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headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 1 year

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Dark Souls 2 Chain 2

Prompt: A tale during the war against the giants that Vendrick waged @irnbruforthetrue

Ghosts of the Swamp

“Y’know, if I don’t see another swamp before I die it’ll still be too soon.”

Calinda did her best to wring the soak and rot from her cloak as their company halted by the roadside. The heavy, black, wool only served to weigh her down on the long, nigh unending, march to the hidden treasures at the heart of this humid, grey, hell. Her boots, once polished enough to shine in the darkness, were now ratty and eaten away in place by this voracious marshland.

To her right, perched on a rare outcropping of stable earth, sat perhaps the only person that could make light of even this misery. Hallin was a young man by the standards of their lord’s expeditionary force; of the thousand men present, he may be burdened with the least winters on his back. Even then, garbed in the same abyss black and royal blue vestments as the rest of them, he looked like he’d aged with every hard-fought step.

She was not much older than him, a handful of years, yet where he still sported a swagger and self-confident smirk; Calinda felt a single creak in her lips would prompt her knees to buckle and for the mire to swallow her. The swords-woman slumped against the same outcrop gingerly; enough to rest her weariness yet not so carelessly that it might cost her a dip in the grimy waters currently lapping at her thighs.

“Shut up, Hal,” she groaned, rubbing her veridian eyes with her gloved fingers.

“Oh, and are you enjoying mile after mile of swamp?” she glanced up at him with all the patience she could muster. He smiled down at her softly for a moment before fishing a well gnawed piece of hardtack out of a breast pocket and biting down.

“How far do you think we’ve actually gone?” Calinda’s grip went to the handle of blade. The last thing she needed was a rusty sword and the accompanying whipping the captain would dish out for it. She angled the scabbard till it dug into the edge of the outcropping just above the waterline.

“From the ships, or from yesterday?” she grunted apathetically, “to the first, at least a handful of leagues… and the second… well I’m worried if I crane my neck; I’ll be able to see the smoke from our campfires still.”

“If the king wishes to beat a hasty retreat we may have difficulties,” glancing around, Calinda could make out the outlines of a few more of her fellow soldiers. Even a couple metres apart the haze that lay over the swamp obscured everything.

“Well he’ll be fine,” she glanced back at the younger man, “y’know, being so tall n’all.”

“Lord Vendrick would not abandon his men,” she said confidently. Even then, that little voice in the back of her mind didn’t deign to hold its tongue.

But if we’re all dead then what’s he got to abandon?

“Last night… did you hear…” the normally jovial demeanour in his voice slipped for a moment.

“The whispers?” he nodded quietly.

“I asked the captain but… he threatened a whipping if I spoke to anyone about them,” not an unusual form of punishment from the honourable Lucan de Soterre but over noises...

“Then why are you still speaking?” Calinda drew slightly straighter at the thought of their captain reedy, little, voice whining out in an otherwise still reprieve.

“Because we’ve been alone for near on a fortnight in these lands and those were the first voices I’ve heard that didn’t belong to our people,” his smile wavered.

“The king will have heard it too,” she did her best to reassure him, “if there’s something out there it will fall upon a thousand shining blades before it even draws close to taking one of our own.”

A cry rang out through the fog quickly followed by a chorus of weary sighs. A shadow passed over the pair of warriors to the steady, sonorous, rhythm of falling feet. Particularly massive feet. The duo glanced up at the looming form of one of the king’s greatest defenders. His golden armour dulled in the obscured mid-afternoon light.

“Velstadt,” Hallin muttered under his breath, a generous coat of wonder lacquering his words.

The nigh godly warrior dwarfed near on every other member of the company yet just as quickly as he came, he melted back into the fog. The gentle rumble of his footsteps the only sign he’d ever been there.

“Guess, he’ll be okay too,” Hallin grumbled before dropping into the marshy waters below, “Gwyn’s Wrath!” he growled as his feet descended through the layers of tepid silt and mud.

** ** **

The first of the sentries went missing that night.

Just the one. Gone amidst the whispers.

A search of their vigil area was quickly undertaken with the first light. Fifty men scouring the filth and grime, up to their necks, for a body that was never found. It was just like he wandered into the darkness and never returned. For ease, and to keep the men in line, his belongings were either divided up or drowned in the swamp.

The next night… even more.

The ground had begun to grow far more solid over the course of those two days. There were even moments that the expedition could effectively march over solid ground. But even then, there was not a man in the company who didn’t stare discerningly at every passing shadow. At camp that night, and the one after that, every sentry never strayed from the light, be that torch or campfire.

Even then, three more vanished.

That final day, the halt was called early, the men spreading out around a copse of willow trees. No one was talking, everyone stared at the ring of dancing lights surrounding the tents as the last of the daylight fell into the foggy mire to the west. If they weren’t eating, or sleeping, everyone sat with one hand on their weapon. Their ears trying to block out the whispers that rose all around them with the moon.

** ** **

“We’re close,” Calinda pressed her knuckles till they cracked. The nights were chillier than the days but the muggy warmth of the air refused to dissipate. She was stripped down to her linen shirt and breeches, the heavy, wool-padded, armour sat drying against the side of her tent.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Hallin muttered, his eyes were bloodshot and humourless. Staring intently at the bobbing dot of flame that was their bunkmate in the far distance.

“You think they’re watching us?” it felt like a morbid question. Like mice wondering how close the cat drew to their burrow. The fact of the matter was that Calinda had felt eyes burrowing into the back of her head since that first unfortunate soul had disappeared into the fog. With every lost soul it felt like the chorus of soft voices in the night grew a little louder.

“If I were… if it were me, and taking their watchmen wasn’t stopping them…” he trailed off and tossed his unwanted tack into the flames. Calinda didn’t ask for more. She knew what he would say. What he meant. And she would bet her salt that, to a man, the entire expedition was feeling it too.

Calinda joined the host of eyes staring outwards. Her hand wrapped around the tough leather of her sword’s grip. The feeling of the hardened, brown, wrap rolling between her fingertips was a small comfort; that little bit of strength to tide her through the darkening world.

The captain did his rounds. It was a strange sight to see him exchanging small talk with the other men. Haughty bastard usually didn’t leave his tent for anything other than his essential duties or to yell at someone for an infraction. But now… he was cracking jokes, and making sure people were not just maintaining decorum but getting comfortable. He’d glanced at her armour for a moment before kneeling and tossing another log on their fire. The warmth of the flame eventually sending her off to sleep.

She awoke, sometime later, the moon held over their heads like a pale beacon in the sky. The camp was still quiet, the fire’s burning lower all around. Hallin was on watch no doubt, his roll empty beside her, his weapon and armour gone too… but something felt off. It was quiet.

Calinda strapped on her armour, heavy as it was with the layer of muck coating it, and strode into the night air. She noticed others who otherwise would be asleep or relaxed sat like they were moments from the frontline. Heading towards the lights; the edge of the camp gradually sank back into the mire. The line of bobbling lights sat a few feet from what could be considered dry land.

The warrior stepped out into the open spaces between the last line of tents.

Then the first light vanished.

And another.

Before she could draw the breath to call everyone to arms a whole swath of lights were doused in the swamp. In the glimmer of the transient flames were reflected massive grey hulks. Like mountains looming out of darkness. Her blood went cold.

“THEY’RE COMING!” she yelled out as the ground quaked beneath her feet. She backed up to her closest brothers in arms and drew her blade in both hands. The camp swarmed with light and the flash of metal blades as the ground began to quiver.

There was a cry to her left as the first of the behemoths tore into the loosely formed line, bringing down a club of rough-hewn granite on the heads of some hapless footmen. Their cries almost instantly muffled by the thunderous crash of the impact. Calinda swallowed bile as her own personal demon reared out of the gloom.

