyself to me.”

Delia went down on one knee, clasping her fist to her heart. “Thank you, my Lady.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Siofra was stunning, untouched in a way the Lands Between simply were not. The water glittered, the expanse above was powdered with a thick dusting of what appeared to be stars, and the flora was abundant and lush. 

Delia wandered around, searching for Blaidd, lighting braziers and fighting the occasional beast who crossed her path. She eventually found him atop a hill overlooking the cliffside. 

“Ah, good to see you. Apologies mate, but I don’t have much to report. I can see bloody Nokron, right above me, but I’m absolutely stumped. I’ve tried all the gateways, to no avail… Perhaps it’s time to ask Seluvis? I recall that spiteful little rat acting like he knew something… Let’s give him a squeeze. Show him just how sharp my teeth are…” At her menacing smile, he grinned back. “I jest, I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, I should check on some things here. Leave this place to me. You just do what you feel is right. If either of us learns anything, we tell the other. Right?”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Seluvis was as condescending and spiteful as she and Blaidd remembered him to be. 

“Well, well. You're asking me about that, are you? 
The task was left to you and the mongrel, was it not? 
Not only are you incompetent, but shameless to boot. 
Well...there's no helping it. I'd like you to find a woman called Nepheli, to administer a potion. 
Even you can do that much, can't you? Find Nepheli, and ensure she drinks it.
I except glad tidings, and soon. Then I will give you the answers you seek.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Something was off about the draught. 

Delia knew nothing at all of potions, healing or otherwise. But something was wrong with the one Seluvis had given her. She could feel it in her bones.

She paused at the Roundtable, looking toward Gideon’s office. 

She’d never liked the man, and her dislike had only intensified after he’d disowned Nepheli. 

Gideon Ofnir, The All-Knowing. 

She certainly hoped he’d know something about this. She forced herself to hold her head up as she walked into his library. He was, as ever, engrossed in his research and took no notice of her presence. 

“Gideon,” she said. He grunted, looking up at her. 

She held out the potion. 

“Is that potion what I think it is? Bloody Seluvis. I suppose he's up to something again.” He shook his head, looking up at her. “Oh, I won't interfere. You go ahead and do what you must. The Roundtable has no code to speak of.
But, I ask you this. Are you really going to do the bidding of that twisted dolly botherer?”

Dolly botherer?

“Or would you rather hand that potion to me, and see if we can't get one over on the bastard?” 

There was a creeping feeling of dread filling her chest. It had been there since her last trip to the Hold, and it only intensified now. Her hand unconsciously curled around the vial, drawing it to her chest. Gideon scoffed. 

“Well, I won't force you. But I think your plan would be a dreadful waste. She's not herself right now, and though I have no need for her, she still has potential. Certainly more value than she'd have as a bloody puppet.”

A puppet. 

Delia recalled the basement chamber she’d found, littered with odd corpses in strange positions. 

Not corpses. Puppets. 

She felt her gorge rise as she stood, unseeing. 

She had to get out of this room. She turned, stumbling through the doorway. Gideon called after her, scornful words falling on deaf ears.

Rogier. She had to see Rogier. He would know what to do. 

She made it past D without any questions, barely noticed that Diallos hadn’t returned since his invitation to the Volcano Manor. Roderika looked up with concern as she made her way into the hall, but said nothing. 

Then she heard Fia’s soft voice from her chamber. 

“My dear? Might I ask something of you?”

Delia stepped warily into the room, keeping a short distance from the other woman. Fia gave her a strained smile. “Could you please find the owner of this dagger, and return it to them? A certain person gave it to me as a gift.” She held out a small blade made of twined silver and gold. A great portion of the blade had been eaten away by something corrosive and dark. Delia hesitated. 

“It's a very precious thing. It must have a special place in the owner's heart. So I would like for the owner to have it back, if you wouldn't mind.” Reluctantly, Delia took the dagger. Fia was giving her a strange look. 

“Is that all?”

“You dislike me,” Fia said bluntly. “Why is that?”

Delia blinked, pondering the question. She had no answer other than the feeling of constant deception. Finally, she said “I don’t know.” She turned, tucking the dagger into her satchel as she went. It reminded her of D’s armor. Perhaps he could help her find its rightful owner. 

She offered a soft hello to Hewg as she went, churning the potion and the dagger and the sense of impending doom in her mind as she let herself into her room. She expected Rogier to look up as she entered, but he didn’t. He lay on his back, facing the door with one hand resting on his abdomen.

She called him softly. “Rogier?” He didn’t move. 

Her blood froze. 

She darted across the room, barely checking herself from flinging herself onto the bed. “Rogier,” she repeated, more loudly. 

Still nothing. 

“I should tell you. Lately, I feel I'm on the precipice… of falling into a deep… fathomless slumber.”

“No,” she whispered.

She shook him, gently, then harder when he didn’t move. She called his name, a sob creeping into her voice as desperation set in. 

She sagged onto the bed, laying against his chest. It rose and fell, but slowly. Shallowly. 

She squeezed her eyes shut as the horrors of the day piled onto her. The potion, the puppets. Fia and that dagger. Rogier. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel hopeless and terrified. She clutched Rogier’s shirt as her breaths came too quickly. He groaned after a moment, barely audible, and Delia flew up. She watched him closely, but there was no other sound or movement.

She studied him carefully for a time, memorizing the planes of his face. She found her fingers dancing over his tanned skin and the dip of his cupid’s bow, over the tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth. Over his straight nose and straight brows, into the hollows beneath his cheekbones. 

She ran her hands through his hair, noticing the auburn in it for the first time. How had she never seen it before? Her eyes squeezed shut of their own volition. 

She couldn’t lose him. 

She wanted him always, longed to hear his rich voice and the excitement in it when something piqued his interest. She was desperate to watch the spark in his jade eyes dance when he spoke of histories and conspiracies. 

She should have kissed him when she had the chance. 

But she hadn’t. So she lay her head on his chest and wept until exhaustion overtook her.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Eight

Summary: Knowledge shared is knowledge gained, or so they say. Delia and Rogier both have some knowledge to share, and some little truths to get off their chests.

Author’s Notes: 1.2K words! Enter the true plot of the fix-it. Just a bit of out-of place/alternate dialogue here for flow purposes. Now, if you’re reading this and thinking “Nightingale, the thing you’re saying DOES exist, there’s your fix!”, you are correct! However, as I writer, I must say “Too easy. Everyone must suffer.” Things are gonna get worse before they get better. Also, technically speaking the items in question are late(ish) game so this is my justification for using them.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

“This… is a black knifeprint!” Rogier’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for it. Delia laid it carefully on his outstretched palms, smiling to herself.

“I can scarcely believe you managed to get your hands on this! You recall our conversation about the Night of the Black Knives, yes?” He looked up at her, too briefly to see her nod before he went on excitedly. “They say the assassins who carried out the deed were scions of the Eternal City. A group entirely of women, arrayed in armor of silver under cloaks which fooled the eye.”

He stopped then, eyes fixed on her armor. “I see.” He reached out to run his fingers over the material of the cloak where it parted at her chest. So enthralled was he that he didn’t notice Delia’s sharp intake of breath. “Fascinating,” he breathed.

“So I was wrong,” she joked, a little breathless. He hummed, looking up distractedly. “You’re more interested in the armor.”

Rogier chuckled, jerking his hand back with an awkwardness that indicated he had only just realized where it had been. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, it is quite curious. The knives they wielded though, were imparted with the power of the Rune of Death through sinister rite.”

