The world blurred for a moment, and when his vision cleared, the Tarnished found himself within an elegant, high-ceilinged hall. At its center stood a massive circular table, above which a colossal Site of Grace hovered, bathing the room in a warm, ethereal light.
(So this is the Roundtable Hold... the architecture seems to mimic the Royal Capital. I must say, the Grace here finally feels like the genuine article from the old days.) Compared to the flickering, feeble sparks found in the wilds of Limgrave, this was a roaring bonfire of divine energy—though in the golden era, this was merely the standard.
"Oho, a new Tarnished has arrived. It has been quite some time since we welcomed a fresh face."
While the Tarnished was examining the stone masonry, a man approached. He wore polished, porcelain-white armor and leaned on a staff topped with a silver hand showing five fingers. His attire was eccentric; his helmet was bristling with sculpted ears, and his breastplate featured a large, unblinking eye.
"You look curious... as a senior here, allow me to give you a brief introduction." The man's voice was measured and scholarly. "I am Gideon Ofnir. Welcome to the Hold, fledgling."
Gideon nodded with a hint of satisfaction. To his learned eyes, this newcomer radiated a potential far beyond the usual rabble that washed up here.
"I have no name. Just call me 'Tarnished'."
"Heh, once you achieve something of note, the world will find a suitable title for you. Until then, anonymity serves well enough." Gideon spoke with the air of a sage rather than a warrior.
"Fair enough." The Tarnished agreed. Names were often burdens; even the great Godfrey had been given his name by Marika to mark his new identity.
"The Roundtable is a sanctuary. You are safe here... however, as your senior, I must offer a word of warning." Gideon's tone sharpened. "For now, you are merely a guest—a passerby. It would be wise not to overstep your bounds."
Gideon wasn't targeting him specifically; he had seen too many "unbounded" newcomers treat the sanctuary as their personal lounge, squatting on resources without contributing a lick of progress.
"And how does one become a 'formal' member?" the Tarnished asked. Melina hadn't mentioned a membership fee.
"You truly are green. Very well," Gideon paused. "Kill a Shardbearer. Claim their Great Rune. That is the only proof we recognize."
"Great Rune? What's that?" In the old days, the demigods were simply powerful due to their lineage. There was no mention of "Great Runes."
"Fragments of the Elden Ring. When Queen Marika shattered the Ring, her children—the demigods—claimed the shards. These shards are the Great Runes. They grant terrifying power to those who hold them," Gideon explained.
"I see. So every demigod has one?"
"Indeed. Marika's children and their descendants are numerous, but all who claim to be 'Lord' hold a shard. It is a testament to how utterly the Ring was broken. Particularly powerful are the shards held by Radahn, Rykard, Ranni, Miquella, and Malenia. Oh, and of course, that 'Grafted' wretch Godrick, and the mysterious Veiled Monarch."
(Those first names...) The Tarnished noted the unfamiliar ones.
"I have said enough. Roam as you wish, but keep your hands to yourself." Gideon turned and limped back toward his study in the depths of the hall.
Great Runes... so killing Godrick is both a duty and a requirement. The Tarnished mused on the "generosity" of the Erdtree. He knew the Golden Order well enough to know it never gave away power for free. The shards were likely a trap or a test for a new puppet.
As he turned, he spotted a man in ornate, silver-filigreed armor stepping out from a corner. The man moved with a heavy, defeated posture.
(What's his story?) Even from a distance, the aura of gloom surrounding the man was stifling.
"Ah... I haven't seen you before. A newcomer?" the man asked, drifting closer. "I am... well, call me Diallos. Titles mean little in this wretched land." He hung his head, looking troubled.
"Just call me 'Tarnished'."
"No name? Well, suit yourself. Tell me, friend... have you seen a girl named Lanya?"
"Can't say I have."
"She is my servant... we grew up together."
(Ah, childhood sweethearts.)
"She's far too willful. She disappears in the blink of an eye, and I'm forced to search for her yet again. I'm truly fed up with this era," Diallos sighed, resting a hand on his hip.
"The Lands Between is a death trap. Why is she running off alone? She's either brave or foolish."
"I don't know! I've warned her a thousand times." Diallos's expression darkened. "Ah... it's all so troublesome." His already fragile confidence seemed to wilt further.
"Pull yourself together. She's your subordinate—and from the sound of it, you care for her. So go find her. Whether as her master or her friend, you owe her that much."
"I want to, but where do I even start...?"
"How long have you been apart? If it hasn't been long, I can rule out Limgrave and the Weeping Peninsula. I've scoured those areas and haven't seen her. Unless she's in a hole in the ground, that leaves Liurnia or Caelid."