It was as tall as the trees surrounding them and built like the walls of a fortress. Broad and imposing ranks of muscle under craggy skin built across its chest to the head upon its titanic shoulders. There was no face, just a cavernous maw. No eyes, no ears, no nose, just a mouth… just a cavernous gape where it all should be. This one was unarmed, not that it mattered, it looked like it could push through a reinforced gate like you would walk through tall grass.

It let out a deafening bellow from the depths of that empty hole and advanced on the dozen or so men around her. Whether out of bravery or idiocy, they returned the cry and charged into the ankle-deep sludge to greet the monster.

Calinda saw the first strike coming and she reacted; throwing herself into the mud at its feet the moment before its open palm scythed through the air and into the press of men. She drove the sound of men dying from her mind and rose. With gritted teeth and a feral roar she rose and drove the point of her blade directly into the pit of its knee. Despite the rocky appearance, it cut like any other flesh, the blade disappearing up to the hilt before she dragged it in a bloody slash across the beast’s calf.

The once proud monster let out a keening groan, like glass breaking a thousand times over, and caved forward. One of the survivors, hungry for blood and revenge, brought the edge of his blade down on the head of the felled giant again and again till nothing but a stump remained.

She locked eyes with the man moments before he was engulfed in a terrible blaze. His screams drowned out as a fresh wave of these things charged into the camp. Calinda didn’t have the chance to choose her next opponent. Instead, she felt a grip like iron around her stomach as one of the beasts hefted her like a javelin and threw her into the depths of the camp.

She blacked out as she crashed through tent and man alike.

The warrior came to and reared back, grasping for her sword but found it missing. A deep ache rang in her head like the bells of a grand cathedral in full peel. Looking around she found what could have been her sword shattered in the foot print of one of those massive devils. The ground thundered as more faceless titans ripped into the clearing; killing anything that moved with wild abandon.

Staggering back towards the copse of willows and hopes of a weapon. The green-eyed woman found a two-handed axe discarded beside the body of another, less fortunate, impromptu projectile. She snatched up the weapon, it’s blade razor sharp and unused as of yet. With a growl, she spun on her heel and began to trot as fast as she could on bruised legs.

“To me, men!” roared Lucan from somewhere nearby. In the heat of battle his usual whine sounded like a lion’s roar. She saw him as one of the armed ones made a break for the line; before it got half way there it was peppered with two score of arrows. Its torso bristled like a hedgehog yet still it powered on. Lucan and four other men halted it; driving his halberd deep into its chest while the men sliced it to pieces.

Another fell right in her path, before it could recover, Calinda split its maw with a screaming strike. Her blood wasn’t cold anymore, it was hot, she burned hotter than chaos as she drove head first towards their lines. There was at least a score of them left but hundreds of her like, and they. Were. Angry!

Off to her right came the royal coterie; knight’s Velstadt and Raime cleaving through their ranks with ruthless efficiency. The tallest of their number came apart like straw before the scythe in the face of that pair. The warrior was lucky to reach the lines of men as the last of them fell, a ruined heap of lacerated flesh under a swarm of angry drangsmen.

As the battle-fury cleared, the dead were collected and burned. The bodies of the aggressors were simply left to sink into the swamp. Abandoned to choke in the mire like they deserved. The king himself strode out to meet the assembled force, his blade black with their acrid blood, a scowl plastered over his ever-stoic face.

“Men of Drangleic,” he called out in that soft yet totally powerful voice, “we march on the capital tonight.”

** ** **

That had been it. The wounded were left with a small guard, most of them could still hold a weapon so if more came the fight would at least be in them for a while. The rest of the 800 men left marched through the inky swamp waters, weapons drawn, fury in their hearts.

The capital was little more than a collection of ancient, decrepit, stone pillars in the heart of the swamp. There were no signs of dwellings, the giants slipping down into the muck and out again at will. There could’ve been hundreds of them in this small clearing, or barely more than a dozen.

Either way the soldiers fell on the village, whenever one rose from the dirt they were torn apart by fury and steel. Calinda made short work of one almost entirely alone, driving down into the expressionless void of one’s face the moment it reared.

King Vendrick paid them no heed. Forging through the slaughter to the very centre of the clearing. His knights flanked him, clearing away any of their ilk that dared rise to meet the king. He stopped at the very centre, the remains of an altar just peaking from the muck. The men fought on as he stood there, muttering under his breath.

As one, the monsters retreated back into the dark below and the stone pillars quaked with power. A shining light rose from the altar and nestled into the chest of their king. The titan of a man let out a shuddering breath, paused for but a moment, then turned on his heel and began to march back out of the clearing. Calinda had to wade quickly to not get trampled underfoot by the great king as he passed.

** ** **

The bellow of rage came just before dawn. An echoing roar that tore the relative peace of the morning to shreds. A hush went over the camp but for a moment as all eyes turned to the king and his retinue. He marched out from the circle of willow trees and regarded the gathered men with a grim countenance.

“Brave soldiers, we have met with success in our quest but now we must hasten from these lands. Leave all but you arms, armour, and enough water to see you through this day.”

There were murmurs of worry. How did he expect the men to do in a day what had taken over two weeks to achieve? As if to answer their question the king strode to the edge of the water and held up his hand.

The waters foamed and roiled under his will before a hardened causeway of rock and mud rose. Unflinching, the king stepped forth onto his new path; a proud smile splitting his bearded face as he stamped on the rock.

The men wasted no time, filling their flasks from the dwindling barrels of water they had throughout the camp. Under the roars and insults of their commanders, the men formed up and began to march at full pace. Calinda took a last glance at her tent, Hallin’s things untouched… flame’s damn it.

There was no speaking, only the rhythmic crash of two thousand feet on stone, even then every single one of them strained their ears for the sound of their pursuers. Whether it be whispers or the ground itself shaking in fear, every ear was strained as far as it could be. There were a scant few miles from camp to shore yet even then the path had to wind and wend between craggy edifices and fully open bodies of water.

The first regiment called a halt barely a half mile from the end. The captain strode to the back of the column and drew his blade while talking quietly with his men. Calinda almost stopped with them, as some did, yet kept in formation. Soon enough the sound of battle issued out once more behind them. It was loud, valiant, and brief.

The second regiment turned within sight of the beach. They spread out over the thankfully solid ground between the crooked trees and prepared to defend their lord. By the time their valiant last stand had come to its grave conclusion nearly half the army were out to sea in rowboats, the safety of the royal fleet a bare couple hundred feet away.

Calinda let out a sigh of finality as her hand alighted on the side of one of the last lifeboats. There was hardly three score men left on the beach. The king and his knights were already aboard and watching their progress from afar. Her captain stood opposite, a similar look of relief on his face as he hurried the last of his fractious men into safety.

Then came the rumble.

All eyes shot to the treeline.

And there they stood.

Hundreds of them.

Thousands even.

If they had eyes then they would surely burn with the hatred of a people violated in their very homes. Some clutched stone tools, others were draped in rotted cloths, others even had primitive golden bracers. Not their leader though. He stood nearly half again as tall as the greatest of his subjects. On his head was a crudely adorned crown of thorny golden spines and in his hands was clutched a blade that looked like it could cleave mountains in twain.

An understanding passed through the men in that quiet moment. Calinda caught Lucan’s eye as he retrieved his halberd from where he had tossed it in the boat and strode back towards the enemy. The fear in her heart whined and wailed for her to clamber into the boat and hide from all the woes of the world. No… Hallin wouldn’t have done that.

She wrapped a fist around the haft of her new axe and, with one longing hand on the rim of the boat, gestured for the next in line to take her place. She strode to her captain’s side; brandishing her weapon at the legion before them. Nearly half the men abandoned all hope and joined the line in defence of their comrades.

