After being freed, Chierbashia exchanged a few more words of old camaraderie with the Tarnished, but his tone soon turned grave as he warned him about the Fell Omen. The knight noted that Margit's strength was far from simple; even in their brief clash, Chierbashia felt the Omen had been holding back.
If the Tarnished were at his peak, the outcome would be certain. But in his current diminished state, Margit would be a nightmare to overcome.
"If your goal is Godrick, you must go through him. My advice, old friend? Do not go there yet. Seek out more power, more tools, and more allies first," Chierbashia said earnestly.
"He's an Omen... and Omens have weaknesses," the Tarnished mused.
Omens were individuals born with the "Aspects of the Crucible"—physical traits of various primal creatures. They shared this lineage with the Misbegotten, and like them, they were pariahs of the Erdtree. At birth, their horns were usually sawn off; many died from the trauma, and those who survived were treated as disposable fodder for the battlefields.
Omen-birth was an atavistic phenomenon that even occurred within the Golden Lineage. However, royal Omens weren't de-horned. Instead, they were cast into the pitch-black sewers beneath the Capital, living out their lives as forgotten secrets.
To hunt these beings, the Order created the Omenkillers—masked executioners who wielded jagged cleavers and breathed fire. They used fire because Omens often possessed animalistic traits like thick fur or long tails, and the hunters claimed the flames were meant to "purify the curse."
"But if this Omen is strong enough to defeat you without trying, regular hunter tactics won't work on him." Most Omens weren't particularly powerful; they simply had more strength than an average man or could spit "Cursed Blood."
Regarding an Omen capable of besting Chierbashia, the Tarnished already had a nagging suspicion about his true identity.
The two made their final farewells. The Tarnished took the advice and headed back toward the Gatefront, while Chierbashia set off to find the rest of their scattered brothers and sisters, particularly the two captains.
"Did you encounter trouble?" Melina asked as he rode back to the Grace.
"A fair bit. There's a gatekeeper ahead that even a Crucible Knight couldn't handle," the Tarnished replied with a wry smile.
"What happened?" Melina's brow furrowed. This was an unforeseen variable.
"I told you before, I was Godfrey's sworn brother. I marched at the head of his army."
"You did..." Melina listened patiently.
"Godfrey was followed by seventeen Crucible Knights. You probably heard sixteen, right?"
"Sixteen... was it not?"
"Publicly, yes. One was a traitor, so they struck him from the records. Not that it matters now. What matters is that those knights were my colleagues—my brothers-in-arms. Their strength is absolute. Yet, I just found one of them locked in an Evergaol on Stormhill, imprisoned very recently."
"..." Melina had heard the legends of the Crucible Knights—warriors of unknown origin who wielded the primordial power of the Crucible. To hear that such a titan was captured by the current, decaying forces of Limgrave was unsettling.
"The one who put him there is called Margit, the Fell Omen."
"An Omen..." Melina finally understood why he had turned back. "What is your plan? Do you wish for me to channel more Runes into you?"
The Tarnished shook his head. Runes provided growth, but to bridge the gap to Margit's level through sheer stats would require a mountain of them. It was better to find a specific counter for an Omen.
The Order wasn't stupid. When they wanted to suppress something they feared, they were thorough—just as they had disemboweled every Giant to suppress the Flame of Ruin. For Omens of exceptional strength, they had developed "Shackles"—special golden tools designed to bind the "Cursed Blood" within their bodies.
If this "Margit" was who he thought he was, a set of Shackles would make the fight much easier.
"Perhaps exploring more caves or catacombs will yield results?" Melina suggested.
"True, but I can't just wander like a headless fly." While the previous tombs had been lucrative, there was no guarantee the next one would have what he needed.
However, he wasn't without options. The Crucible power Chierbashia shared with him included fire-breathing. With a little practice, he could master it.
You can never have too many trump cards. After some thought, he decided to find Yura at Agheel Lake. Yura had been in Limgrave for a while; he likely knew the local players and hidden stashes better than anyone.
But when he arrived at Yura's usual haunt, the hunter was nowhere to be found.
"Strange. Did he leave? He said he was hunting someone..." Just as he was about to turn away, the air grew thick and heavy. Torrent shivered beneath him and suddenly vanished into mist.
"Interference?" The Tarnished narrowed his eyes. He'd seen this before. As he'd noted, time and space in the Lands Between were fractured. Two people could be at the same lake ten minutes apart and never see each other, or their spiritual signatures could collide. In certain "invaded" spaces, the world could only support one spectral entity—meaning Torrent was forced back to the spirit realm.
