"..." Yura stared with wide, disbelieving eyes. The killing intent radiating from the Tarnished just moments ago had been like an inexhaustible balefire; simply standing near him felt like his skin was being seared by invisible heat.
"How annoying. Where do these half-witted cults even come from?" The Tarnished muttered. "A bunch of lunatics, the lot of them."
"Forgive me... for showing thee such a shameful display." Yura finally regained his composure, pulling down the brim of his ronin hat.
"The Lands Between isn't that big. If you want to find someone, it's usually simple." The Tarnished leaned against a nearby rock wall, adding pointedly, "Unless... they're already dead."
Yura lowered his head, his face darkening. "Aye... thou art right."
"Oh, by the way," Yura said, trying to change the subject, "thou hast obtained the power of the Dragon, I see. Truly remarkable." The draconic majesty in the Tarnished's earlier strike had been undeniable.
"Compliments of a friend," the Tarnished smiled thinly.
"Thou mentioned thou wert looking for me?" Yura recalled their earlier meeting.
"You've been stalking these parts for a while. Know anything in the area that's particularly effective against Omens?"
"An Omen? Hast thou encountered such a foe? I fear I cannot help thee there. Hunting Nerijus and his ilk has consumed all my strength..." Yura shook his head.
"Fair enough. I'll keep looking."
"Wait," Yura called out. "I do not know of a weapon, but I have heard of a traveler—a peddler of sorts. He is said to deal in... exotic curiosities. He might have what thou seekest."
"A nomadic merchant?"
"No... rumor has it he is a Tarnished as well."
A Tarnished? "Where is he?"
"Dost thou see the cavern ahead?" Yura pointed toward a massive opening in the cliffside where several long-haired, aimless 'Old Ones' wandered. "He is said to have set up camp within."
"Thanks, Yura. If you ever need a hand, call me." The Tarnished took his Finger and carved a symbol onto a fallen leaf. "Use this."
"I shall be honored."
After parting with Yura, the Tarnished entered the cave. The 'Old Ones' outside were different from the typical brainless undead; they held spears but wandered without purpose, more like hollow shells than aggressive monsters.
"Death would be a mercy for them," he sighed. The worst change a man can undergo is to lose interest in everything. For these wretches, even dying was a luxury they couldn't afford.
He stepped into the Murkwater Cave. Immediately, he spotted two unnatural patches of tall grass flanking the entrance—clearly a man-made alarm. He jumped over them, scanning the interior. A group of men wrapped in rags were sleeping nearby. Had he stepped in the grass, hidden bells would have alerted the whole den.
"Bandits?" He noted their light gear, designed for ambush and quick movement. The cave wasn't deep; it had a few branches, most of them dead ends.
He followed a well-lit path into a larger chamber. Compared to the rest of the damp cave, this area was almost luxurious. There was a campfire, and behind it, a solitary treasure chest. Keeping his hand on his hilt, he approached and opened it.
Inside was nothing but a set of common cloth garments.
"A bit lean, isn't it? Where's this merchant?" Had the man already left?
"Ohoho?" A greasy, high-pitched voice echoed from a ledge above. "Trying to help yourself to someone else's property without a word, are we? Thieves like you deserve a divine reckoning!"
"Huh?"
The Tarnished looked up just as a bald man wielding a spear and a large wooden shield leaped down.
"Sss... hah! I should have known. It's you."
"Don't you 'it's you' me! I'm going to teach you a lesson!" The bald man charged behind his shield. The Tarnished simply shook his head and delivered a thunderous kick to the center of the wooden shield. The man went flying back, skidding across the dirt.
"It's been a long time... Patches."
"Ha... gah? Wait a minute, that kick..." Patches sat on the floor, his brain reeling. His left arm was numb from the impact—a very familiar kind of numbness. He scratched his shiny bald head, muttering to himself.
"Wait... BA-BA-BA-BAGRAM?!" Patches scrambled to his feet like a startled cat, rushing over to poke and prod the Tarnished.
"Get off me." The Tarnished slapped his hand away.
"Yep, that's the strength. You're the real Bagram," Patches said, nursing his stinging cheek.
"What do you mean 'the real' one?" The Tarnished asked, confused.
"Oh mate, you really don't know?"
"Spit it out."