“By the sun,” Lucan spoke out, hoarsely, “no one dies before taking one of these fuckers down.”

A bestial roar went up in the gathered warriors; not a half heart among them. It was a cry of pride, rage, grief… every emotion was drawn on as the first of the endless horde took to the beach. The men scattered around it and brought it down with vicious intent.

Calinda dodged to the side and swung wildly, taking one of the beasts off at the knee. She didn’t wait to relish its scream of pain before heaving the still sharp blade down into its maw. The next second she was knocked flying, her chest screamed as the breath was driven from her.

She recovered, narrowly avoiding being crushed under the bulk of another fallen titan. She drove herself further still, up the beach, thirty men were down to ten. Lucan fell before her eyes, swallowed by the flames of a pyromantic surge from the mirk of the trees. Her next opponent drove its fist down at her, with a flick of her shoulder it missed and she punished its failure with a rancorous strike. Black blood sprouted from the gash she drove into the beast’s neck. Its arms went slack, its head lolled, and the monster toppled.

Her axe was buried too deep, the falling corpse dragging it from her hands.

It was only then she was aware of the silence.

That was it… she was it.

She was hemmed in in a loose ring. The sight of the rapidly fleeing boats over the shoulders of her myriad enemies. She glanced down at her axe, fully buried under the body save for the pommel, a dragon’s head. She cursed loudly, to no one in particular, just for the release of frustration.

She still had a dagger.

It slid from its scabbard with a dull groan.

Looking up she faced their king. His expressionless hole staring down at her with what could only have been curiosity. Or disdain… rage, maybe.

She didn’t care. She’d heard those children’s tales of a lone warrior felling the great beast with nothing but a broken sword and the favour of the gods. She passed the blade from one hand to the other and back again. The behemoths slowly backed away as the great one stepped forward, planting his greatsword in the sand.

“Alright…” she said, addressing the king of monsters, “show me the strength of a lord.” @anorlondoarcheryclub

@fateoftheundead

“The past does not exist. Only our memory of it remains. Our memory is true, of this we are certain. Our memory can be false, with just as great a certainty. Some aver that our memory is neither true nor false, and only the most radical of sages insist that our memory is both true and false simultaneously. If all these possibilities can coexist, then perhaps the past can coexist with our continually churning present. Is this something one can stake their life on? We only know the answers in our memories.” -Alveus Colatorius Maximus

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The damned pealing manifested itself every time the ship rolled on the waves, which was a lot. The swordsman had been pacing the railings at the bow, as the King had decided to take the air and peer through the crashing salty spray into the misty distance.

Or, the swordsman thought, the Queen had decided for her husband to take the air. Normally she would not have spent this much time out of their cabin- she was as fair as any lady he’d ever seen, and tow-headed as well, and the swordsman assumed that that pale skin would burn as red as a steamed koura.

At the moment a thin veil of high gray clouds had attenuated the sunlight, and they were nearing their destination so the royal presence was probably as much about decorum as it was about readiness for the coming trial.

The swordsman- he had been dubbed a knight, truly, but never felt comfortable in that role- ceased his pacing and returned to his “proper” position at the bow. The King of course was at the front, with the Queen at his left. The swordsman was himself positioned at her left- a sinister imposition and he wouldn’t have put it past her to have him so close when she knew exactly how little he liked her.

To the King’s right hand, of course, a hulking presence in golden armor, the source of the ringing, and a humorless ball-buster of a martial monk, the man known as the Royal Aegis. Velstadt.

It wasn’t long ago that the swordsman had considered this brute a brother in arms, and bosom friends, but as time marched on with the pair of them being considered the “Left and Right Hands of the King” all goodwill had been nearly ablated. As serious as he was in his office as a warrior and royal champion, the swordsman was a bit of a bon vivant. He was equally as comfortable in a field kitchen filled with the like of the marines that swarmed both above and below decks behind him, or in a tavern where the alcoves were filled with cutthroats and the floor littered with ground nut shells, or even trading innuendo with effete dukes at court feasts.

It was this that made his deep distaste- hatred was too strong a word yet- for Velstadt and the Queen such a serious issue.

Velstadt. The Queen. Velstadt and the Queen. It wasn’t the first time he’d tossed that particular thought around in his head, and for it to be back at this moment told the swordsman that something was wrong. Wrong with the entire endeavor.

It was possible for the nose to become blind to a perpetual smell, like having a tannery for a neighbor. It could also be the case for the ear, such as the rippling of water against the hull of a ship. But the dinging… the swordsman could not keep it from plaguing his mind. It jarred him when he could hear the Aegis prowling the halls of Drangleic Castle, and it jarred him now. How could the King stand the jangling of the brass rings and clapper within Velstadt’s great bell-like mace? What sane person could, and not become mad from the din?

Velstadt, for one, though the longer the swordsman spent in his company the more he wondered about the Aegis’ sanity. On consideration, perhaps a slavish devotion to some faith or creed was the seeds of such madness. The swordsman ruminated on that for a moment. He himself was perhaps too devoted to the kingdom of his birth, and by extension the King. Not to the point of jingoism- the swordsman was conscious of such things, a remnant of the education of his youth before war and death and the sword became his specialty.

The land ahead of them continued to draw closer and the swordsman squinted towards it- he had been woolgathering. It was but a moment of renewed attention before the swordsman felt a presence behind him which was followed closely by a strangely shapeless shadow. He turned to look and there he was, in his ridiculous hat- Alveus Colatorius Maximus. The hat was a strange thing, a wicker structure that reminded the swordsman of an inverted version of those breast-shaped braziers on the ceiling of a temple. It concealed the wizard’s features save his mouth and chin, which were creased with age and good humor.

“Detect anything? Hmm… seems we have come quite a way.” How could he see with that ridiculous headgear? “The gulls are quite loud. Shore must not be far off.” Could a wizard poke around in one’s thoughts?

The swordsman nodded in acknowledgement and returned his gaze to the approaching land. He could not hear any gulls yet, and felt a strange ennui, unable to say anything to the wizard who was now standing next to him. The swordsman contented himself with vigilance- though vigilance towards what, he couldn’t say. Despite any proximity to a certain queen, His Majesty appeared as a monarch should- hale, hearty, and with determination.

Their mission to this foreign land would require more than determination and a kingly aura. The tableaux began to irk the swordsman, almost as much as any jingling from the king’s right hand. He was ready to follow his king into battle, to wade any fray, spill countless rivers of blood… for the sake of their homeland of Drangleic.

It would almost certainly come to that.

The swordsman located his shield- held by one of the marines who had been hastily conscripted as a squire of sorts. He bowed to King Vendrick, who was preoccupied, and walked over, grabbing his shield from the startled marine. The swordsman felt a momentary frisson- like a goose had walked over his grave. He looked at the raven embossed on it and felt a moment’s relief that he hadn’t realized he needed.

"We are born to the dark, made men by the dark, undone by the dark; embrace the dark. We are touched by it from the cradle, every moment as a child defined by the contrast. Words and time are naught before a spreading shadow, and there is a time in our lives when we must don the darkness like a raiment. Embrace it." -Gilleah

Crows, ravens, magpies… it was the swordsman’s father who let a rookery become his life’s work, even after serving in Drangleic’s army- as a falconer- and being discharged with pension and full honors.

The swordsman loved his father, and spent as much time within the rookery with him, poring over a schoolbook, whittling, or just listening to the old man tell stories. The stories- when they weren’t about some barghest chasing a warlock up a rope- told about the glory of Drangleic, the might of its king, and its rightful place in history. The swordsman had soaked that up as much as he soaked up his studies.

Of course, he’d always dreamed of fighting at Vendrick’s side, of maintaining the glory and might, and following in the footsteps of his father. So he joined up.

