Demi-humans are one of the most ancient races in the Lands Between, governed by a rigid, absolute hierarchy. Their physical stature scales directly with their rank.
At the bottom of the ladder are the common Demi-humans, little more than stunted beasts. Above them sit the hulking Chieftains, and at the absolute apex of their tribal society reigns the Queen. They are a race driven almost entirely by base instinct; while not completely incapable of reason, the fall of night triggers a primal savagery that swallows what little intellect they possess. In short, they are a volatile element in an already fractured world.
"Old friend, there are more of them than I bargained for..."
Istvan gripped his heavy curved sword, eyes scanning the dozen or so small Demi-humans encircling them. Among the rabble were three or four larger specimens wielding massive clubs—symbols of their supposed "valor" in battle.
"What of it? We've faced far grimmer odds than this."
The Tarnished spun his blade into a flourishing 'sword-flower' before lunging. Within seconds, four of the creatures lay dead in the dirt.
"Fine strikes! Hahaha, it seems my concern was misplaced. I can't let you show me up!" Istvan charged in. The Demi-humans fought with a chaotic lack of discipline, relying on simple slashes, bites, and the occasional desperate ambush.
Soon, a low, guttural roar echoed from the depths of the cave. A massive Demi-human wielding twin blades scrambled toward them with terrifying speed.
"A Chieftain! Watch yourself—there's more than one!" Istvan raised his sword to parry a flurry of blows before using a shoulder check to create some breathing room.
While Istvan pinned down the first leader, the Tarnished made short work of the remaining runts. Just as the last one fell, a second Chieftain emerged from the gloom. This one was even larger than the first, possessing a frightening degree of speed and raw power.
"So, this is your target? The 'border-crosser' from the Weeping Peninsula?" The Tarnished asked casually, his hands locked onto the Chieftain's forelimbs in a test of strength he was clearly winning.
"That's the one! I'll leave him to you!" Istvan kicked his opponent's head, sending the creature reeling. Seizing the opening, Istvan brought his blade down in a final, decisive arc. The Chieftain let out a panicked shriek before going limp.
"Need a hand, partner? Ah... never mind." Istvan turned, only to see the second Chieftain's head already rolling across the cavern floor.
"Take this." The Tarnished tossed the severed head to Istvan. "With beasts like these, who value instinct over intellect, the remains of their strongest are the only thing that will keep them in line. This should keep the Peninsula tribes quiet for a while. Though, if they have a Queen down there, a mere Chieftain's head might not be enough of a deterrent."
"My thanks, friend. Truly. I... well, I'm afraid I have little to offer in return for such aid." Istvan looked genuinely embarrassed.
"Don't dwell on it. I got my Runes; the trip was worth it." The Tarnished waved him off.
"In that case, if you ever find yourself in need, seek me out. I am currently bound for Castle Morne... but once my task is done, I plan to settle beneath the Great Bridge in Limgrave. Look for my mark there."
"Understood."
"Then I shall take my leave. It's heartening to see a warrior of your caliber in this mad world. It gives me a bit of hope to keep moving." Istvan offered a respectful bow, his form dissolving into golden motes as he vanished from the cave.
"A polite one. You don't see many of those anymore," the Tarnished mused. "The Weeping Peninsula... Castle Morne. Perhaps a visit is in order."
He hadn't been present for the original siege of Morne. He only knew that after Godfrey had defeated the local Lord and absorbed the territory, the castle had remained largely leaderless. To hear it had a new Castellan was interesting.
Does Morne fall under the jurisdiction of Stormveil now? He vaguely recalled that after the Big Barbarian crushed the Storm Lord, the Peninsula had been annexed into the Stormveil territories.
He scoured the cave for anything useful. Aside from some wild herbs and a set of tailoring tools he scavenged from the local chieftain, the place was picked clean.
"Tailoring tools, huh?" He couldn't think of an immediate use for them. But better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.
Exiting the other side of the tunnel, he found the sun high in the sky. It was already day. "The flow of time is definitely warped. I was only in there for a few minutes."
He decided to head for the Weeping Peninsula. Not out of duty, but because he intended to map every inch of these lands. As for the Guidance of Grace? He didn't need a golden trail to find the Capital. He began his trek southward.
The journey was long and crawling with hostiles. To conserve his strength, he moved with the stealth of a ghost, avoiding unnecessary skirmishes.
Coming upon a vast, shallow lake, he decided to break for rest. Removing his helm, he looked into the water. It wasn't clear—it was murky and choked with silt—but it reflected a face of rugged intensity: sharp brows, a strong jawline, and eyes like a wolf's. Amidst his messy hair, a single, nearly imperceptible strand of burnt orange mingled with the ash-white.