He rested the knifeprint on the bench beside him and took her hands. Delia felt her cheeks heat. She liked this habit of his. “Please, I beg of you, lend me the knifeprint for a time. I'd love nothing more than to tease out its secrets. Though only a fragment, a very specific ritual had to be performed to impart the power of the Rune of Death. Traces of the one who performed the rite are sure to remain in the imprint…”

He offered a wry, self-deprecating smile. “Half my body has been suffused with Death. I'm certain it will help me see.”

Delia’s stomach plummeted with that morbid thought. “Can’t anything be done?”

He hesitated. She’d been expecting an immediate rebuffal.

“No,” he began, but she cut him off. She tugged on his hands, upsetting his balance.

“You know something, don’t you?” He looked away. “Rogier, tell me!” she urged. She squeezed his hands when he didn’t respond.

He briefly met her gaze before lowering his eyes again. “There’s no guarantee that-”

“I don’t care,” hissed Delia. She reached up to his cheeks, lifting his head and forcing him to hold her gaze. “It’s a chance. Tell me.”

Rogier swallowed, hard. “In the tomes you’ve brought me, there are various cookbooks. I’ve found recipes for boluses, medicinal concoctions used in these lands. They’re meant to cleanse the conditions one finds oneself in here.”

“And they work?” Delia asked breathlessly.

Rogier hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never used them. And… I’ve found no recipe for anything that cures Death Blight.”

Delia dropped her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Of course not. That would be too easy.

“And I’m no healer. But,” Rogier went on haltingly. “I did find a recipe for boluses meant to cleanse the Scarlet Rot.” Delia looked at him blankly. “It’s… a bit closer in its properties to Death Blight than to poison, or blood loss, or sleep magic.” Delia nodded, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t.

“I don’t know what that means,” she admitted softly. Her hands had loosened on his cheeks, no longer keeping his gaze fixed on her. He closed his eyes, but she felt the light pressure as he leaned into her touch.

“I don’t want to get our hopes up,” he murmured. “But… if the Scarlet Rot can be cured…”

“Then maybe this can, too.”

He nodded, smooth cheeks rubbing against her calloused fingertips. “Maybe,” he whispered.

“Well, you can consider my hopes well and truly up,” Delia teased. The look Rogier flashed her was in turns astonished, shyly pleased, and chagrined.

“I have no way of getting ingredients to test,” he began.

“I’ll get them for you.”

“As I said, I’m no healer-”

“But you’re brilliant.” She shook his head lightly between her hands. His cheeks were burning beneath her palms

Rogier reached up to lay his hands over hers. “It could be dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her body sag against his. When he didn’t flinch, when his arms came up around her, she let herself relax.

“I’ll bring you everything you need.”

“I care. And I don’t know what I need,” he grumbled.

“Then I’ll bring you cookbooks and apothecary’s notes until you know.”

“And where do you intend to find these cookbooks and apothecary’s notes?” He’d leaned back against the wall, pulling her with him. She lay awkwardly against his legs, but he didn’t seem to mind and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“I’ve made friends with some of the merchants,” she mused. “I’m sure someone can point me in the right direction.”

“Hmm. And how good are these friends?”

She looked up. “Does it matter?”

Rogier didn’t answer right away, but his heart sped against her chest. “It matters,” he said softly. There was a long silence before he reached up to stroke her cheek, gently skirting the cut along it. “I want you safe.”

“Well, I want you whole and hale.” Delia pulled herself sideways to sit beside him. She snorted softly. “Besides, I’m not sure anywhere is safe, anymore.”

“All the same.” He seemed to be struggling to put his thoughts into words. Delia remained silent, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“Why… have you gone to such troubles to help me?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I mean I don’t see what you stand to gain by helping me. When we first met, at Stormveil, if you’d asked me to come along back then, I would’ve understood.” He smiled wistfully. “I think we would have made a formidable pair, gallivanting about slaying kings and gods.”

His face crumpled, fingers digging into the fabric at his lap.

“But now I’m in this sorry state. One little mishap, and now I can’t move.” His face twisted in a flash of- what, self-loathing?- that he tried to mask. “As you might guess, it’s far from ideal… and I fail to see what use I am to you like this.”

Delia felt a hot flare of anger that he might think she was only using him. She watched Rogier’s expression waver, shifting between suspicion and despair and bitterness and… hope. She breathed out, tamping down her irritation with some effort.

“Maybe you’re not of any particular use to me,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. He flinched. “Maybe I just like you,” she rushed on. She stood to pace toward the railing, leaning against it and dropping her head.

“I just enjoy your company,” she admitted softly. She cleared her throat and went on, stronger than before. “And even if I didn’t, I hate to see needless suffering.”

She felt a light touch at the back of her knee and turned to see Rogier leaning forward. He offered her a weak smile.

“Forgive me. And… forgive me for what I said last time you were here.” He looked pale, nervous. “I didn’t mean to insinuate… anything.” Delia almost laughed at his pained expression. Instead, she let a slow smile spread across her face.

“I know how you can make it up to me.”

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Seven

Summary: Rogier decides that when it comes to Delia, he’s willing to lay aside his reservations if he can keep her close. He also discovers something interesting, which may be well-worth investigating…

Author’s Notes: 1.3K words! Begin the fix-it, featuring (and alluding to) in-game items. 😉

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

The Hold was quiet and dull. Early in his life, he’d made himself comfortable with silence. He could go weeks, or even longer than weeks, without speaking to another soul. Oftentimes, he wouldn’t even realize how long it had been until he spoke and heard the grating of his own voice. Time always seemed to pass more quickly when traveling, though.

Had he the use of his legs, he’d be pacing right now.

But he didn’t. He could feel the Blight crawling, seething under his skin. He’d been startlingly truthful when he told Delia he was afraid to sleep. He’d slept when he returned to the Hold and he’d felt as though he had to claw his way back to wakefulness. He shut his eyes against the pain in his legs, the fear and shame in his heart.

He missed her.

He’d told himself he had to drive her away.

He’d succeeded.

He was a fool.

He wanted her to come back.

He opened his eyes. No use dwelling on any of that. Instead, he made do with the journals she’d brought him. Under any other circumstances, he’d be more than thrilled to have them.

There were collections of notes from students and teachers at Raya Lucaria academy. He skimmed those as he went. Some of it was quite banal- novice’s lists of spells, practical uses of glintstone and the like. Some of it was high-level spellcasting, promising material to return to.

There were traveler’s notes of remedies for blistered feet and aching backs. Cookbooks for various dried and cured meats, arrows, pots, and greases. He put those into a neat pile at the end of the bench.

He looked to the sack she’d left along with the notebooks. He reached out and opened it, pulling out a soft roll. He looked back to the stack of cookbooks. Some of them were crumbling. Some were packed with recipes for which the ingredients no longer existed, or which required palatial kitchens and the larders to go along.

He could sort through the books and list out what recipes she might actually be able to use.

That could be useful for her. That could atone for his careless words.

If she ever returned.

He shook that thought off before it could take root, resolving not to entertain the idea that he might never see her again. That he might have pushed her away after all.

She was steadfast. He knew it.

He would return that steadfastness.

He took a bite of the roll, eyes rolling back as he did. It was soft, fresh. When was the last time he’d had fresh bread? Where had she gotten this? Fresh anything was a rare treat, in these desolate lands. She must have paid a small fortune. And she’d shared with him. He put it down, determined to savor it. He’d take a bite after each cookbook.