With his learning and family history of service, the swordsman- who had yet only ever used wooden swords in practice with his father and yeoman- became an officer, and due to his bravery and ingenuity quickly climbed the ranks until he found himself at the king’s left hand. It was quite a distance away from the hand, but it was to the left nonetheless.

The swordsman returned home between a sortie against a rebel faction deep within the Shaded Woods and an incursion by plant monsters from some distant sphere, the latter of which reeked of licorice. His father, who had been farther along in years than most when the swordsman was born, was now ancient and occupying his deathbed. The swordsman was struck to the very core, as he’d always had his father in his mind looking like the vigorous middle-aged man he had been in the swordsman’s childhood. He had long been away from home, apparently.

Once the usual platitudes had been uttered by the parson, and the distant relatives had gone, satisfied with the commemorative platters and enormous pewter spoons they’d claimed as theirs, the swordsman found himself at his father’s bedside. The old man was struggling to breathe but doing his best not to let it show. The swordsman sat beside him for what felt like days, but couldn’t have been. He read from their favorite book of stories and fed his father thin rice gruel, not allowing the nursemaid from a neighboring estate to tend to the dying man.

At last, when all the stories of clever rogues and malformed pachyderms were read, the swordsman’s father summoned his yeoman with a feeble wave. When the yeoman returned, he pressed a tiny leather-bound coffer into the old man’s hands, then left with a bow. The swordsman raised his eyebrow at the man, but the yeoman said nothing.

With a great deal of difficulty the swordsman’s father opened the coffer, and within there were tiny mementos- a lock of his mother’s hair, a cameo, and the like. His father produced something and pushed it weakly into the swordsman’s hand. A ring.

The swordsman found himself transfixed by the thing. It was a stylized crow, of some dark gold metal and highly burnished- perhaps by friction from the inside of a falconer’s stiff leather glove. He ran his finger over the ring, and gave out a faint sigh as if some weighty burden had been lifted. The swordsman looked up at his father, to thank him for such a gift, but the words froze in his mouth.

In the moments the swordsman had looked down at the ring, his father had closed his eyes and given out one last gentle breath.

Since then, the swordsman had redoubled his duties in service of Vendrick and Drangleic. He might have been raucous in a tavern or urbane in some salon, but inside him something burned. He let it. The intensity built with every skirmish he fought, every rebellion he put down, over a period of years that seemed to blend into each other. The swordsman did not confine himself to unit tactics and the arts of war- he began to train his agility under one of the acrobatic horse lords of Forossa, and began a period of training his body to become as strong as the chainmail that protected it.

His teacher in this was a filthy, drunken ascetic from some far distant land- the horselord was aware of that people and laughingly revealed that they did not all reek of a distillery. This training involved a frustratingly long series of meditative exercises, punctuated with his teacher battering him with a variety of whips, rocks, and staves. The training was quite successful, despite the drunken master’s overeager discipline- any complaints about the training would be met with a flick of a dirty finger, resulting in being knocked across the room or falling down in a paralysis of agony. The swordsman now found that he was functionally invulnerable to small arms, and he wondered what to do next.

More in the service of Vendrick and Drangleic, of course.

The swordsman had gotten a reputation, despite being a genial sort at home among any group. He was regarded as more than human, and among the most religious was a sentiment that such gifts can only come from some unwholesome origin. Still, even a reputation like this could be of service- now, instead of a unit of troops ready for battle, the swordsman could visit some enemy camp by himself and either rout or massacre everyone there. Eventually, even just a rumor of his presence in an area could cause a local enemy force to scatter to the wind.

Around this time the swordsman had found himself at a crossroads. He had become close to King Vendrick, close enough that his majesty would confide in him sometimes. It was thus that the swordsman learned of Vendrick taking a mysterious woman as his bride, and that a faithful crusader had come with her. This was of course Nashandra and Velstadt. The swordsman had of course never taken a shine to the future queen but kept his interactions professional and respectful.

As far as Velstadt…

“Would you labor with a master gardener whose weeds were never spaded? Would you serve a general who could not unfurl a single battle flag? Would you study under an abbot who refuses to take his seat? You might as well drive a stake into the empty sky!” - The Record of the Haunted House, written by Monk Onmitsu

The swordsman had heard rumors that the hulking foreigner had once been the protector of some sainted oracle, and had let her die through inaction or perhaps more disturbing reasons. That was something the swordsman never believed, knowing Velstadt as an immediate friend and comrade. He hoped that whatever rumors of his own speculative deviltry reached Velstadt would be disbelieved as well.

The two had become friends very quickly, brothers in battle with a similar love of the old stories. The swordsman offered up all of his father’s stories that he could remember, and the somber Velstadt surprised by telling a few pun-filled yarns bordering on ribald. At times, it seemed they did everything together.

One thing they had never done- spar. They had fought side-by-side in any number of battles, back-to-back in some cases. The swordsman felt that he knew Velstadt’s movements and techniques as well as anyone- slow but precise footwork and swings of his huge bell-hammer that required prodigious strength to execute. Perhaps Velstadt thought of him similarly? The swordsman had long used a longsword and a greatshield. The shield was beautiful and intimidating- he’d had it embossed with the raven design from his father’s ring. The swordsman had begun to eschew its use- his newfound agility was sometimes hampered by it and the mystical durability of his skin made it redundant. He did carry it with him during inspections or when a pitched battle could be expected.

These battles came much more frequently than would be expected for a nation as thriving as Drangleic. It seemed like there were always some small country wanting to reclaim its ancient lands on the other side of Drangleic’s borders, or make a show of strength to distract from their domestic woes. Easy enough to win these piddly little wars, and the swordsman certainly knew that Drangleic was destined not just for greatness, but for conquest. Honorably, sensibly. That certainly seemed like it was not only destined, but imminent, as Vendrick began to order campaigns in quick succession. The soldiers had barely taken their boots off in a brothel, so to speak, before being mustered and sent off to some other foreign land.

The smallest targets almost universally capitulated within a day or so of being invaded. For the swordsman this didn’t quite translate to anything close to glory- and a niggling voice in the back of his mind insisted that this was only the act of a bully. His loyalty to his king and country prevented these internal complaints from taking root, at least at first.

The swordsman noted in retrospect that the acorn of unease began to germinate with what later became known as “Drummond’s Folly.”

This had been a campaign suggested by a certain Captain Drummond, one of a long line of knights in his ancient family, and considered a bit of a hawk in martial temperament. He had many times beseeched the king in the swordsman’s presence, insisting that such a small nation’s disproportionate amount of resources would better serve Drangleic, and it would be easy enough to take them outright. This turned out to be a catastrophic mistake, but it did give a glimpse of insight to the swordsman.

When Vendrick agreed with no trace of annoyance, it seemed strange. The swordsman noticed that his king seemed to look to the queen for assurance- and he had been doing that for quite some time now that the swordsman thought about it. She nodded to Drummond as if she had given the order herself, and in a much greater shock he noticed that Velstadt nodded simultaneously, as if synchronized somehow.

The swordsman later confronted his friend about this incident- but he was rebuffed, Velstadt giving him the stern treatment normally reserved for people outside their friendship. There was little time to talk- there was a war on Mirrah to be had, after all. Vendrick had decided- or had been decided- to lead the expedition himself. This resulted in the swordsman and his bosom friend being split up. The right hand, stalwart, remained at the king’s side, to annihilate any would-be assassins with blows of his enormous bell hammer. Vendrick ordered the swordsman to the front- apparently his majesty had no need of two bodyguards, so the left hand was to reach out on its own business.

Again, he couldn’t help but think that the king’s speech held a trace of his bride Nashandra. It was deeply disturbing.

