Lucian had no desire to pass judgment upon the madman Nerijus. A lunatic is but a lunatic — there was nothing more to be said, neither of his thoughts nor of his deeds.
Yet, from the words torn from him under the knife, it was plain that the lives of Tarnished within the Lands Between were even harsher than Lucian had once imagined. Few could claim to have been strengthened so many times by their runes, as Nerijus had.
The Tarnished who gathered at the Roundtable Hold seemed to fare somewhat better, yet even they struggled to amass the runes needed to grow stronger. And for those unable even to reach the Hold — their fates could only be crueller still.
Most, it seemed, made landfall in Limgrave or upon the Weeping Peninsula. But to leave that peninsula was near impossible. None among them possessed steeds; and though Stormveil's great defenses faced toward Limgrave, with but crossbows pointed toward the Peninsula, even those scant defenses were more than enough to bar the way of newly-arrived Tarnished.
In Limgrave, Godrick's hunting squads prowled everywhere, soldiers ordered to hunt down any Tarnished they found. Perhaps Liurnia allowed landings, though Lucian could not be sure; if so, that land was surely kinder than Limgrave. As for Caelid, there were indeed many shores, but they were cursedly ill-suited — such as the beaches ruled by the Starscourge Radahn…
Lucian suddenly froze. "Damn it. I forgot to ask him about the Mohgwyn Dynasty."
He struck his forehead with his palm. He had slain Nerijus too quickly, thinking he had already wrung all that mattered from him. In truth, perhaps it would not have mattered — but ever since he had learned from Patches of the abandoned Mausoleum at Siofra River, he no longer dared assume the world would mirror the game so neatly.
He remembered well that the Dynasty held maps to hidden places. If such things existed here too, then its strength might prove far more insidious than before. When first he encountered the White Mask, Lucian had been too weak to oppose him, and still shackled by the game-born thought of joining the Dynasty.
But now he knew; save for the mad, none could belong to that accursed cult. And if that was the case, then the White Mask was no guide, but only a plague. He would need to be cut down, before more Tarnished were led astray.
Times had changed. Lucian was no longer a fumbling fledgling, struggling even against common soldiers. He was a warrior, tested and strong. Should he meet the White Mask again, there would be no mercy.
Yura, hearing Lucian's regrets, offered grim counsel. "'Tis no fault of yours. None among the Bloody Fingers can speak of their Dynasty's seat, nor of their Lord. We hunters have tried countless times. Never once have they broken."
He spoke with wearied frustration. Their knowledge was meager, and so their war had been fought only against wandering Fingers. To uproot the Dynasty itself was beyond them.
And yet, if ever its seat were known, Yura swore, the hunters would march unto death itself. For that was the oath they had taken.
Lucian gave a silent nod. Mohg had cloaked his Dynasty well. If he dared send forth Fingers to prey upon the Tarnished, then surely he had also forged iron chains to bind their tongues.
He prodded Nerijus' corpse with his boot, then turned to Yura. "Then he is of no further use. Shall we part ways here?"
Lucian intended to return to Castle Morne, to rest and to learn the sorcery spell of Freezing Mists from Elyssa, before pressing on to Stormveil.
But Yura halted him. "Wait. His spoils of war yet remain."
The hunter searched the body, and soon drew forth grim prizes; a pair of daggers that dripped ceaseless streams of blood, and three scrolls of vellum inked with the Dynasty's incantations.
He offered them to Lucian with both hands.
"You would entrust me with these? I thought you hunters shunned such accursed things."
Lucian hesitated. He had not intended to claim the relics. To him, they held little worth — save perhaps the Sanguine Nobles's Garb, which had a certain grim allure. He had thought Yura would sooner cast them into fire than allow their use.
But to his surprise, the hunter pressed them upon him.
"In battling these wretches, I have learned this well: to overcome them, one must be even less constrained than they. Their weapons are of fine make, some even strengthened beyond the norm. I will not wield them myself, yet I will not deny another the chance.
"As for these incantations… know this; the Fingers speak of blood, but their followers' faith is shallow. Desire alone is enough to draw upon them. You are strong. Strong enough to master such things. But remember this — do not let the blood master you."
Again, with solemn care, he extended the relics.
Lucian received them in silence.
"…You have my thanks."
But Yura only turned away, his back solitary and unyielding.
"From the moment I chose to hunt the Fingers, I forsook all else. It is our sworn duty. Do not thank us. To slay the Bloody Fingers — that is our burden, and our creed."
With that, he strode off, bound for the next hunt.
Lucian called for Anogo, and together they made their way back to Castle Morne. There, after paying the mercenary five hundred runes for his aid, Lucian parted ways with him.
At the castle's foot, Lucian set the weapon called Reduvia before him, studying its warped form. A serrated edge upon a crooked blade, slick and dripping always with blood.
It looked less a dagger, more a fang torn freshly from some colossal beast.
Already, the pouch that bore it had been soaked through, and Lucian had been forced to carry it openly on the road back.
He poured sorcerous power into the weapon. At once, the blood that coated its surface gathered into a swelling orb, trembling with unloosed force.
With a swing of the blade, the orb burst forth, lancing across the air — and severed a young tree clean in twain.
"…Its power is greater than I expected."
In his hand, it felt natural, balanced. A worthy weapon. Better yet, a pair of them.
Some quirk of his past as a player stirred within him: he had always favored paired arms. Even when he did not wield them, he sought to collect them.
"Still… the constant dripping blood is a nuisance. Hardly the easiest thing to carry…"