He sifted through the journals she’d brought, hoping to find one empty enough to use. There were none. He eyed the stray pages she’d collected, chewing thoughtfully. He found a rather large book to rest on his lap, stacked the loose pages on it, and reached for his quill. He smiled when he realized Delia had even found him another pot of ink.

He took a deep breath. No more hiding. He opened a cookbook, dipped his quill, and began to write. He scanned the cookbook, neatly copying recipes for cured meats and throwing pots onto separate pages. When he finished, he allowed himself the promised bite of roll, relishing the way it melted on his tongue.

She would come back. He would apologize. He would let her in, no matter how terrifying the thought.

He picked up the next cookbook and a new page. Lots of arrows in this one. He’d have to ask if she even had a bow.

Another bite of roll, another cookbook. Two new sheets of paper, for boluses and greases. This cookbook seemed particularly useful. With a shrug, he allowed himself the last bite of the roll. No need to deny himself this, when he was denying the very nature he’d crafted for himself.

He brushed the crumbs from his lap, careful not to smudge the drying ink, and set out to copy the last recipes. He copied a few lines, and then stopped dead, mind catching up to what his fingers had already written.

Preserving boluses.

Alleviates Scarlet Rot buildup and cures rot.

His heart slowed, and then raced forward to make up for the lapse.

What if…

No.

He shook his head firmly. Allowing himself to be close to one person, amidst the pain and terror of a slow death? That was a reasonable enough thing to indulge. But this…

This hope was madness.

He willed himself to put the thought from his mind, but it would not go.

What would even go into such a remedy? What could possibly undo the touch of Death?

His hands had begun to shake. Slowly, carefully, he stoppered his ink pot and cleaned his quill. He set aside the pages to dry, lying them tidily in a line beneath his bench.

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so he hoped.

He reached for a set of journals. He read and re-read the same page countless times before giving up. He ate another roll. Even that delicacy could not penetrate his mind.

He was a sorcerer, not an herbalist.

But if he could just set his mind to it, perhaps he could…

He was startled from his spiraling thoughts by a shadow in the corner of his vision.

A hooded figure stood at his side, absolutely silent, face obscured by… something. He frowned slightly, hand going to his belt out of habit. But his rapier was no longer there.

He needn’t have worried. The figure reached up, casting off its hood to reveal Delia’s wolfish grin.

“Surprise,” she crooned. She spun in a slow circle, swaying her hips in a way that made Rogier’s mouth go dry. “How do I look?”

He steeled himself to tell her the truth, that she looked more beautiful to him than any other ever had. Then she stepped into the light and the words caught in his throat. Blood streaked her cheek and the dark plates over her chest. She stepped toward him, frowning, and he realized he’d reached for her unconsciously.

He ran one thumb gently over the back of her hand. It came away red, as did the finger he ran under her eye, lowering it so she could see. Her face drained of color.

“Oh,” she breathed. “That… they’re not deep.”

Rogier let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He forced himself to smile, though his eyes continued to flit over her anxiously. “Well then, you look radiantly victorious.” It was half of what he wanted to say. Baby steps. Her expression softened into a tired smile. Rogier couldn’t hold back the quip on the tip of his tongue. “But I fail to see why you feel the need to be more silent than you already are.”

She laughed at that, head thrown back as her fingers came to rest on his shoulder. He leaned into her touch.

“It never hurts to have the advantage,” she said. She sat beside him, shifting the journals over to make space for herself. “I think you’ll like what I found with it even more, though.” She reached under the cloak, arm disappearing beneath the distortion of the fabric. She withdrew her hand, holding out something Rogier had only ever dreamed of seeing.

A Black Knifeprint.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Eleven

Summary: Rogier feels the ends of hope and hopelessness. He might still be saved. He’s already been marked for death. In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not he accepts it. Delia doesn’t. 

Author’s Notes: 3.7K words here! There are some rather… important (to the story) items I list out later in the chapter. If anyone’s interested, they can be purchased from the West Limgrave Nomadic Merchant, which is a quick trip down the mountain and up the coast from The First Step! I also pulled dialogue out of order for this, which I’ve been trying to avoid, but have been doing in pieces throughout. Gotta get that flow, though.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? Suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

He had it.

He finally had it.

He had no idea how long it had taken- it felt like days, it felt like it could have been only a few minutes- but he had it.

The name he’d been searching for.

Lunar Princess Ranni.

His hands shook with the excitement of it.

And with the nervousness of telling Delia.

What would she think? Would she call him mad, deluded? As D had?

No.

He oughtn’t even have the thought in passing.

He turned his attention to the pages he’d copied for her, finally dry after the grease he’d applied to protect them from water. He still needed to bind them somehow.

He only deliberated for a moment when the idea struck him. He unbuttoned his jerkin, reaching into a tiny pocket inside for the needle he kept there. He paused, thinking of the luminescence of Delia’s eyes in the dark, and unfastened his cloak as well. He shrugged the garments off entirely, face heating at the very idea of being so undressed around her. He shook himself from the thought. Then he lifted his hat from the bedpost, grasping the glintstone he’d hung from the brim for power and luck. He caressed it for only a moment before yanking, snapping the cord at the base.

He threaded it through his needle and began to sew. It had been some time since he’d had need to sew anything, and so he found himself pricking his finger from time to time. But it went quickly, and he was tying off the cord when the heavy wooden door opened. 

Delia strode in, throwing back her hood and tossing an easy smile his way that he returned. He relaxed at the very sight of her. When she turned, he saw that a great, curved blade was strapped to her back. His smile widened. 

“Always good to see you safe,” he said, letting warmth seep into his words. “Found yourself a new toy?”

“Indeed.” She pulled it from its sheath, laying the blade across his palms and collapsing backward onto the bed beside him. “It’s proven quite useful. It’s enchanted to-”

“Cloak its user for a quick forward approach?”

Delia sat straight up, gaping at him in indignance. “I thought you studied that… that…stone…” she waved her hand in an irritated motion. 

“Glintstone sorcery,” he supplied smoothly. 

“Yes, glintstone sorcery,” she glared. Rogier beamed. 

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” he conceded. He handed it back to her and she smiled, pleased.

“Thank you. And now that I have it…” She lifted his rapier from her belt. Rogier’s heart sank. She saw the expression and leveled a serious gaze at him. “I don’t want to hear it. I saw you reach for it when I surprised you last time.” She held it out to him, wrapping his hands around it when he tentatively took the hilt. “Besides. I know you’ll use it again.”

She said it with such sincerity that he found himself nodding before he realized it.

“And on that note, I brought you some things.”

Delia pulled a leather satchel out from beneath her cloak, upending the contents onto the bedside table. Various leaves, butterflies and fireflies, berries, and flowers tumbled out.

She unbound another leather pouch from around her thigh, drawing out bundles carefully wrapped in larger leaves and cloth. She glanced up at him. “Bloods and greases and the like.”

Then she reached under her cloak for yet another pouch, this one bound to her waist. She held it in both hands, as though hesitant to show him. She looked at him through her lashes. 

“I’m not… entirely certain that these are what you’re looking for.” He set aside his rapier with care, pulling himself up and facing her. She opened the bag, reaching in carefully to withdraw small, fleshy globes in vibrant green, indigo, and crimson. 

Boluses. 

“Delia,” he breathed. “Where… how…?”