The swordsman had let Drummond prepare the main army to move on Mirrag, with some irregulars moving in under cover of darkness to reconnoiter. The tiny nation had some sort of resource its neighbors had coveted for centuries- whatever it was that made them such efficacious warriors. They’d managed to keep it mostly secret, though surely royal spymasters had discovered it and the secret stopped with their lieges. The swordsman hoped that Drangleic’s expertise in every aspect of war would be enough not only to find out what made Mirrah so successful, but to hopefully get in and take it before there were too many casualties.

He’d approached the capital’s outskirts himself, done up in dark blue-gray for purposes of stealth. There he met with his scouts, who were all discouraged for various reasons. They spoke of strange magic afoot, and belligerent nobles suiting up in armor and strange metal masks. Every impression was that the tiny nation was not just on a war footing, but preparing their own attack on Drangleic’s forces. All of which excluded whatever that secret resource was. It was worrying to the swordsman, who welcomed a straightforward fight, even if it started in a clandestine way. That Mirrah should display the same confidence in their counterattacks that a larger nation would… baffling.

Regardless, he’d told his irregulars to report back to Drummond and the rest of the regular army, to apprise them of the situation and advise caution. The swordsman himself and a few of his best wreckers got as close as they could to the castle at the center of Mirrah and find the best place to hack away from the inside once things could be coordinated.

There was no hope for that. A single horn sounded outside the city- then ten others in answer.

This was the blast signaling the beginning of the Folly. Drummond had sent Drangleic’s army in for the kill.

The swordsman cursed and had but a moment to devise a strategy to save this debacle, until he was interrupted by another sound- this a sort of delicate metallic whoosh. It tricked his ears, as the sound chimed from all over the city, he thought. Then he heard it close. Very close, and he spun around to face the source of the noise.

A circle of glowing sigils had appeared on the cobblestones near him. He was not particularly expert on all things magical, but he recognized these runes from demonstrations by the court wizard. Some sort of curse, perhaps? Was this circle going to explode, rendering the swordsman into inglorious fragments cast around the immediate vicinity? No… something else.

Rising from the circle was a ghost. Or at least, some sort of apparition in the shape of an armored warrior. Shocked into inaction as he was, the swordsman could not help but notice that this warrior wore the armor of some bygone age. That was all he could think about before the ghostly warrior stepped out of the glowing circle and raised an equally ancient broadsword.

The swordsman immediately launched an attack, hoping this apparition would be caught off guard, and hoped the touch of good, hard steel would land a solid blow.

Luckily, it did, piercing a vulnerable part of the warrior’s armored torso and hacking a decent chunk of phantom flesh out. The warrior doubled over, glowing ectoplasm- or whatever served for his blood- pouring onto the ground as he slumped to the ground with a clank. After a brief moment the warrior closed his eyes and vanished in a small puff of silvery light. Had the wizards of Mirrah performed some necromancy to bring forth their honored dead in defense of their land?

The swordsman heard more of the strange sounds nearby, and he spun back around again to prevent being stabbed in his distracted back. What his eyes recorded was truly horrifying.

More magical circles. More warriors, but this was no necromancy. It was a riot of a supernatural muster. Two more armored warriors- no, some sort of golems stepped together out of a large circle, one in bright red and the other in yellow. A burning, skull-faced demon swinging a chain. A four-armed ogre. A woman warrior with the teeth of a cayman. Those were just the closest, and as he glanced around the swordsman could see a dozen more in the vicinity. He kept from crying out when one of his irregulars had her skull and spine ripped out of her body in one stroke of a blue demon’s grasping hand.

Retreat. The casualties inside the capital were almost total, and Drummond brought the rest of the army scurrying back to Drangleic. They were no closer to finding Mirrah’s secret, with it guarded by all those phantasms. Or were the phantasms actually the secret? It didn’t matter. The swordsman knew nobody from Drangleic was going to set foot in Mirrah again.

“Cast aside everything you have ever known. There is nothing that exists in the world.There is only one thing that exists in the world. This one thing is everything in the world. This thing is your fist. If one day you should meet a god, then that god will be punched.” -The Ham

The failure in Mirrah caused King Vendrick to pause and reconsider his goal of conquest. Even the queen’s smiling suggestions couldn’t move him to be more aggressive- at least for the moment. The swordsman could do very little in this regard. He wasn’t much for politicking and even if he were, there was never a moment where Vendrick was alone. He was constantly attended by Nashandra or Velstadt or both.

The latter was a point of shame for the swordsman. His friend had spoken to him less and less, and any attempts to engage him to ask why were answered with either stony silence or a flatly delivered platitude.

The swordsman still trusted the king to Velstadt’s care but unfortunately he could not say the same for the queen. She had continued to push him in directions that the swordsman could not believe, small whispers urging restrictions of the people, newer expectations of levies… this was not the Drangleic he loved, and it seemed the swordsman would snap sooner than later. There was no time for that yet, as things went from bad to worse.

From across the sea, a race of monsters. Giants.

Initial reports from fortifications up the coast were grim. Well, fortification was a good joke. There’d been no corsairs or anything like it since Samuel, Vendrick’s father, was on the throne. The coastal forts were officially considered a punishment detail but informally known as a holiday- a pleasant spot if a trifle boring.

Word had come to the swordsman from his parochial equivalent, and he was the sort of man and soldier that meant it wasn’t an exaggeration. But giants… He still felt incredulous, and the few people who needed to know were even less inclined to believe. That is, until the first refugees came in from the coastal villages.

Hysterical as they were, these unfortunates all told the same story. Giants, human shaped but not human- torsos seemingly formed from the trunks of stout trees and their limbs the branches. The worst part, though, and the detail that really sold the whole mess as being true was the description of the giants’ faces. Or rather, the lack of them, as every terrified villager spoke in tears of black holes in a head otherwise devoid of features.

That detail might have convinced the swordsman, but it did little to inspire an appropriate response from Vendrick or his subordinates. The dour Velstadt even let out a chuckle. The swordsman seethed but he had learned at this point that the best thing for the kingdom and the people in it was to ignore his anger and frustration and simply go ahead and do what needed to be done. He quietly made preparations with his most trusted soldiers to travel to the coast and stop these invaders by any means necessary.

They had barely honed their swords and filled panniers before an urgent courier arrived, for the swordsman’s eyes only. The courier disappeared as soon as the swordsman had cracked the seal and began to read. He grunted as he reread the words. Two things leaped out at him from the page. The first was encouraging- there had been only six giants, in a fishing boat that would have been quite small, for them at least. Despite the terror of the idea of attacking goliaths, it turned out to be a bit of an anticlimax. Bless the boys on the punishment detail, he thought, wondering exactly what kind of ancient books they’d been reading in their boredom. As soon as the skeleton crew had seen the giants and the character of their flesh, they’d taken up torches and axes and pitch-covered arrows and obliterated the ever-living shit out of the invading force.

The second thing, however, gave a chill to the swordsman. It was a fairly innocuous detail but he’d been in such a state of anxious alert over the worrying state of the royal court that he couldn’t help but start.

The sergeant ostensibly in charge of the fort there was on his way to Drangleic Castle to present a giant’s head to Vendrick and his court.

The swordsman dropped his half-assembled kit, and turned away from the worried questions of the soldiers he’d almost mustered, striding- not running, he insisted to himself- to where he knew he’d find the person he most needed to protect from whatever had arrived on their shores.

“I put my trust in no man, save he wakes in the morning with eyes seeing as if for the first time.” -The Grande Ghoule

“King Vendrick!”

The swordsman had been drifting again, and it was both an annoyance that their journey so far had been so uneventful that it allowed such fugues, but also that he was in such a powerless place to have fixed any of the cascading moments of doom.