"Look, you died in the Badlands, right? And you know me—I've got a real nose for danger."
"Liar. You're just a coward," the Tarnished retorted. Patches was the definition of a silver-tongued snake; there wasn't a scam he wouldn't pull.
"Hehe, I prefer the term 'survivor.' Anyway, I woke up earlier than most of the old guard. I thought I was the first one back, so I went back to my old trade."
"Wait. Did you rob my grave?!" Patches' 'trade' was stripping valuables from corpses. He was a professional looter. The Tarnished grabbed Patches by the ear.
"I—I was going to! No! I mean... I wanted to guard it! We're best mates, after all!"
"..." The Tarnished let go. "And?"
"When I got there, your gear was already gone. I didn't even know who did it. Then things got weird."
"I came to Limgrave shortly after, and guess what I heard?"
"What?"
"I heard that Bagram, the Raging Wolf, had teamed up with a few other Tarnished to found an organization called the Roundtable Hold."
"What?" The Tarnished blinked. "I wasn't even awake yet."
"Exactly, brother!" Patches rubbed his bald head.
"Someone's using my name?"
"Mate, your name is worth as much as Godfrey's among the Tarnished. You're a legend. Since your gear was stolen and almost no one from this era has seen your face, it was the perfect play."
"Unbelievable." To think someone was out there playing dress-up as him and starting clubs. "What else? Has he done anything embarrassing with my face?"
"Nah, not really. Though, he did claim he 'yearns to be the shadow of the Gods' and basically swore fealty to the Two Fingers."
"He said what?"
"He says that's why he's called the 'Raging Wolf'—a loyal beast to the empyreans." Patches snorted with laughter.
"And people believed him?"
"Most Tarnished here now are just descendants. They don't know the real you. They only know the stories. Your reputation is so high that he's got a whole following now."
"Wonderful... robbed my grave and my identity. I hope I catch him." The Tarnished was genuinely annoyed. Even death didn't grant a man peace.
"Hehe, well, now the 'original' is back. That poser is nothing compared to you—fancying himself a servant? You, Marika, and Godfrey were sworn siblings! You never bowed to them, let alone the Fingers."
"Stop flattering me. I need something," the Tarnished interrupted.
"Oh? What's the trouble?"
"I need something for an Omen. A strong one."
"Even you run into trouble these days... oh, right. None of us have our old power."
"Do you have it or not?"
"Hehe, lucky for you, our fates are intertwined! I happen to have just the thing. It cost me a fortune to get my hands on it, but for a mate? I'll give you a discount." Patches rummaged through his pack and pulled out a blackened, cursed object radiating a faint golden light.
"You recognize it, don't you? A Shackle. Designed to bind Omen blood."
The Tarnished took it, his eyes narrowing. "...This shackle..."
"What? Is it a dud?" Patches looked worried.
"No. It's perfect. Better than perfect." The Tarnished tossed a handful of Runes to him.
"Pleasure doing business! Hehehe."
"Stop that creepy laughing. Are those bandits outside yours?"
"Just a business arrangement." Patches crouched down into his signature deep squat.
"Still doing that, I see."
"You should try it. Good for the back."
"I'll pass. I have a favor to ask." The Tarnished looked at him seriously.
"Anything for a brother." Patches beat his chest.
"Find the man using my name. I'm tied up with the Shardbearers. You're a wanderer with nothing but time; you're better suited for tracking him."
"Ah, that's a tall order. Compensation?" Patches held out a hand.
"When it's done." The Tarnished slapped his hand away. He knew Patches; pay him upfront and he'd disappear or slack off.
"Fine, fine. Since it's you. But you better pay up when I find the fox."
"I'm not you, Patches. You'll get your due." The Tarnished glanced at him. "What about you? Planning to take the Capital?"
"Me? No way."
"Good. Because I'm going to kill the Greater Will."
"Oh... kill the Greater..." Patches froze. "HUH?! Are you mad?! Did someone steal your brain too? Don't go looking for death!" He fell backward onto his rear.
"Where's your spirit? After all these years, you should know I don't follow the rules."
"Well... aye. That's true." Patches sighed. "Just... don't die. I like having customers."
"Heh. If I do die, I'll count on you to carry my friends and lodge my headstone right into the bark of the Erdtree."