“So these are them? Boluses? Will any of them…?”

Rogier was already shaking his head. He reached forward, taking the green globes carefully. “These treat poison.” He pointed to the crimson orbs in her hands. “Those staunch blood loss.” He gestured to the indigo spheres, which she’d lay on the tabletop. “And those lift sleep magic.” His gaze caught on them as the words left his mouth.

Delia, of course, saw this. “Have you slept?”

He looked up at her, suddenly dumbstruck at the memory of her in his arms. It had felt so good to hold her, so right. Her heat had driven out the cold of the Blight, warming his chilled body. Her breath fanning against his neck had nearly undone him, keeping him awake, longing and pitiful, long after she’d drifted off. He’d lay trembling each time her lips brushed his skin, only following her into sleep after she shifted to lay her head against his chest. 

It was the soundest sleep he’d had in ages.

And then there had been the almost kiss. He’d wanted to kiss her, desperately, body moving of its own volition. Hadn’t even registered what was happening until it was almost too late. It had taken him far, far too long to gain control of his senses, wading through the mire of sleep and Death.

He swallowed hard. “Not since you left.”

Her eyebrows pinched together, drawing a furrow between them.

He looked away. “I should tell you. Lately, I feel I'm on the precipice… of falling into a deep… fathomless slumber. It’s too hard to wake up,” he admitted quietly. “And… I’m afraid I won’t.” When he looked up, Delia’s expression was pained.

She lay a hand on his, squeezing lightly. “Will these help?”

He looked back to the collection of boluses on the table. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. But I’ll try them. I don’t want to fall into this sleep- I have an inkling it could spell trouble for you somehow.” A slow smile spread across his face as he spoke. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can be quite useful. So I just wanted to get the apology out of the way, beforehand.” He leaned forward to nudge her with his elbow, now fully grinning. “Since you’re so scary and all.”

Delia scowled at him. “At least one of us can find amusement in this.”

He felt his face fall.

She grimaced instantly, raising her other hand to his. “Sorry,” she whispered. 

“Don’t be.” He squeezed her hands back. “And on the note of usefulness, now I have some things for you.” He released her, reaching for the pamphlet he’d created. Her eyes stuck on the glintstone, fingering it reverently as he handed it to her, then lit up when she opened it. 

He’d penned a table of contents for the lot once he’d finished, with blank pages in the back for additional recipes. Delia beamed at him. “Thank you,” she breathed. “This is wonderful.”

Rogier hummed. “Something to repay my debts to you, I suppose.” Delia’s brow furrowed again. He went on before she could object. “And now,” he bent, raising the knifeprint from where he’d laid it at the bedside. “My examination is complete. Here's the knifeprint back, with my thanks.”

Delia’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Don’t be silly,” she murmured, turning the blade in her hands. “You keep it. I’ve got no use for it.” She grinned up at him. “Besides, I can always come see it when I see you.”

Rogier’s heart sped in his chest, and he found himself smiling widely. “Now,” he began, growing serious. “I have a fairly good idea who performed the rite upon the blade. The person who orchestrated the Night of the Black Knives. Lunar Princess Ranni.” Delia nodded, patiently awaiting the explanation she expected him to give. “One of the children born to King Consort Radagon and his first wife, Rennala. Demigod and sister to General Radahn and Praetor Rykard. Hers was the name I discovered in the imprint. Truly, you have my thanks. But,” he said hesitantly. “If I might be so bold, I would also like to ask something more of you.”

“Go on,” she said softly. 

“If Ranni truly is the one who plotted that fateful night, then she should bear the cursemark of Destined Death somewhere upon her flesh.” He took a deep breath, and then spoke before he lost his nerve. “I would like you to procure it for me. And then all will be laid bare.” Delia stared at him, wide-eyed. He whispered “I will have the answers I have sought for so long.”

“Alright,” said Delia slowly. “And where would I find…?”

“I have some idea of Ranni’s potential whereabouts. There’s a manor to the north of the Academy of Raya Lucaria. It is the familial home of the Carian royals from whom Ranni descends. There’s been talk of the old royals’ vassals gathering there in recent years. Ranni’s whereabouts since the Shattering are a well-kept secret. She hasn't been seen even once. But I suspect she might have returned to the manor in which she was born…”

Delia said nothing for a long moment. “Why do you want this cursemark?”

He hesitated. “I'm afraid there's something I must tell you. Do you know of Those Who Live in Death?” She nodded. “The very notion of life in death defies the Golden Order.” He snorted softly. “By D's account, these defiled fiends must be expunged. But truth be told, I seek the cursemark to save them. And… possibly myself.” Delia fixed him with a piercing stare. He hurried on, hoping she’d hear him out.

“You may find this peculiar, but I discovered something in my examination of the Night of the Black Knives. These souls have committed no offense. They have every right to life, only, they happened to touch upon a flaw in the Order.”

“Explain the part where it helps you.”

Rogier stammered a bit, caught off-guard. “W-well, I was infected with the Blight by Deathroot. Deathroot was never seen in the Lands Between prior to Godwyn’s murder. In fact, it seems to stem from his corpse. Something about the cursemark, the rite itself, or perhaps even the very death of a demigod, must have caused its growth. If I can only understand that…”

“Then perhaps you can undo the damage.”

“Yes,” he breathed. She hummed, fixated on some point against the far wall. Her head whipped suddenly toward him, a dangerous gleam in her eye. 

“Done. How do I ‘procure’ the mark?”

He found himself stuttering again, unnerved by the vehemence in her tone. “I’m honestly not quite sure. This work is entirely unprecedented. Convincing her to come here would be the best, easiest outcome. Somehow, though, I doubt she’ll agree to that. Are you much of an artist? Could you draw it, or perhaps take a rubbing of it? Assuming you could convince her to let you so close, that is.” He was rambling, and Delia’s expression had morphed from shock to relief before she began to laugh. He frowned. “Yes, yes, all fun and games until you’re the one in the hot seat.”

“Rogier, I will be the one in the hot seat. I assumed you were asking me to cut this mark from her skin.”

He sputtered, indignant. “Do you take me for a butcher?”

“Not a butcher. A scholar,” she said fondly. Then her smile turned to a sly grin. “Besides.” She lay a hand on his abdomen, sliding it slowly up to lay against his suddenly racing heart. The heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his poet’s shirt had him breathing too quickly, too shallowly. She leaned forward until their noses nearly brushed, and Rogier found himself fighting every animal instinct to tip his chin up and close the gap between them. “I can be quite convincing when I want to be.”

She shoved lightly, sending him reeling back against the cushions. His head spun as he watched her with wide eyes. “Indeed,” he agreed, voice low. “You certainly can.”

Something sparked in her gaze then, something zealous. Something hungry. Something he hadn’t seen in her before, but something that kindled a flame deep within him. He held his breath, waiting to see what she would do. She was leaning forward, looking as though she hadn’t even noticed. 

Then her eyes flicked to his covered legs. 

Rogier felt himself jerk as though scalded, feeling as though he’d been scalded. Shame coursed through him. 

Of course. How could she ever want him? Damaged goods, and at Death’s door to boot. 

“So, you’ll seek her out?” he asked brusquely. Delia made a confused face, pausing halfway to leaning over him. He looked away. “Lunar Princess Ranni.”

She didn’t answer him right away. He could feel her slow withdrawal and wondered, belatedly, whether he’d gotten it all wrong. 