“Land ho!” The cry of the lookout roused everyone from their respective reveries, though it took a few minutes before everyone could see that land was indeed, ho. The sailors busied themselves everywhere, perhaps forgetting for a moment that this was no royal pleasure cruise. They hove to in short order and the smaller ships alongside them, with a much greater marine-to-royal proportion, advanced towards the land in front of them.

The swordsman felt somewhat relieved that neither he nor Velstadt were required to do anything to begin the process- King Vendrick had ordered the beach to be secured and the chain of command had busied itself making it so. All he had to do was watch and stay near his liege, and keep from drawing Alveus Maximus into conversation. The wizard cleared his throat conspicuously after the swordsman had thought that.

Boats had been launched, full of marines armed to the teeth, and by the time they had hit the surf, the inhabitants- sentries, the swordsman assumed- had made their appearance. There was much less detail at the distance of those on the flagship, but he could see that they were much like those whose corpses the swordsman had examined. More lively, of course, and armed with greatclubs and rough spears. At first they had seemed almost lackadaisical in their movements but now he could see that they had moved into their very own formation.

Then he noticed the reason for it. Moving down to the beach from behind a sandy, scrub-dotted dune was a real giant. Scale was slightly difficult at this remove but this giant was not only considerably larger than his fellows, and wielding a spectacularly huge sword, but also garbed in clothing- a mantle, kilt, and a crown.

The swordsman looked over at his liege. He was expecting that Vendrick’s face would appear resolute, or in awe of meeting his equal, or even a bit concerned, but not… amused?

King Vendrick was practically smirking. As was the queen. The swordsman could not see Velstadt’s eyes through his helm but he had a bad feeling. He turned to look at Alveus Maximus, fully expecting the notoriously coarse wizard to have joined in on the fun. While the hat concealed most of his upper face, his chin had dropped and his wizardly pallor had increased. The swordsman wondered if he looked the same. Something was very wrong.

The boats of marines drew closer and closer to the beach but did not quite get there, their rowing having ceased, and there was a relatively quiet moment where giants prowled the beach in confusion. Then it happened. A huge ballista bolt arced down from the sky and impaled the lordly giant. The swordsman could hear something over the surf that he assumed was painful roaring. Where… what was going on? Another bolt crashed down, this time piercing two giants, and yet another came in short succession, striking the giant king again.

The swordsman looked at his king, whose smirk had transformed to beaming.

“Wizard? What news have you?” His majesty stood straight and tall, as unconcerned with what was happening as if he were checking the weather before taking a pleasant walk.

Maximus held his hands up, fingertips lightly shaking, for just a moment before replying.

“Their hands are upon it now, your majesty. The troops are withdrawing.” Vendrick nodded.

“Very well. Work your thaumaturgy and get us home.”

The swordsman gritted his teeth. It had all been a ruse. He had assumed until the very last that he would have been sent into the fray to put the lordly giant down, and Alveus Maximus at his back casting his spells at the expense of any other giants the marines were unable to defeat. But if none of that was the true plan, then why? Why bring so many men and risk the lives of the king and queen, a royal sorcerer, and two of Drangleic’s greatest warriors?

He struggled to understand, and the thing that truly stung was that this entire operation had been done in secret, without his being apprised of it. When had the plans been made? Who approved the subterfuge? The brave Vendrick he knew would have been more likely to jump onto the beach and engage the giant king with his fists before he would have signed off on some skullduggery.

This was no place to challenge those he knew would have been behind such a scheme, but challenge them he would. For now, it would be time to head home, it seemed.

The basket-hatted wizard now moved his arms in a more forceful motion and the swordsman felt a breeze blow by. It was a curious sensation and clearly some sort of magical wind. It seemed to converge on the starboard side of the flagship and within moments two boats came racing towards them, as if being pulled by the strange breeze. One boat held a small ballista, which answered one question. The other had some marines and some sort of crate, contents invisible.

Apparently they had found whatever it was that Nashandra wanted them to find. It clearly wasn’t reprisal for what to all appearances suggested was an accidental invasion on the giants’ part. For now, there was nothing the swordsman could do save bow to the king and queen as they retreated to their chambers once the crate had been brought aboard and stowed. He bowed to them, deeply.

The crew of the flagship resumed their duties with a more relaxed air and Velstadt moved to the door to the royal cabin, ding-donging as he went. This almost drove the swordsman to madness, and he turned towards the royal aegis, hand on the hilt of his sword. Velstadt noticed this and gave his enormous mace a tiny thump on the deck, setting off another muted jangle.

Despite his fury, the swordsman forced himself to turn away and instead inspected what the sorcerer was doing beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

Alveus Maximus still gestured magically in the air, and the wind continued to swirl and gust. As the gestures continued and became more forceful, the air responded. The swordsman could see the waves beating themselves into foam and the spray being blown in raging vortexes, but could feel nothing beyond that slight breeze. What he could feel was the motion of the flagship turning. The sorcerer was putting forth such power that he could not only force the movement of two small boats, but do the same for a flagship and its entire convoy. The swordsman sat down, hard, next to his shield and a coil of rope, momentarily reeling. Not from the motion of the waves, of course, but something he could neither resist or describe.

“As a matter of continuing one's existence, of preserving the only life worth preserving, it has been said that one needs but a truly good friend and a determined enemy. The former shall teach a man, and the latter test what he has learned. No man is truly hurt, but by his own efforts.” -Bishop Peter of Amiento

The swordsman had thought to confront the King and Queen regarding the naval expedition but admitted internally that he could not bear to do so. What he could do was discreetly press some of the officers under him, the castellan’s assistants, and even Alveus Maximus. They had nothing to say that gave the swordsman any new information beyond what he himself could see. Maximus gave the excuse that he was beyond absorbed in a thaumaturgical task. The swordsman believed this as the wizard seemed as guileless as the swordsman could be charming. Whatever the thing was that had been retrieved- no, stolen- from the giants, the royal sorcerer was being kept at a distance.

The swordsman found himself under a great deal of stress that he insisted to himself was “vigilance.” This worsened quickly as the fruits of Vendrick’s conquest blossomed in public view.

He first noticed what came to be called Ironclad Soldiers, and “soldier” was true only in the sense that these magically awakened automatons did a soldier’s duty. Next came the golems, seemingly a parody of the distant giants and powered by some twisted and unfamiliar magic. The swordsman was not particularly knowledgeable about sorcerous things, but had learned enough to level the playing field tactically against any enemy spellcasters. He knew that the souls of men and monsters were what powered the wizard’s art, but the operation of this new power was completely foreign to him.

It had been stolen from the giants, whatever it was, and it didn’t require a sage’s library to understand the primary effect of their magic coursing through certain parts of the kingdom. The swordsman saw King Vendric grow from his already tall stature to almost a giant himself, and soon Velstadt and the queen followed suit. The inhabitants of the kingdom continued to revere the royal personages, believing this change to be some sort of divine blessing. It only hit the swordsman that he was being affected as well when he realized his father’s armor no longer fit him.

He had taken care of that by commissioning a famed smith from distant Volgen to not only refit but augment it, moving away from a standard plate-and-chain to something more unusual. It was angular and intimidating, stout yet not hampering his agility. His skin was still as tough as steel from his mystical exercises, but some presentiment of doom made him increase his protection to the maximum. To top it off, he modeled the new helm after those worn by the royal soldiers- a tribute to them, who he viewed as true protectors of their beloved Drangleic.

His suspicions of danger to his person were correct, but his estimate of how discreet his inquiries were had been greatly mistaken. The swordsman was summoned to an audience with the King, and it was made clear to him that it was not a request.

When he arrived at the castle, he was greeted with cold decorum by Wellager, the royal chancellor, who was normally quite jocular. Wellager led the swordsman to the throne room but the swordsman found himself blocked from entry by the even more imposing bulk of the royal aegis. He moved forward as if he was going to push past Velstadt, but that would have been impossible even had the brazen gauntlet not risen to block him.

