Maliketh, the Black Blade, whose very name once struck terror into the hearts of gods, had now regressed to a primal nature. Low, guttural growls echoed throughout the Bestial Sanctum as he continuously muttered the same broken phrases. He was no longer the majestic figure of old. Compared to the common beasts prowling the wilds, he still possessed a shred of reason and intellect, but one had to wonder how long this fragile state could endure.
"You've fallen far... Maliketh," the Tarnished said softly. He didn't say much else, simply sitting across from his old friend and watching him in silence. True eternity never existed in this world; the glory of dawn must eventually yield to the descent of dusk.
"Ah... you..." Maliketh—or rather, Gurranq, as he was now called—reached into the folds of his oversized robes. He pulled out a circular emblem. "Claw... for you," he rasped. It was a Sacred Seal for incantations.
In the Lands Between, beasts were symbols of wisdom, and many followers still revered the "Bestial Intelligence." In ancient times, beasts were often companions to the divine, sharing intricate bonds with the gods. To follow the path of the beast was to follow the god the beast served; thus, bestial faith was not considered heresy.
As Maliketh, he had gained many disciples after the Erdtree quelled the age of war. He taught them the ancient, raw power of the wilds through incantations. This seal was the very tool designed to channel that primordial strength.
"Power... Deathroot... let me eat..." Gurranq's throat emitted a dull, vibrating roar before he slumped onto the floor, unmoving. He had fallen into a deep slumber.
"Times change, and people with them... Marika, you, Godfrey, and even I... none of us are the grand figures we once were." The Tarnished gave a bitter laugh. Look at them now: a sinner, an exile, and a mad dog. Where was the majesty of the past?
"My host... please, do not grieve," Asimi's voice echoed from within, offering a rare moment of comfort.
"Who's grieving? We aren't dead yet, and as long as we're breathing, it isn't over. Life is a stubborn thing; it only ends when the soul is utterly extinguished," the Tarnished said, dusting off his armor. He gripped the Bestial Sanctum's mark, and a primitive, jagged sigil manifested before his eyes.
Closing his eyes, he recalled the ancient bestial lore. Bestial incantations were a unique breed of faith. Beasts worshipped raw power, and the spells they granted scaled with the physical prowess of the caster. Even though the Tarnished currently held no formal religious devotion to the beasts, his sheer, overwhelming strength was more than enough to drive these incantations. After all, he had witnessed the power of those claw marks firsthand in the past.
Opening his eyes, the Tarnished thrust his left hand into the earth. The sigil vanished, merging into his very being. His palm began to gather a sandy, earthen aura, and with a sudden heave, a massive boulder was wrenched from the soil.
Bestial incantations were simple and brutal: using a savage, iron-willed body to wreak havoc upon the environment. There were the erupting "Bestial Claws" that tore through the ground, and the terrifying "Bestial Sling" where rocks were hurled with a mix of strength and agility. There were massive boulders and swarms of jagged gravel.
True to their name, these spells could be unleashed repeatedly like a feral predator, their offensive tempo being so fierce and sudden that they could catch any enemy off guard. Unlike ordinary pebble-tossing, bestial strength drastically increased the mass of the rocks, making them as sharp and hard as high-grade steel armor. Depending on the caster's strength and faith, this reinforcement would only grow. Because these were not "divine" spells from a high god, but rather gifts from the most common and numerous of creatures, they were the most accessible to mortals. This "common touch" meant that a master could potentially surpass the power of the beast that granted the spell in the first place.
However, the physical requirements were much higher than other schools of magic, leaving very few who could truly master them. Faith-based incantations granted by gods were fundamentally different; gods stayed high above, while mortals could eventually overtake other mortals. Dragon Communion was similar, but Ancient Dragons were far mightier than beasts, requiring an extraordinary constitution to strike down a dragon and claim the power of the Red Lightning.
Faith was simply a proof that lost souls craved guidance.
As the Tarnished moved toward the exit, he saw a towering, pitch-black creature with wings standing guard, sword in hand. Its dark body was accented with gold—a Black Blade Kindred, a gargantuan Gargoyle sworn to Maliketh.
"A Kindred... it's been a long time." The Kindred were few in number but terrifyingly powerful. It wasn't just their size; what truly made them feared was that they wielded a portion of the Destined Death, much like the Black Knives.
But while the Black Knives had stolen that power, the Kindred were personally granted it by Maliketh. They were absolutely loyal and incapable of betrayal. They were beings formed from the fused remains of champions—akin to the fanged imps, but far superior in status and martial skill. They were called "Valiant Gargoyles." "Hero" was the highest honor for a mortal, for an Elden Lord was already transcendent, second only to a god.
