The blood of rebellion sprayed into the air. The red-maned Misbegotten, fueled by sorrow and rage, never buckled. Though he stood tall with sword in hand, the light in his bestial eyes had already faded. He was defeated. The Tarnished, out of respect for the creature's unyielding spirit, had delivered the final blow himself.
"I promised you a dignified end. To die on your feet, Misbegotten... is far more worthy of a song than to live on your knees."
The Greatsword—the pride of the ancient Misbegotten ancestors, a relic of their blood-soaked struggle—was thrust into the earth, serving as a pillar for the fallen warrior's dignity. Even in death, the Leonine Chieftain gripped the hilt, refusing to kneel. Though his body and will were rejected by the Erdtree, his remains would stand as a monument to this uprising until the end of time.
"If history continues in the Lands Between, the Siege of Morne will be a heavy stroke of the pen. And perhaps... you will be remembered."
The Tarnished turned to leave. He hadn't gone far before he encountered the golden phantom of Istvan.
"Back so soon? I thought you'd left for Limgrave."
"I found I couldn't simply walk away," Istvan admitted, his tone heavy. "My kinsmen were the ones dying here; I couldn't settle my mind. Did you... have a falling out with Castellan Edgar?" Istvan had seen Edgar looking even more despondent than before, and after some digging, he learned a certain Tarnished had given the man a scathing lecture and threatened to take the family heirloom.
"I thought he was a man at first. A closer look revealed he's just a high-level slave, broken by his masters. I have no patience for his sort." The Tarnished rotated his wrists, loosening his muscles.
"There's no need for such harshness. We are all victims of circumstance in these times," Istvan attempted to defend the Castellan, though even he felt Edgar's loyalty was unnervingly rigid.
"Victims of circumstance? He's a victim, you're a victim... if everyone is just a victim, then the ruin of the world and the collapse of the age are also just 'circumstances.' Why bother at all? We might as well all lie down and rot."
"That—" Istvan was silenced.
"Don't make excuses for the weak. A pioneer is never shackled by the status quo," the Tarnished said without mercy. "Lest you forget, it was the original Crusade that paved the way for the Golden Age. Even if this era is brittle and flawed, it was born of action. Those old warriors didn't sit around saying, 'The Ancient Dragons are too strong, we're just victims,' or 'The Giants' flame is too hot, the Tree burning is just fate.'"
He scoffed. "And besides, I don't believe for a second that Edgar is too stupid to see what a pathetic, waste of a 'Lord' Godrick truly is. People need leaders, but you shouldn't trade your soul to be a lapdog."
"You... make a fair point." Istvan sighed. If the first Tarnished had succumbed to such defeatism, humanity would never have secured a place in this land.
"Be that as it may, hearts are not so easily changed. Your words might not move him."
"Whether he changes is his business. I walked all this way to deliver a letter and didn't get a single Rune for my trouble. Not beating him senseless was my act of charity for the day." The Tarnished brushed the dust from his armor.
"A letter?"
"From the Castellan's daughter."
"Ah, Lady Irina. She was indeed sick with worry for him."
"I originally planned to take that legendary sword from the castle depths as my payment..." The Tarnished glanced back toward the beach.
"The Leonine Misbegotten...? Then the blade he holds is..."
"The Grafted Blade Greatsword. Yes."
"He is dead, yet you let him keep it? Why?" Istvan couldn't wrap his head around the scene.
"That sword belongs to the Misbegotten. I'm simply returning it to its rightful owner."
"What? I thought it was the sword of a champion from a conquered nation... wait. You mean the nation that fell was..."
"A kingdom of Misbegotten, from an age long forgotten. The persecution of their kind didn't start yesterday."
"I had no idea..."
"I respect that they still have the fire to revolt. Besides, I have little use for a slab of iron that heavy. Let him hold it." The Tarnished shrugged.
"I see... you are a warrior with a hidden kindness, after all." Istvan smiled.
"Oh, I'm a saint. I found a Pumpkin Head with a terrible migraine on the way up and 'helped' him out. He isn't feeling any pain now."
"Er..." A Pumpkin Head? You probably took the poor bastard's head off.
Halfway out, Istvan bid the Tarnished farewell once more. As a spirit, his departure was effortless. The Tarnished, however, had to scale the walls and drop through the rafters all over again.
"Who designed this fortress? It's a structural nightmare," he cursed, finally vaulting over the outer perimeter of Morne.
"The leader of the rebellion is dead. The rest of them should lose their nerve soon." He clapped his hands clean. He had done his part; what Edgar chose to do now was out of his hands. The letter was delivered.
"Um... Lord Tarnished?"