"Who's there?" He looked toward a figure approaching through the shallow water. Unlike the golden phantoms of the Grace, this one was a violent, pulsing red, radiating an aura of pure insanity.
"I have found thee... defiler of the Dynasty. Thy blood shall pay for thy sins!" The red phantom babbled nonsense before lunging with two jagged, blood-stained daggers.
"Defiler of the Dynasty? Another Mohgwyn fanatic. Is my 'reputation' already reaching your little clubhouse?"
"Thou art not worthy to speak of it!" The Reduvia daggers whipped through the air, flinging arcs of cursed blood. The phantom was incredibly fast.
"What a nuisance. You think I care about your 'Dynasty'? You're just bottom-feeders." The Tarnished dodged a flurry of stabs and delivered a heavy kick to the phantom's ribs. The spirit let out a muffled grunt and skipped across the water like a stone.
Right then, a new voice cut through the air.
"I have found thee... Bloody Finger Nerijus! Paint the ground with thy cursed blood—ah?" Yura arrived, sword drawn and eyes full of fire, only to see Nerijus face-down in a puddle.
"Hey, Yura. I was just looking for you," the Tarnished greeted him casually.
"Oh... uh, it's you. If it's you, I suppose this makes sense." Yura sounded a bit embarrassed.
"Who is this guy? A friend of yours?"
"He is of the Mohgwyn Dynasty... a 'Noble' of their order." Yura drew his impossibly long blade, the Nagakiba. "He is one of the butchers I have spent nights tracking."
"Seems you have a history. Want me to step aside?"
"Scoundrel! How dare you mock me! Yura, you are here as well? Then both of you shall be drowned in blood—the defiler and the traitor!" Nerijus screamed as he scrambled up, only to be promptly backhanded into the mud by a massive, spectral dragon claw.
"Shut up. You Mohgwyn lot are all the same—no sense of a power gap."
"Do not waste words on them. They are madmen," Yura said, stepping forward to finish the job.
"It ends here, Nerijus!" Yura raised his blade.
"Stay thy hand! Yura, if thou still wishes to know the whereabouts of that woman, put down thy sword!" Nerijus looked up with a malicious grin.
"....Vile snake!" Yura roared, plunging his blade into the mud mere inches from Nerijus's ear.
"Family drama, I see..." The Tarnished watched from the sidelines. This was clearly personal.
"Hehe, Yura... it was because of this cowardice that she left thee!" Nerijus seized the moment of hesitation and lunged, his dagger catching Yura in the side.
"Ugh!" A jagged red gash appeared on Yura's abdomen. "You Bloody Fingers... you truly have lost your humanity! Beasts craving the blood of others."
"Show some respect! Our Dynasty is the one chosen for the coming age! You crude sheep couldn't possibly comprehend the beauty of the Blood!" Nerijus laughed manically, only to have his laughter cut short as a spectral blade pierced through his right eye.
"GAHHHHH! MY EYE! HOW DARE THEE!"
"Look, Yura's business is his own, but you're giving me a headache," the Tarnished said, walking over to help Yura up. He poured a generous amount of Crimson Tears over the hunter's wound. "From now on, I'm killing every Bloody Finger I see on sight."
"My thanks..." Yura said solemnly.
"Forget it. You were telling me not to reason with them, then you freeze up the moment he mentions a woman?" The Tarnished patted Yura's shoulder.
"I... I am ashamed."
"Well, it's clear this idiot isn't going to give you the answers you want. Let's just end it."
"Thou wouldst not dare! The Dynasty will hunt thee! I am a Noble! A confidant of the Lord himself!" Nerijus shrieked.
The Tarnished's face went dark. The air around him grew cold.
"If thou art wise, thou wilt—"
"Then tell that coward Mohg to crawl out of his hole and face me. See if he dares to lift a finger against me!" The Tarnished's voice was laced with a killing intent so pure the nearby birds took flight in terror. "You think I'm afraid of your little cult? You think I'm a nice guy? Shut your mouth and die."
Before Nerijus could utter another word, the Tarnished's dragon claw closed around the phantom's head and crushed it into red mist.
"Good riddance," the Tarnished muttered, flicking the residue from his hand.
In a hidden location miles away, the physical body of Nerijus suddenly vomited a fountain of blood and collapsed, motionless.