“Of course I will. I… I can go now.” There was a hitch in his voice that made him furious with himself. She’d already begun to rise when he reached for her, grasping her wrist. 

“Would you stay? Get some rest, first? W-with me?”

She relaxed under his fingers, nodding quickly. She stood, removing her cloak and armor with rushed movements. He was growing concerned at her rushed motions until she lay down, pressing herself against him, and his thoughts went blank. She wrapped an arm around him, tucking her head beneath his chin and nestling as close as she could get, and it occurred to him that she thought he might change his mind. 

Never. 

He tucked an arm under her, drawing her even closer. She raised a leg, resting it across his hips, and he drew in a sharp breath. The blouse and bloomers she wore were thin, and his own clothing did little to mask the shape of her body against his. He could feel every curve of her, at least to the point that he still had feeling; feel the contrasting softness and hard muscles at every point her body touched his. 

“You’re so cold,” she murmured. He didn’t respond, and felt her tense as realization set in. “It’s the Blight, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you feel it? The cold?”

“Somewhat,” he admitted. “It’s not so much that I feel cold, as that I feel the absence of heat. For example,” he said, laying his hand on her hip. “You feel hot, in the way things that aren’t hot feel it when your skin is too cold.”

Delia bolted upright, and Rogier found himself leaning up, too. “Am I hurting you?” she asked. 

He blinked. “No. It’s… nice, actually.” He looked down as Delia began chewing her lip nervously. She haltingly reached up to lay her hands against his chest, pressing him gently back. He went down willingly, and was rewarded by Delia straddling him carefully.

His ever racing thoughts ground to a halt as she settled her weight over him, laying forward to cover him with as much of her body as she could. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, lips brushing his jaw. The heat of her was so intoxicating, her closeness tantalizing in a way that had him on the verge of begging- for what, he didn’t know. 

He was, for the first time, quite grateful for the loss of feeling in his lower body. The sensation would have been altogether too much. 

Then he felt her fingers, toying with the edges of his shirt. 

By Marika, if she- 

She did. She slid her hands under the material, palms blazing a molten trail against his skin as she ran them up his body. A great, shuddering breath went through him as he arched up into her caress, desperate. Desperate for the heat, desperate for her touch. He felt her smile against his jaw as his arms came up to clutch her tighter, felt her squeeze her legs around his hips. He imagined he could feel her knees pressed to his thighs, caging him in her body and presence. 

“How’s that?” she whispered. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded. She chuckled, raising gooseflesh where her warm breath fanned over the column of his throat. Her hands, trapped between them, had wriggled free to run down his sides. He turned his head, and she raised hers so that they were cheek to cheek. 

Her lips were so close. 

Her breathing began to even out, body soon sagging against his in sleep. The weight of her was soothing. Though his heart raced, he soon found himself nodding off, too. 

In his dreams, he wasn’t nearly the coward of reality.

In his dreams, she pressed him down to the bed and straddled him. In his dreams, he pulled her down over him to seal their lips together. In his dreams, he kissed her, fast and hard and searching, until she broke away for breath, and then he kissed her throat until she gasped and writhed in his lap. 

In his dreams, there was no Death Blight. He wrapped her waist in one arm and rolled, pinning her beneath him with his hips, arms caging her in his embrace. She panted against his mouth, pulling at his shirt and wrenching it up and out of her way. She ran her hands all over him, eyes locked on his, and dragged him down to fasten her lips to his neck, sucking on his pulse point and making him see stars. 

“Rogier,” she gasped, wrapping her legs around him. “Rogier,” she moaned as she pulled him closer, heat bleeding through their garments. 

He blinked and she was suddenly laid bare before him, stunning and stunningly wanting. Wanting of him. She scrabbled at his trousers, drawing him back down to her. Her bare skin burned him where it touched his. “Delia,” he choked out. 

“Rogier.” She was pulling his hair again, making him moan like he’d never been touched before. He really did love when she did that. 

“Rogier!”

He groaned, peeling his eyes open blearily. Delia’s worried face swam into focus then, hovering not far away. “Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed. She lay a hand against his cheek, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. Her fingers slid against his skin and he realized that he was drenched in sweat. “I’ve been trying to wake you for… well, for a long time.”

He drew himself up slowly, looking down at his soaked shirt. “Let me help you.” Her fingers brushed his sides as she lifted the garment, making him shiver. When he looked at her, for a moment, he saw her flushed face and glassy eyes from his dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut, berating himself in shame. But when he opened them again, Delia was staring. 

He couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at his lips, or the satisfaction rising in his chest. She noticed it, cheeks pinking as she stood, crossing the room to a chest. She rummaged in it for a moment, then drew out another light shirt. It was only then that he realized that she was already fully armored. 

“You had me worried,” she said softly. He grimaced. 

“Forgive me.” She shook her head, looking up once he’d pulled on the shirt. It was close to a good fit, only slightly tight across the shoulders when he raised his arms. “And thank you.”

She made a noncommittal noise. “It’s just an old shirt.”

“All the same.”

She was unfocused, staring at some point on the wall. Rogier leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. 

“Delia?”

She looked sharply up. “You said my name, while you were sleeping.”

Rogier felt his cheeks begin to burn. He looked away instinctively. “Did I?”

She came closer, seating herself at the edge of the bed. “Are you going to tell me what you were dreaming?”

Never. 

“I don’t remember.” The lie came easily enough, but he could tell even without seeing her face that she didn’t believe him. 

He let himself look up at her after a short time, but her expression was inscrutable. 

“You know, Rogier,” she said slowly. “I think we want the same thing.”

His heart leapt in his chest before rapidly sinking, like a spun stone skipping atop the foam of the sea before plummeting to the icy depths.

She gave him ample time- time to lie, to make excuses, to beg her to go and spare her heart or to beg her to come here and kiss him, already, heart and conscience and pride be damned.

He did, and said, nothing. 

“As I thought,” she murmured, leaning forward. 

Marika, help him. If she kissed him, he would be lost. 

He couldn’t do this to her. If she cared for him half as much as he did for her, he couldn’t do this to her. 

He had to fight to make his voice steady. “Delia, I’m dying.” She recoiled with enough force to shake the bed. He closed his eyes, unable to bear seeing her expression. “I can’t…”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Her voice was firm and when he looked at her, her face was a stony mask of resolve. 

“Delia, we can’t stop this.” He let all his fear, his desolation, all of his hopelessness flood the statement. He lifted the blanket from his legs with a shaking hand, revealing the tangle of thorny vines piercing his flesh. The vile insects that hatched from them poured up, dispersing around them. 

Easier to forget him if she found him despicable. 

She turned calmly away, and Rogier felt himself deflate in relief and heartsickness. But then she turned back, holding some small, strong-smelling herbs in her hands. She tucked them beneath his legs, scattering the nymphs and flies alike. 

“We can.” Her voice was firm, gaze hard. “And I will.”

And in a shimmer of gold, she was gone.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Ten

Summary: After a lovely time waking up, Delia learns just a bit about Rogier’s past. Then she sets off to find a new blade, and solidifies a friendship along the way.

Author’s Notes: 1.9K words! It’s such a shame that this chapter didn’t go just a little differently… 😉

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: canon-typical violence, suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Delia woke, warm and well-rested for the first time in an age. She refused to open her eyes, basking in the comfort of the moment.

Then, she stiffened. Something had moved.

She opened her eyes slowly, coming face to face with Rogier. Then she remembered the night before- how he’d cared for her wounds and pulled her down beside him, how he’d shuddered at her touch before gripping her more tightly.