"Irina? What are you doing here?"
"Lord Istvan escorted me part of the way... I was simply too worried. I know my father is a stubborn man, but I could not bear to lose him." Irina's fingers were interlaced, gripping each other tightly.
"Give it time. The fighting should die down soon. Edgar isn't dead."
"Though the castle has seen better days," the Tarnished added, looking back at the rising plumes of smoke.
"Is that so? Father is safe... thank you, Lord Tarnished. I know you must have had a hand in this." Irina bowed deeply.
"Don't thank me. I've already forgotten why I came to this gods-forsaken rock in the first place." He felt like the trip was a wash—he'd gained nothing but two 'thank yous' and a sore back, though he didn't truly mind the detour.
By midday, the Misbegotten realized their Chieftain had fallen. Their morale shattered. The soldiers of Morne seized the opportunity, launching a counter-offensive that drove the disorganized rebels out of the gates.
"With the ones I thinned out on the way in, they didn't have much of a garrison left. Breaking their spirit was the final nail." The Tarnished sat on the grass with Irina, watching the tide of battle turn.
"Did Father... succeed?"
"He did."
High on the ramparts, a man raised a tattered banner of Castle Morne, thrusting it into the sky. It was Edgar. "Lord Godrick! I have not failed my duty! Morne stands!!" He let out a triumphant roar before collapsing from exhaustion.
"Your old man seems thrilled."
"Yes... I can hear his voice." Irina smiled, the tension finally leaving her frame.
Once the castle had quieted, the Tarnished brought Irina to her father. He intended to drop her off and vanish, but Edgar called out to him.
"Thank you for your aid, stranger. If you hadn't struck down their leader, we would never have had the opening to reclaim the walls."
"It was on my way. But a word of advice: leave that sword where it lies. This rebellion was a debt you brought upon yourselves. I hope the sight of this hellscape serves as a reminder every time you look into the castle depths."
"But the Grafted Blade is—"
"Don't misunderstand. That sword never belonged to Morne. Do you know why Godfrey never took it in his day? Because he knew it wasn't his to take."
"The Grafted Blade didn't belong to Godfrey, it doesn't belong to me, and it certainly doesn't belong to Morne. It is a Misbegotten relic."
"This..."
"Believe me or don't. But if you want a repeat of today's bloodbath, by all means, try to touch that sword again."
"I... I understand. I am the Castellan; the safety of my people must come first." Edgar looked chastened. To prevent another uprising, the sword would remain a tombstone.
"Good. Take care of your daughter. She's the only family you have left—that's worth more than any order from that fraud Godrick."
With that final jab, the Tarnished turned and left Castle Morne without looking back.
"May your journey be blessed... Lord Tarnished!"
"My daughter..." Edgar whispered. He didn't have all the answers yet, but in time, he would understand what truly held weight in this world.
"Alright. Time to see what else this 'Weeping Peninsula' is hiding."
The Tarnished mused to himself. He hadn't visited this region much in the old days, and the shifting of the ages had made the geography unfamiliar. I'd give a lot for a map right now.
As he followed the main road away from the castle, he spotted a jagged stone obelisk. He had bypassed it on his way in, but now he saw the golden script carved into its surface. As he stared, the glowing text detached from the stone, swirling in the air before settling into a vibrant, multi-colored parchment.
"A map? Well, I'll be. Even in a dying age, they've come up with some clever tricks."
He studied the parchment. It was remarkably detailed, showing everything from terrain elevations to hidden tunnels and ruins.
"Someone must be updating these regularly." He looked back at the obelisk; the golden text had already reappeared. Taking one hadn't depleted the source.
"Hah! With a map, things get interesting."
He scanned the icons. He could see several promising cave systems and ruins scattered across the peninsula. It looked like he wouldn't be bored.
"There's precious little entertainment in the Lands Between these days. I suppose 'aggressive archeology' will have to do." In the old days, he'd 'visited' many a ruin and left them impeccably clean—of loot, that is.
He plotted a course: a wide sweep from the top, circling from right to left.
As he took a step to the right, the red and blue Flasks at his hip began to pulse with a familiar resonance. His eyebrows shot up.
"Oh... I know this feeling. Is there a Golden Seed nearby?"
Golden Seeds were gifts from the Erdtree, scattered across the world where its influence took root—often found beneath 'Minor Erdtrees' or their saplings.
He recalled the cave where he had first woken up; there had been a golden bough there, but the seed was gone. The mysterious girl must have merged it with his Flasks. Golden Seeds increased the volume of the sacred liquid the flasks could hold.
"I wonder... just how much 'liquid grace' can these bottles actually hold?"