“Your sword.” The swordsman had never heard his friend so grim, and it pained him thinking of all that had been lost between them, but he was not going to be ordered around by some foreign zealot. In response, he simply ducked under the outstretched arm, the shield on his back barely clearing it. The unexpected defiance stunned Velstadt and the swordsman moved into the throne room without resistance.

It was much as he had expected- the king and queen on their thrones and a contingent of royal soldiers on either side, including some of those ironclads. He squeezed his gauntleted fist to feel his father’s ring, then released. He’d fought his way through greater forces than those arrayed before him, but with Velstadt behind him it wouldn’t be so simple. He walked forward an appropriate distance, then knelt, as was proper. He removed his helmet. The king and queen regarded him- Vendrick with what seemed to be disappointment, and Nashandra with open contempt. The soldiers remained passive, but he could feel Velstadt’s heavy steps behind him, and heard the jangling of his hammer. The royal aegis was very close behind him, now.

The king raised a hand, staring deeply into the swordsman’s eyes.

“Knight Raime. Your actions of late are concerning. They are not the actions of a loyal subject. Your words are not the words of a resolute champion. They are the words of rebellion.”

“Of sedition.” The queen leaned forward as she spoke and there was a slight jangle behind him, as if Velstadt was barely containing an urge towards violence.

“Sedition,” agreed Vendrick. “I would expect such disobedience from a foreign conscript or gold-bricking sentry. You are neither. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

The swordsman nodded at receiving this heavy question, and gathered his thoughts.

“I…” He stumbled over his words. “There is no more loyal defender of your majesty, both in your person and your works. There is no more loyal defender of our great land of Drangleic. If I have become seditious, it is in opposition to the machinations of a foreign witch and the poison she spews into every ear.”

The king’s jaw quivered as he clenched it in barely concealed fury. Nashandra actually smiled.

“Impudent fool!” Vendrick shook his fist. “To slander the queen is to slander your king.”

Nashandra straightened up haughtily. “His highness recognizes wise counsel when he hears it, and all I have offered him is my own humble suggestions.”

“Counsel?” The swordsman spat on the ground. “Enchanting him. Driving him to ill-advised conflict and base theft from a people who might have been our allies. Tainting the very stones of Drangleic with abominations borne of unknown sorcery. If I am seditious for reminding my comrades-in-arms of their true loyalty, then you are guilty of treason for poisoning the king’s mind. Poisoning the king’s will- and for what? Loot? Soulless automata? Ambition?” He stood, replacing his helm on his head.

“My Vendrick summoned you here to face judgment for your crimes against the throne. This discussion is a formality. He has sentenced you to forfeit your life.” Nashandra’s words seethed with venom and the swordsman could see- or thought he saw- a creeping darkness pass over her face.

“Is this your will, your majesty? Or that of the vile interloper?” In the moment before Vendrick could reply, the swordsman pulled his shield from his back and flung it at Nashandra like a pankrator’s discus.

It would not have hit her- his blows always landed true, and he had aimed so the missile would pass over the queen’s head with an inch or so to spare. It was a distraction, and that was crucial. The guards reacted just slowly enough for him to roll to the side and recover his feet. Velstadt reacted only slightly faster than the royal soldiers, slamming his huge weapon to the floor where the swordsman had just been. Chips of the floor flew in all directions. Ding.

Time resolved itself- King Vendrick had begun to stand, the soldiers raced to his side, Velstadt raised his weapon again, and the agile swordsman was already gone.

He could have stood and fought, even without drawing his sword to show he was not there to attempt regicide, but it would have been pointless. So he ran. He shouted- as he ran through the castle he called out an alarum, letting every ear hear the treachery of the queen, of the aegis, the dark witchcraft bending the King’s will, putting Drangleic itself at risk… his words had to have been heard. As he ran he pulled every sentry and curious squire along with him, and word must have passed in other ways as more and more soldiers began popping out of the woodwork. This was fine, and all in line with his hasty plan. Surely his reputation had been tainted in a very short period and his branding as a traitor would never fade, but if he put enough doubt in the army’s minds then he could consider his duty satisfied.

The swordsman had wound his way towards the nearest barracks, and the fortifications that had been erected past the environs of the castle. Parts of it were a jumble of felled trees and he leaped from log to log, delaying his pursuers. There was a group ahead of him and he repeated his message at full volume, enough to give them pause before seeing the mob behind him. He had just about run past them before they’d drawn their swords, but one of them had gotten the drop on him.

There was a faint rippling of air behind him, and the swordsman spun around and caught something- a petard that had been just about to strike him in the head. As armored as he was and as tough as his skin had become, taking such an explosive to the face would surely have ended things in an ignominious way. He returned the bomb to its sender without even thinking.

As the petard ended its arc, the swordsman could see that there was a small neat pile of them stacked next to the soldier.

The explosion was much larger than he could have imagined, annihilating every soldier within a few paces and violently ripping apart those not far off. The thunder reached and staggered him, followed by a rain of giblets. There. The die had been cast and the swordsman had killed his comrades, those he had sworn to protect. Nothing left to do but run and continue the message as long as he could before being run down like a dog.

That plan lasted for a brief period before the swordsman got lost.

He hadn’t spent much time among the newer fortifications, and though he felt like he should have made that part of his duties, there had been more pressing matters to attend to. He drew his sword and began to move with greater care, hoping to make his way out if possible. That was surprisingly easy even with reducing his speed to a walk. The swordsman found himself walking between the outer wall of the fort and a very steep cliff that went down a long way. He continued carefully but as he rounded a corner into a small courtyard facing the cliff, things went from bad to worse.

Ding.

Somehow the royal aegis had been waiting for him despite his movements being not only fast but also random. Witchcraft.

Witchcraft that had seized his former friend in a much more complete proportion. The swordsman could see wisps of a rippling darkness issuing from the joints in Velstadt’s armor. The darkness cast itself over Velstadt’s grim face, and it was clear this would only end in a couple of ways. The swordsman drew his blade, wishing now that he hadn’t cast his raven shield away.

The two warriors locked eyes and circled each other, at a bit of an impasse as they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses so intimately. The swordsman heard a clamoring noise in the distance and knew he had to end things quickly. He decided to take a different tack.

“My friend… what unhappy days have passed to find ourselves here? What brought us to where we ignore our vows and battle each other? We should be protecting our king.”

The royal aegis said nothing, but the swordsman took the opportunity to slash at Velstadt’s knee with his blade. The blow connected, and while Velstadt grunted in pain, the damage had been superficial. “Velstadt! Please, if ever we shared a true warrior’s bond, let us put our arms aside. I will whittle you down eventually before you land a blow.”

Velstadt scowled. This might have been true, but the swordsman wanted to plant the seed of doubt. He had no desire to kill his friend.

“Velstadt. We must end this. I hope for all our sakes you realize your enchantment by that wicked queen. Remember your duty to the king- and stand by him!”

They continued their circling, when suddenly an arrow whistled from nowhere, planting itself into the ground between them. The swordsman and the royal aegis both looked to the source of the missile- a soldier leaning from a narrow window above them. He had clearly been aiming at the swordsman.

While that may have been obvious, Velstadt raised his great hammer and twirled it in the air as a gout of vile darkness surged up his arm to cover the weapon. With a shout Velstadt let the darkness fly, rough spheres of magical destruction shooting towards the foolhardy soldier and killing them instantly. The soldier tipped out of the window and fell to the ground.

The swordsman knew it was now or never, and lunged forward to pierce Velstadt’s shoulder and hopefully incapacitate him. His risky gambit failed as the royal aegis snapped the handle of his hammer sideways enough to knock the blade aside and then follow through with a withering strike.