She smiled to herself.

He looked younger, asleep. His lips were slightly parted, breaths slow and even. The faint crease between his brows was smoothed over, unbothered as he was. Her smile widened when she realized that his arms were still firmly around her. Her own arm was asleep from his weight. She carefully pulled it free, then pushed herself slowly up.

As she did, Rogier’s eyes opened wearily. “Delia,” he murmured, sounding pleased. He raised a hand, stroking it gently over her cheek. His deft fingers tucked her fallen hair behind her ear with such tenderness that her heart clenched.

He grasped her chin lightly between knuckle and thumb and leaned up, propping himself on one elbow. Delia’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned forward, barely a movement, but stopped as Rogier froze. He blinked sluggishly several times, green eyes shining in the dim light from the fireplace. An eternity later, he turned her head gently, inspecting her cheek.

Delia swallowed her disappointment.

He’d almost kissed her.

He’d clearly only been disoriented.

But he’d said her name.

She sat up, choosing to ignore that small detail.

“That cut’s looking much better.” Her head whipped toward the sound of his voice, still thick with sleep. It made her insides twist with… something.

“Uh-huh,” she answered. The corner of his mouth quirked up. She found herself leaning forward again, drawn by the vibrance of his eyes and the promise of those lips on hers. She blinked, getting ahold of herself with some effort. “I told you it wasn’t deep.”

Rogier hummed lightly, sitting up more fully to take her hand and inspecting that cut, too.

“Where are you off to today?” He didn’t look up, absorbed in his inspection.

“Well,” Delia began. She couldn’t fidget with him holding her hand, but she wanted to. “I was told that I… should find myself a different sword.” Rogier looked up, making a questioning sound. He didn’t look angry, though. “Your rapier is ‘a sorcerer’s blade’, and ‘not meant for fighting armies.’”

He let out a bark of laughter at that.

“Ah, so you've met D.” Delia’s head snapped up in worry, but Rogier looked amused enough.

“What…” she swallowed, unsure of what to say. “What happened with you two?”

He sighed heavily, flopping back on the bed and covering his eyes with one arm. “D is an old friend. We found ourselves journeying together for a time, bound by our exploration of Death. But our paths since diverged. Never again to cross.” He lowered his arm and turned his head to look at her from half-lidded eyes. “Though that's hardly an uncommon fate for two friends.”

Her heart clenched with how seriously he said it. In her bed, hatless and sleep-mussed, he looked so vulnerable. She searched for the right thing to say- that it wouldn’t be them, that D had made a mistake, that it should be an uncommon fate.

“D was telling me.” Rogier went on before she could find the words. “That he discovered the mark of the centipede.”

Delia had no idea what that meant, so made a gesture for him to go on. “The centipede is an ancient symbol of the cursemark. As long as whoever finds and uses it is not nefarious by nature, then we may be able to form an alliance. If only I could speak to them in person.” His gaze had drifted, but he looked back to her. His eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. “And if they were like you, all the better.”

“Me?” That stunned her. “Why me?”

He looked at her for a long while. Delia was ready to ask again when he spoke. “People want to trust you.”

She raised a brow. “People?”

He held her gaze. His eyes seemed to smolder. “I know I do.”

“Do trust me? Or do want to?”

He glanced away. Delia tried to stamp out the hurt that flared in her chest at the implication, but Rogier turned his bright eyes on her again with a firm resolve. “I do trust you.”

She couldn’t contain the smile that broke over her face. The look Rogier gave her in return was so soft that she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. She turned her head shyly, standing to put on her armor.

“Where do you intend to get a sword?”

She hummed. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t the faintest.” He looked at her in concern, hauling himself up into a sitting position. “Well… that’s not entirely true. I met a warrior named Blaidd. He offered me payment if I helped him find a traitor. I saw one of those circles in the ground…”

“An Evergaol,” supplied Rogier, appearing even more distressed. “Delia, you must be careful. Evergaols are prisons, meant to hold those who cannot be kept above-ground.”

Delia raised the cloak over her head and hummed in response. She turned to Rogier, letting him take her hand in his. She stroked his cheek with the other. He raised one hand to cover hers, leaning into her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

She leaned forward, pulling his head to her chest. “I won’t be alone,” she reassured. He wrapped an arm around the backs of her knees, nearly pulling her forward.

“All the same.” His voice was muffled against her breastplate. “Watch your back.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and felt more than heard the soft moan the action elicited. Her skin pricked all over, a shock of satisfaction running through her. She repeated the motion and was disappointed when he made no sound, but his body tensed and trembled.

Almost as good.

“I’ll come straight back afterward, hmm? Besides, that should give you time to study this knifeprint.” Rogier grumbled something unintelligible against her armor before leaning back. He raised her hand to his lips, holding her gaze all the while.

“See that you do.” His voice had taken on the same low, commanding tone from the night before. Delia shivered. “Come back, that is.”

She had to drag herself away without looking back. She could feel his stare on her back all through the hold, even as she reached for the threads of grace that would take her where she needed to go.

She took in a deep breath at the southern edge of the lake, hoping the sharp breeze would take her mind from him.

It didn’t.

She saw the green of his eyes in the grass all around her feet, heard the whisper of his breath in her ear as the wind buffeted the treetops. She allowed herself one moment, just one, to bask in the memory of his hands on her and her body pressed against his.

Then she opened her eyes and whistled for Torrent. She rode along the road, turning when she saw the strange serpentine stone creatures that guarded the underground prisons.

Evergaols.

It loomed in her vision as she crested the hill, wide and ominous. She dismounted as she reached the edge, stalking the perimeter. She eyed the stone creatures warily, but they paid her no mind. She looked back and forth, taking in the surrounding area. There was nothing of note as far as the eye could see. After a moment’s consideration, she walked to the glowing blue center. And descended.

She found herself being lowered into a room that looked much the same as the landscape above, save for the ghostly sheen of magic surrounding it. She looked around and saw nothing. She took a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

She drew the strange, waxy finger she’d found upon waking from her pouch. She knelt in the dirt and wrote out the sign Blaidd had showed her in startling gold. Then she sat to wait, eyes never ceasing their wandering.

She didn’t wait long.

Blaidd appeared before her in a shimmer of air, like colored ink bleeding across a wet page. She scrambled up, startled. The half-wolf had already turned, drawing his sword deliberately.

“Darriwil…” he snarled. From across the space, a mist began to swirl. Blaidd dropped into a fighter’s stance as Delia drew Rogier’s blade. “Rotting in a cell is no true justice.”

A hunched, misshapen knight had materialized out of thin air, drawing a wicked, curved blade that drew Delia’s gaze. The beast made awful, grotesque sounds as it moved, as though slavering at an ill-fitted bit.

“No,” growled Blaidd. He sounded more wolf than man. “This is where it ends for you.”

With an almighty howl, he lunged across the grass, sweeping his sword down with enough force to churn the earth beneath his feet. And Darriwil… vanished. Delia raised her blade, turning in search of the knight. She gave a shout as he rose from nothing behind Blaidd, raising his sword. Blaidd spun, blade clanging against Darriwil’s loudly.

Delia leapt forward, spinning the rapier above her head to call forth its blade phalanx. Blaidd made no indication that he’d seen her move, but turned to keep Darriwil’s back to her. Delia sprang forward stabbing into the creature’s back. As it turned toward her, Blaidd’s greatsword came down across it’s shoulders, crushing the plate armor it wore. The blade phalanx shot forward, giving Delia a perfect opportunity to thrust into the seam at the beast’s side.