The Kindred stood motionless at the gate, ignoring the Tarnished entirely. It clearly didn't view him as a target. This saved the Tarnished a great deal of trouble; if a fight had broken out here, the maddened Gurranq might have joined in. Facing both of them would be a tall order even with Asimi's help. Maliketh was mad and senile, but his strength was undiminished, and because he acted on pure instinct, his attacks would be more savage than ever.
Stepping out of the sanctum, the Tarnished looked down at a world of crimson. The earth was stained red, and the sky glowed with a dangerous, sickly light. This was no sunset; these were the colors of withering and death.
"Caelid... the Scarlet Rot... interesting. Let's see just how dangerous this land is."
"I see the situation now... and honestly, it's a bit too 'lively' for my taste!" The Tarnished was currently sprinting on Torrent, a swarm of diminutive Vulgar Militia and a massive dragon hot on his heels.
Their eyes were bloodshot as they chased him with suicidal fervor. More and more joined the pursuit until they looked like a rolling ball of limbs behind him. High above, the dragon circled, periodically drenching the path in flame.
"What did I ever do to you people?" Reaching a large bridge, the Tarnished slammed on the brakes. During the brief window when the dragon stopped to catch its breath after a fire-breath, he had Torrent double-jump. The Tarnished leapt from the saddle, landing a heavy crushing blow that slammed the dragon's head into the stone of the bridge. The Vulgar Militia swarmed up the dragon's body like a plague of locusts, ignoring the beast to reach for the Tarnished.
"Are the Black Blade's followers as mad as he is? They won't let up!" These "Vulgar Militia" were the disciples Maliketh had gathered during his time as a beast-leader. Originally, they were soldiers who guarded foul battlefields or forbidden zones, but Maliketh had reorganized them—some as personal guards, others sent to the Forbidden Lands leading to the Forge of the Giants. Naturally, they also possessed the power of the beasts.
"ROAR!!!" Having ants crawling all over you is never pleasant. The dragon let out a thunderous roar, the shockwave blowing the militia away. It whipped its head around, pouring a stream of incinerating dragonfire that burned the militia to ash.
As the dragon basked in its "victory" over the "ants," a blade suddenly pierced its skull. In its final moments, it saw the Tarnished looking down at it. Beneath his closed helm was the smile of a predator who had waited for the perfect moment.
"Thanks for the fire," the Tarnished said, exerting pressure and ending the dragon's life.
"Dangerous indeed. Who knows what other strange things are waiting ahead?" He shrugged.
After the chaos subsided, the Tarnished found a new Site of Grace at the end of the bridge. He could finally breathe. He had been chased by those militia for quite a distance; because he was so close to the Kindred and Maliketh, he had tried to avoid unnecessary combat. He had run south, only to find another dragon blocking the bridge. Now that he was far enough away from the sanctum, there was no need to keep running.
Melina appeared, gazing at the sky and then at the rotting earth beneath them. "Is this Caelid...? I can hear the soil screaming... a cry trapped in a cycle of endless pain." A trace of sorrow flickered in her eyes.
"Can you feel it? The vibration of the Starscourge's Great Rune," Melina said, looking toward the horizon. The aura of the Great Rune was coming from the south. Redmane Castle was waiting.
"You're starting to talk more," the Tarnished noted with a smile.
"Is that so? It... doesn't seem as difficult as I thought." Melina had improved vastly since their first meeting. Her voice, once as still as stagnant water, now carried a faint ripple of emotion.
"Have you remembered anything?" the Tarnished asked. Melina lowered her gaze and slowly crouched down to meet his eyes.
"I... seem to have been born from the Erdtree. I can feel it now... my 'Mother' within the tree. That is my origin."
"Mother within the tree? Marika?" The Tarnished immediately thought of the Queen. "Do you remember a father?"
"No," Melina shook her head. "I don't even feel like Marika is my mother in the conventional sense... but she is the one who gave me life. I have that intuition."
Not a mother in the conventional sense? Was Melina born through some special means?
"I don't know everything yet... but one day, I will remember my purpose. Thank you. Without you taking me across the Lands Between, I would have made no progress. I look forward to our journey ahead." A tiny, barely perceptible curve appeared at the corner of Melina's lips.
"Heh... that's a good look for you." The Tarnished reached out and took Melina's hand. This was the first time she had reached out of her own volition—not as part of a pact, but as herself. And this time, she didn't just show her palm; she presented her entire hand to him.
The Tarnished held it silently, feeling the texture. It was a pair of soft, white hands, yet they bore the distinct marks of severe burns. This was a secret Melina had hidden from the start, now shown to him willingly. It was a sign that the distance between them had closed once more.