"Hmph. Still as handsome as ever... pity looks don't count for much in this age." He shrugged at his reflection. His eyes, once vibrant, were now the faded grey of the Tarnished, filled with the weight of centuries.
"Hm?"
A massive shadow suddenly blotted out the sun. He looked up to see a colossal dragon gliding overhead. The beast unleashed a torrent of white-hot flame, incinerating a group of shambling undead in the distance. Their screams echoed across the water.
"A dragon? Here? How interesting."
He stood up, but he wasn't foolish enough to challenge it yet. Between the open terrain and his current gear, fighting a winged titan was a recipe for a shallow grave. He would return for its head later.
"A wise choice. You don't look like the suicidal sort."
A man wearing a large metal kasa hat and a long blade at his hip approached.
"And who might you be? An Easterner?" The Tarnished noted the unique weapon—a blade forged in the Land of Reeds.
In the old days, many cultures existed outside the Lands Between. He hailed from the frozen North, where curved blades ruled. The East sent warriors who called themselves Samurai, masters of the perfectly forged 'katana.' But eventually, all paths led to the Erdtree, as if drawn by an irresistible gravity.
"Sharp. I am Yura. You look like a newcomer... and yet, you don't."
"I haven't been back long. I didn't expect to find dragons roosting in Limgrave." The Tarnished glanced at the dragon, which had now settled down to sleep in the center of the lake.
"Its name is Agheel. This is his domain—Agheel Lake. Dragons are as beautiful as they are lethal." Yura gestured toward the charred remains of the undead. "Unless you wish to be burned to a crisp like those 'Lingering Ones' over there."
"Lingering Ones? What are those?" The man didn't remember seeing such hollow-like creatures in his time.
"Ah... you really have been gone a long time. They are those who live in death. They cannot truly die."
"What happened?" The Rune of Death was sealed by the Black Blade. When commoners die, they should return to the Erdtree. Why are they denied rest?
"It began with Godwyn the Golden."
"He is dead."
"?" Godwyn? The crown prince of the Golden Lineage? Dead?
"How? Explain."
"It happened on the Night of the Black Knives. Assassins wielding blades of stolen death murdered the Prince. Since then, the cycle of life and death has been corrupted. Those who Live in Death were born from that tragedy." Yura adjusted his hat.
"Unbelievable..." A weapon capable of slaying a Demigod? His 'nephew' was gone? Even if he died, he should have returned to the roots. Something was fundamentally broken.
"You have more questions, I see... but I have no more answers. I am but a hunter of the accursed."
"No matter. The truth always surfaces eventually."
"Just remember: if you value your life, stay away from Agheel. At least until you are prepared for a true hunt."
"Fair enough." The Tarnished conceded. Even a descendant of the Ancient Dragons was a force of nature.
"I've rested enough. Until we meet again, Yura." The man waved and turned back toward the path to the Peninsula.
Yura stood still, watching him walk away. "...Why does he smell of Bloody Fingers? Is it my imagination?"
He gripped the hilt of his long blade, Nagakiba, a flash of anger in his eyes. "I will not let you monsters have your way."
The road to the Weeping Peninsula was far from peaceful. To reach it, one had to cross the Bridge of Sacrifice. The terrain was a natural chokepoint, heavily fortified by the soldiers of the era.
As the Tarnished approached, he saw a garrison of mad soldiers. They didn't hesitate. A massive ballista groaned as it fired, the bolt whistling through the air with enough force to shatter stone.
With the grace of a seasoned warrior, the Tarnished wove through the fire, closing the distance until the garrison was silenced by his blades.
"Trolls pulling carriages..." He watched the giants hauling supplies toward Stormveil—resources stripped from the Peninsula.
"The Peninsula is a disaster, yet they still squeeze it for every drop. The Lord of Stormveil is a fool."
Beyond the bridge, the road stretched onward, littered with the corpses of soldiers, Misbegotten, and Demi-humans alike.
"What a mess."
He wondered how Istvan had traveled so quickly. Did he use the Grace? Every person's connection to the Sites of Grace was unique; some could see them, some couldn't. His own fractured network didn't affect others.
Perhaps it's the space itself, he thought. Rumor had it the Dragonlord who once governed Time and Storms had long since vanished. Without a central pillar, reality was fraying at the edges, a problem made worse by the shattering of the Ring.
That was why the Furled Fingers existed. In a world where time and space were no longer coherent, the golden signs provided a bridge between worlds.
"What a colossal pain in the ass."