The knight roared in pain, turning its attention to her. It raised it’s blade for a killing blow. Delia took a deep breath and launched herself backward, barely out of its range. The blade came down where she’d just been.

There was a cacophonous screech as Blaidd’s blade fell, rending the metal of the knight’s armor and, with it, its head.

Delia let out a shuddering breath.

“Right.” There was still just a hint of a snarl in Blaidd’s voice. He shook his head and when he spoke again, it was gone. “There you are. Had to work for it, but it's done. Don't say I'm not a man of my word. Here's your prize.”

Delia stepped toward his proffered hand, taking one of the small stones she’d seen Hewg use at his anvil.

“Oh yes, I should say- if you venture north to Raya Lucaria, and come across a venerable blacksmith who's a little on the large side… Tell him I sent you. And he'll be sure to treat you right. I owe you one, I reckon.”

“That’s very kind,” Delia said. “Can I ask you… he vanished. How?”

Blaidd tilted his head to the corpse lying nearby. “The bloodhound knights carry enchanted blades. The magic on them cloaks the wielder, for a short time.” Delia’s gaze snapped to the fallen weapon, intrigued. Blaidd let out an amused huff. “You might try it out, yourself.”

“I might,” she mused. Blaidd grunted softly in return.

“That's enough chit-chat for now,” he said. “It's time we parted ways.”

Delia nodded in return, eyes still fixed on the fallen sword. From the corner of her eye, Blaidd vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. Delia moved forward, sheathing Rogier’s rapier, and hefted the curved blade. Heavy. She’d have to speak with Melina for some extra strength. She spun it in her grasp. Cumbersome though it was, the balance was impeccable.

This would do. This would do just fine.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Nine

Summary: With a little help from some friends, Delia gets something she’s been wanting for some time- a handsome spellblade into a more… comfortable space.

Author’s Notes: 2.1K words! No real notes for this one, except, well… 🤭 excited about a thing that gets noticed! ‘Cause y’know I, as the author, am just as shocked as my readers

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: minor depictions of wounds/blood, suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

“This,” grumbled Rogier, “Is wholly unnecessary.”

He had one arm slung over Delia’s shoulders, the other over Diallos’. A young girl he hadn’t met yet followed close behind, carrying a crate they’d found to hold the collection of items Delia had brought him.

“I did offer to carry you myself,” mused Delia.

He was being hauled to her room at her insistence. She’d been unwilling to hear his objections, no matter how well-founded.

He won’t be in her way. She’ll hardly be there, anyway.

The flies don’t bother her. If she were going to be infected, it would have happened by now.

She’d feel better leaving him if she knew he was more comfortable.

“Is it… that you don’t want me in your space?”

He’d stopped arguing at her hurt look when she asked him that, unwilling to further risk jeopardizing her fragile trust in him over his pride. He’d allowed her to pack his things and stack his newly dried pages; allowed her to fasten the blanket around his waist when he expressed anxiety over the thorns; allowed her to fetch Diallos and the young girl; allowed himself to be carted helplessly through the halls.

And so he kept his head down, thoroughly mortified at the indignity of it all, and thoroughly grateful that no one else seemed about to see the spectacle. D’s chair was blessedly empty, Corhyn had left on some great quest, and the Table’s other regular occupants had been coerced into Delia’s scheme. Hewg, as ever, did not even raise his head. The only other person about to see this all was Fia, and Rogier did not look up to see if she noticed their little procession.

Delia swore as she bumped her shoulder on the doorway, scraping Rogier’s elbow on the wall in the process.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Quite alright, I could use a bit of excitement,” quipped Rogier. Diallos snorted, and he heard the young girl behind them stifle a giggle. A glance up at Delia revealed her trying and failing to hide a grin. He ducked his head and, despite himself, smiled.

“Honestly, I’m just pleased to see you’ve finally made a friend,” said Diallos. Rogier turned a startled look at him. Diallos glanced up, then back toward the hall. “I’ve hardly seen you speak to anyone in the time I’ve been here. It’s just…” he trailed off, a pained look crossing his face. “It’s good to have a friend.”

“Still no word on Lanya?” asked Delia.

Diallos shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“She must be somewhere nearby,” said the young girl. “She doesn’t have a mount, does she?”

They’d reached a door. Delia grunted as she leaned forward to open it, and Diallos shifted to bear more of Rogier’s weight.

“No, she doesn’t.” They shuffled through and the young girl rushed forward to draw back the blankets on Delia’s bed. Rogier suppressed a shiver as his mind went blank.

Delia’s bed.

Marika help him.

He hadn’t even considered the fact that this whole ridiculous plan put him in Delia’s bed.

“Not that it matters. Take your eyes off her for but a moment and she’s good as gone.” He blinked back to the present as he was lowered onto the edge of the bed. Delia moved purposefully forward, lifting his legs and quickly covering them with her blankets, as he’d pleaded she do. He swallowed thickly, relief and gratitude washing over him. Neither Diallos nor the young girl seemed to notice anything amiss.

“She’ll turn up,” said Delia. Diallos gave her a thankful look before turning to Rogier.

“Right, well. If you’re settled, then…”

“Thank you,” said Rogier. “This was a great kindness.” The smile Diallos gave him was a bit distracted, but still polite and friendly. The young man turned to the door, letting himself out as Delia began dragging a small table to the bedside.

“My name is Roderika.” Rogier turned his gaze from Delia’s turned back to the young girl who’d carried his things. She stood near the end of the bed, wringing her hands anxiously. “I should have told you sooner.”

“Roderika. A lovely name.” He pulled out his most charming smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

She smiled shyly, looking toward Delia. “I… I’m learning the noble art of spirit tuning from Master Hewg. But if… if Miss Delia’s ever not around, and you need something…”

Delia turned. Her expression was thoughtful. “I’m sure I could find a bell, or something.”

“That’s not-” began Rogier, but neither woman seemed to be listening to him.

“Oh, there’s no need. The Hold is so quiet, most of the time. Even with Master Hewg’s hammering, I’m quite sure I’d hear if Mister Rogier needed anything.”

“Just Rogier is fine,” he put in. He offered a reassuring smile when Roderika looked at him uncertainly.

“And I’ve told you to just call me Delia.” Delia had moved to the end of the bed to take the younger girl’s hands. “And thank you. I really appreciate your helping us.”

Us. He liked the sound of that. Roderika made some soft reply before excusing herself, leaving Delia and Rogier alone in the room. She turned to smile at him and his heart clenched. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she hadn’t cleaned the blood from her cheek. She looked frazzled and exhausted. And so beautiful.

He spoke before realizing what he was about to say. “Have you got a cloth? And some warm water?” She opened a small satchel on a low table, pulling out several strips of clean linen. She turned to the fireplace and dipped a clay mug into the pot over the flames.

Rogier pulled himself sideways, reaching down to drag his numb legs after. Delia sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the items he’d requested.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. He felt himself let out a soft huff of air and reached for the cup. Delia’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t question when he took the linen from her, dipping it into the hot water.

He reached up, cupping her cheek in his hand. Delia sucked in a sharp breath, but she leaned toward him. He wiped the cloth gently over her forehead and then beneath her eyes. They fluttered shut as he did, giving him the freedom to truly study her face.