"Liurnia... Caelid..." Diallos muttered, a spark of realization hitting him.
"Looks like you have a lead."
"Yes... thank you. I don't think I could have narrowed it down on my own." Diallos looked ashamed of his own incompetence.
"Then move. Stop standing around like a wilting flower."
"Right... yes! I'll go at once. Once I find Lanya, I shall repay this kindness." Diallos hurried toward the Great Table, fading away as he traveled back to the surface.
"Anxious and unsure of himself," the Tarnished watched him go. He wasn't a saint; he wasn't going to hold the man's hand, but he felt a strange pity for him.
He continued his exploration. The layout was hauntingly familiar—it was a near-perfect replica of a manor in the Capital. The man using his name must have spent significant time in Leyndell to recreate this place so accurately.
As he walked, a rhythmic clink-clank caught his attention.
"A blacksmith?" He had been looking for a master crafter. He followed the sound to a side room where a massive Misbegotten was chained to a pillar, swinging a heavy hammer against an anvil.
"Never seen thee before..." The blacksmith barely glanced up, his focus remaining on the red-hot blade beneath his hammer. "No matter. If thou hast a weapon to temper, lay it out. I shall work it."
The Tarnished wasn't offended by the smith's coldness. The hatred between Misbegotten and humans was ancient and deep. To be enslaved here and forced to forge for his captors' kin was a cruel fate; that he worked at all was a miracle.
"I do have something for you."
"Then bring it." The smith stopped, his weather-beaten eyes locking onto the Tarnished.
"Wait right here." The Tarnished vanished.
When he returned, he was lugging a massive set of golden armor—the remains of the Tree Sentinel's gear.
"Oho... thou bringest curious spoils." The smith's voice remained flat. He didn't care for the history; he only cared for the metal. "What is thy wish?"
"I want you to fuse this golden plate with this blade. Can you do it?" The Tarnished laid his Zamor Curved Sword on the anvil.
"?" The smith's eyes narrowed. "Where didst thou learn of such a craft?"
Fusing equipment with weaponry was a forgotten art. Most in this age only knew how to sharpen steel with Smithing Stones. They didn't know that weapons and armor could be merged through a specific, ancient resonance to share their properties.
It was a forbidden technique, frowned upon by the Golden Order.
"You don't need to know where I learned it. I can see it in your hands... you know the technique." The Tarnished stared directly into the smith's eyes.
"Thou..." The smith felt a chill. The pressure coming from this man was all too familiar. "What is thy relation to that Lord? How dost thou dare request the forbidden?"
"Think what you like. Will you do it? Or is the challenge too much for your hammer?"
"I will do it... there are few here to witness it anyway." The smith steeled his resolve. His duty was to forge a weapon capable of slaying a god; he couldn't afford to be picky about the methods.
"Good." The Tarnished leaned against the wall, watching.
The smith raised his hammer. Suddenly, the air around the anvil turned a misty grey, shot through with sparks of orange-red. CLANG! The Tree Sentinel's armor was shattered into glowing golden dust in a single strike.
"Hmph!" The smith struck again. The golden essence flowed from the dust like liquid silk. Using the flat of his hammer, he beat that golden silk into the cold steel of the Zamir blade.
Instantly, the frost energy dormant within the sword flared up. Icy mist clashed with the golden silk. The energy began to swell. The smith watched with total focus, waiting for the perfect moment of equilibrium.
Finally, at the peak of the tension, he delivered a thunderous blow to the center of the clashing forces. The impact forced the two energies to meld. His hammer became a blur, pounding the blade until the silver steel took on a shimmering, pale gold-and-blue hue.
The smith exhaled a cloud of steam, sweat pouring down his face. "It is done."
He gestured for the Tarnished to take it. As his hand touched the hilt, a dual aura of golden blessing and biting frost surged through his arm.
"Thou art a bold one..." the old smith rumbled. "Few would dare carry such a thing."
"And you are a master of your craft. You know exactly what this weapon signifies."
"I care not. My duty is to forge. I am a prisoner here; I cannot leave, and I cannot die. I seek no friendship, and I harbor no malice. I am a smith; thou art a warrior. That is our bond."
"I do not loathe the forge," the smith continued with a faint, grim smile. "Skills and time do not betray a man, regardless of his station."
"You have a pure heart, smith."
"A necessity of my cage... but thou... art thou truly..." The smith seemed to realize something.
"In this house, some names are best left unsaid," the Tarnished interrupted.
"As thou wilt. I am Hewg. If thou hast need of a hammer, seek me out."
"I will." The Tarnished nodded, leaving the forge with his newly reforged weapon.