There was no amount of armor or esoterically hardened skin that would have done anything against that strike. The swordsman found himself batted away, rolling across the ground to crumple in a heap near the cliff. Somehow he retained his grip on the sword, despite feeling a number of broken bones and injuries perhaps far worse. Velstadt stared at him impassively, before his face twisted in a smile.

“The agile swordsman,” the royal aegis finally spoke. “Agile. Another word for weak.” He raised his hammer again to end the swordsman, but it was too late.

The swordsman had thrown himself over the cliff.

“It is a common mistranslation that one should seize the day, and every fool with pretensions of wisdom prepares themselves for battle every morning. The two words mistranslated are separated by only a single letter. To seize, in this instance, is not to seize life as a conquering army would seize a besieged city. To seize is to grasp life as one would pluck a dewy, ripe fruit from a tree, pare it with a humble yet sharp knife, and take it unto oneself with relish.” - an unknown philosopher of Olaphic antiquity

“That’s how it happened, you see. I lived, clearly.” Raime released a slow breath. “It was not easy. Not easy to drag myself away. I thought for a moment, when I was able to raise my head to the sky, that I saw my friend Velstadt looking down at me. The drop was so steep, how could that be?”

He picked up a hunk of something the size of a ground apple, flecks of ash falling from it. Raime tossed the thing back and forth between his hands. Was it some abused ore, or scoria, or… “I’m no assayer, of course. Let me see-” He continued tossing it back and forth.

“I found myself… somewhere. It was cool and damp. The opposite of this place, yes? I barely remember what happened. Someone found me, dragged me for who knows how long. Some mysterious cleric, perhaps.” He chuckled. “I was nursed back to health by three old crones and their housemaid. I drank nothing but broth for what seemed like months, until I was able to walk and remember my own name.”

Raime continued, looking about him and taking in the view. High clouds smudged the sky with gray and orange. “That was a long time ago. I have journeyed many places since, and I knew that I was weaker than ever. Strength, you see. Some have it. My father had it, and while he did not have the iron thews of some barbarian, you could feel it when you were with him. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to him instead of becoming some leaping assassin.”

“I was in a distant land, studying with a master pugilist. The Ham, they called him, if you could believe it. His pupils first practiced their strikes against a whole boar suspended from a butcher’s hook. He lived on the outside of town but rumors and news eventually made their way there… I found out that the giants had begun their reprisal. They had come back in force, an army dwarfing that of Drangleic’s, so to speak. The destruction was horrifying, and I have not heard much of the state of my kingdom, in a long time.”

Raimed punched his leg in anger. “That lord of giants- the one who shrugged off ballista bolts as if they were a mail shirt pinching one where the gambeson didn’t cover? Some poor dumb bastard engaged the giant king in single combat. I scarcely believe it.” Raime chuckled again. “That poor dumb bastard- he won. At the cost of his own life, surely. A legend, but he was never seen again and his name forgotten, if it was ever known.”

He rose. Before him was a pile of ash and slag, and from it he retrieved a coil of iron chain. The links were as thick as a normal man’s wrist, and it was longer than Raime was tall. He hefted it with his offhand, and pitched it as far as he could, which was over the edge of the tall tower where he stood. It was gone with a faint clank.

“I can’t remember exactly how many masters I studied under before I found out about this place. I was drawn to it, you see. Legends of might, of steel and fire, a place where one can write one’s name in sheer strength. I even learned to forge… I’m no master smith, but I have fortified my armor even more, and I think I could forge myself a greatsword. It might look crude, but none will withstand its blows.” Raimed reached inside a leather bag at his side and withdrew some sort of metallic scepter. It radiated heat, even through his armor. He turned to his audience, a fuming iron idol of strange countenance.

“Yes, darling. I will use this scepter, as you whispered to me. I am the only living man here still, but I will unlock this tower’s mysteries. Once my sword is forged- with whatever magic and darkness it might require- I shall return to the land of my birth and make things right. Whatever the cost. Then I shall return, give you this baneful ring, and make you my bride. Every piece of you.”

@patchesenthusiast

@dbzespio

Upon his entry into his Lord’s private chambers, Velstadt cleared his throat roughly, though the sound was quickly cut short with a sudden stagger of his feet; the bell upon his hammer consequently resounded with a sharp clang. For he had not expected to find Raime lying there, draped across King Vendrick’s favored chaise.

The clamor appeared to hardly disturb the man’s repose, the gentle tilt of his helm was slow and relaxed while he shifted his regard to peer at Velstadt, his expression entirely unreadable behind the darkness obscuring the visor of his ornate helmet. Barely a muscle moved before he abruptly lifted his chin, a mocking, throaty chuckle escaping him. The copious feathers trailing his armor pieces fluttered, trembling in time to the rhythm of his laughter.

The Royal Aegis fumed, clenching his jaw in an effort to tamper the overwhelming urge to crush Raime into the earth right then and there.

He did not wish to destroy his lord’s favorite furniture, after all.

“Where is the King?” he grunted, just barely enough of a break from a growl to be decipherable; he didn’t want to repeat himself.

Though he could not see his face, Velstadt could practically hear the smirk upon his lips while Raime relaxed yet further, settling himself even more comfortably upon the King’s royal chaise despite his full plate armor. “He shall join us shortly.”

“Were that the case,” Velstadt looked over his fellow knight without bothering to conceal his utter disgust, “surely you should make yourself more presentable?”

Raime chuckled yet again. “I happen to know quite well that Milord takes great pleasure in seeing me in such a state…”

Velstadt clutched his hammer tightly in both hands, quite literally biting on his tongue to keep himself from lashing out at once.

But at that very moment, a messenger burst into the room, his face flush with exertion, his voice breathless, “The Giants! They have escaped! The castle grounds may soon be overrun!”

The two knights briefly regarded one another before they asked as one. “And the king?”

“We are still searching.” The messenger spared them one last glance before rushing away.

Raime leaped from the chaise and followed after Velstadt, soon overtaking the heavily armored knight, only briefly pausing to retrieve his weapons from the rack where he had left them. The delay allowed Velstadt the opportunity to rush into the courtyard with Raime at his side.

The air was thick with clouds of dust, no doubt stirred up due to the destroyed stoneworks of the castle itself, obscuring the normally pristine landscape with the miserable cries of war.

The two men were all too familiar with such chaos, having fought in countless battles.

But the giant looming above them caught both of their eyes; he was dressed in a certain level of finery, quite unlike any other of their kind the pair had witnessed before.

“Could that–?”

But Raime’s astonishment was quickly cut short, for the ornate one before them was soon struck down, a cruel arrow from one of the castle’s array of ballistae ripped through his heart, staining the silken fabric adorning his chest with steady rivers of crimson blood.

“A fitting end,” Velstadt huffed, hefting his hammer to his shoulder before turning away to head into the fray.

“But–!” Raime sputtered, causing Velstadt to pause, tilting his helm just enough to keep an eye on him, but not bothering to turn back around.

“Out with it,” he finally spat, impatient.

Raime hesitated a moment more before gesturing towards the Giant’s fallen body. “He looked like their king.”

A grunt of frustration escaped Velstadt. “And?”

Raime let loose a sound of disbelief. “He was their king. Are they not so unlike us? Merely wishing to preserve the honor and dignity of their own ruler?”

“They are the ones who attacked us,” Velstadt reminded him, turning his back on the sabled knight. “If it weren’t for King Vendrick, we would be the ones slaughtered and enslaved. Never forget that!”

And with that said, the golden knight vanished, eager to throw himself into the heart of battle.

But Raime did not follow him.

The unnerved feeling in his gut spread to his heart and his mind too, for once questioning all that he and his king had stood for.

Were they… wrong?

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