There was a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and faint lines around her mouth from smiling. Tiny white scars pierced her lip, just beside her Cupid's bow, and the tip of her dark eyebrow. The bruising under her eyes was even darker than he’d thought, shadowed further by long, dark lashes. Her nose scrunched, delicate tip pulling up slightly, as he cleaned the cut on her cheek.

His heart thudded dully against his ribs.

Delia’s eyes opened as his movements slowed. He dipped the rag again, picking up her hand to wipe the blood from it. Her palm was warm against his. Her fingers were long and slender, calloused. Scarred all over. Warrior’s hands. She let him turn it over, and he kneaded the heel lightly when she offered no objection. He wrapped the cloth over his own fingers, using it to carefully scrape the dirt from beneath her nails.

He looked up when she giggled. She shrugged apologetically, dropping her gaze. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever been so gentle with me,” she said.

Rogier’s chest tightened. He leaned over her to set the cloth and mug on the table she’d dragged over, using one hand so as not to let go of her. “Come here,” he said. His voice was soft, but commanding- even to his own ears. Delia’s eyes went wide. She began to lean down, but pulled back suddenly.

“Can I… do you mind if I…”

He blinked at her, lost, worry that he’d overstepped bubbling up. She gestured to her bloody armor. “Would it be alright for me to…?”

“Oh!” he said, quite eloquently. Oh, indeed. “Of course.” He wasn’t sure how he managed to form the words, let alone get them out. He was only grateful that Delia gave no indication of anything being out of the ordinary as she rose, turning her back to him.

The cloak fell away first, revealing silvery mail, and then came the greaves. Rogier couldn’t tear his gaze from the expanse of surprisingly smooth skin they revealed as they slid down. Then she was removing the armor, and he found himself whipping his head to the side to give her the privacy he should have been giving her the whole time.

A moment later, she sat at the edge of the bed again. He looked back to see her picking at the ends of her fingers nervously. “Are you comfortable?” she asked. “I could help you, if you need, or even just lay your things somewhere.”

It took him a moment to understand that she was referencing his clothes. His mouth went entirely dry at that thought- being in her bed, with her, both of them in their underclothes.

Marika help him.

“I’m quite alright,” he managed. Delia’s eyes went up to his hat skeptically.

Well.

Haltingly, he reached up to remove it. Her lip twitched, as though trying to withhold a smile. Rogier huffed and undid the clasps on his hood, pulling that off as well. He lifted one hand to run through his hair, pausing when he felt the fabric of his gloves.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

And so he peeled those off, too. He lay the items neatly on the side table, except his hat. That, he hung on the bedpost.

When he looked at Delia, her gaze was soft and molten. She reached up, almost absently, and ran her fingers through his hair, tugging ever so gently on the tangles in it.

Rogier had to bite back the shameful, desperate sound crawling its way up the back of his throat. Rather than risk opening his mouth and embarrassing himself, he leaned toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her toward him.

She let out an undignified squeak as she was dragged against his chest, hands splayed over the leather of his jerkin. He shut his eyes, willing his hands not to move from where they held her waist. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of the long, loose blouse she wore.

This… was a terrible idea.

The last person he’d held like this was Fia, knowing full well it meant nothing to either of them. Before her, he couldn’t remember. And if there had ever been another for whom he’d cared before that, before coming to these cursed lands, he did not remember them either.

That thought startled him into an abrupt realization.

So focused had he been on keeping her at bay, on why she shouldn’t waste her time on him, and on how she might hurt him that he hadn’t stopped to assess how he actually felt about her.

And he felt for her.

He cared for her, deeply. Too deeply, he was quickly realizing. Here, with her wrapped in his arms, he was nearly overcome with desire. Desire to hold her like this forever, desire to kiss her soft and slow until her thoughts were as muddled as his own, to burn the feeling of her into his mind and his soul. Desire to crawl into her skin and make his home between her ribs.

He was well and truly lost in her.

He felt the moment she relaxed, shimmying closer to lay half on him, her head against his shoulder. “Comfortable?” he whispered. Delia only ran her hands down his sides, tucking one arm beneath him. A shiver went through him.

“Are you cold?” she asked. Her lips brushed his neck as she spoke, and he felt gooseflesh break out over his skin. His arms tightened involuntarily around her, fingers squeezing her soft flesh.

Marika, help him. He was a disciplined man, but even his self-control had limits.

“No,” he managed, only a little shaky. He closed his eyes, determined to remain still. She nuzzled even closer, tightening her own grip on him. His hands curled further around her waist, utterly disregarding his panicked mind’s rebuke.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asked, clearly on the verge herself.

“Only if you wake me when you go,” he murmured.

There was a silence long enough that he thought her asleep already. Then, softly, “I will.”

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

A’ight so I’m well aware that interaction with By the Grace Of is really low (I see y’all, I love you, I appreciate you 💙) but when I tell y’all that I am SO EXCITED to be writing this rn??? Just wrote pretty much an entire chapter of Rogier introspection and I am SO pleased with it (and myself)

#nightingale speaks #nightingale writes sometimes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished]

Summary: A charismatic spellblade navigates a lifetime of disappointment, heartbreak, and more questions than he’ll ever find answers to. An introspective swordswoman fights for purpose and a place in a new, devastating world. When Grace leads them together, will they let themselves be bound? Or will Death itself rip them apart? A tale of hope from hopelessness, a life bought from betrayal, and two souls more alike than they might at first seem.

Author’s Notes: TLDR: A slow-ish burn Rogier fix-it fic that may bend lore/game mechanics to serve the plot. The full cut: I am, and always have been, a huge sucker for intricate, lore-heavy stories- especially stories with lore gaps and space to interpret it differently than someone else. I find Elden Ring to be both of these. I also always fall in love with minor characters who (I feel) don’t get NEARLY enough content. Plus, as Elden Ring fans know, everyone dies and we need fix/it fics. So, here’s a piece I’m writing as I replay Elden Ring and glean new bits to question and dissect. Real heavy in game-dialogue currently, but I don’t think that’ll stay that way. I also want to note that not all plot points will necessarily line up with my own interpretation of the lore. Some are based on theories I’ve had or read, some I’ve bent to suit my own purposes. If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy. 💙 Also, if anyone wants to see how I picture Delia, I built her in-game here!

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Fic Warnings: GAME SPOILERS, canon-typical violence, mild depictions of wounds/blood, mild language, suggestive content, abstract horror? I think? unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk! Subject to change as this goes on- I’ll update here if that happens. Chapter specific warnings will be posted. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

Welcome to the Ghost-Writer’s Corner

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Elden Ring

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - In progress! Updated 5/27/24

Modern Warfare Reboots

Promises - a MWII Mini Series

You needn’t read one to read the other, but they happen in the same universe! Both set during/after the events of MWII 2022.

Maybe [Soap x Fem!OC]

Possibly [Ghost x Fem!OC]

MW2019/MWII One Shots

I’ll never use Y/N in reader-insert fics, but I will assign callsigns! Set outside of the canon MW universe.

Your Wildest Dreams [Soap x Fem!Reader]

Convallaria Majalis [Alex Keller x Fem!Reader]

MWII Headcanons

141 Headcanons - The Five Love Languages

#nightingale writes #cod #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish #johnny mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish x oc #john soap mactavish x fem!oc #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost Riley x fem!oc #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x fem!reader #modern warfare #alex keller #alex keller cod #alex keller x reader #alex keller x fem!reader #cod mw19 #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #rogier x tarnished