No shame in it.

[blessedwithlove]

Its omnipresence was still daunting.

Even as its grip slackened, the Greater Will still dominated the land. The golden light of the Erdtree illuminated Limgrave day and night. Turn your back to it, and you would see its children, mere seedlings that towered over all but their progenitor. Cast your eyes down, and you would see a Tree Sentinel patrolling astride his horse. Twice the size of a lowborn knight, clad all in gilt finery.

There was scarcely a tree in the Lands Between without a golden cast to its leaves. Blessed with Grace-given life, said the Golden Order. Autumnal, said others. The end of a millennial season.

It was little wonder that the Tarnished were still captivated. Without a more intimate knowledge of the Lands Between, they saw only the Erdtree's radiance, not the bare and dying branches. They flocked toward it like moths.

What fools they were. Intelligent, some of them, but fools all the same. Generations of hatred and scorn upheld by the Two Fingers, and now they answered the call to service? How could one be so delusional as to think the Golden Order would truly welcome them home with love?

No. They were being used, and he felt no shame in doing the same. Those who stayed loyal were fitting sacrifice, providing the materials he needed to guide the doubting toward truth.

And then there were the particularly hapless. That last girl and her companions, good heavens. He'd almost wanted to follow them, just to spectate. But he had his calling to attend to. Tarnished sailing from the west found the beaches of Limgrave the only place to row ashore, and they all passed by the statue-topped monument of the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. He had his pick of them all here, and sent them off toward the brooding walls of Stormveil Castle. Lords, vassals, rich and wretched alike. They came to take the measure of the hills beyond, and to rest at its Site of Grace.

The pallid little thing swirled and danced, leaving uncomfortably moving afterimages on the eyes if one stared too long. But it was warm enough at night to almost render a fire superfluous, and it warded off the beasts that stalked and soared over the lowlands to the south. Even the Tree Guardian kept a respectful distance, the brainlessly devout pillock.

After years of bloody toil in war, sleeping in the dirt beside a symbol of everything he rejected wasn't that much of a hardship. Though on nights when rain blew up from the Weeping Lands or the sea air took on a particular chill, he was forced to retreat into the entrance to the grave itself. There were the occasional noises deep below, the senile mutterings of deathless nobility trapped in the subterranean graveyard. None of them had yet figured out how to operate the lift, and he doubted any of them would.

He couldn't decide if they were the unlucky ones, or if that honor went to the desiccated starveling pinned to a martyr's bough outside on the hill. It barely ever lifted its head, and fortunately, it hadn't voiced an opinion about anything in days. He was no longer a merciful and compassionate war surgeon, but if that thing interrupted his speech to a Tarnished again, he'd find that old mercy within himself and tear it to pieces. Perhaps he'd do it anyway, save him the trouble later.

Ah, no. That would have to wait. He could hear something coming.

Comments

[orokid]

The stab through her chest with her own sword, while faded thanks to the Void, still left an ache between her shoulder blades. How she was still alive was a surprise, every had looked and felt different when Ballas stabbed her. A Sentient-killing sword, her ass.

And now her warframe was nowhere to be seen. Just her, alone, with her amp and in a place she didn't recognize as anything from the origin system or the Void.

As she wandered out of the ruins she'd found herself in, avoiding what she could and killing the rest with her amp until she found a dagger, she couldn't help but think of how she missed hearing Ordis already and his wildly fluctuating mood. Or his bad impression of the Lotus.

Ugh. Lotus.

Her thoughts derailed when she slipped outside, shielding her eyes from the odd golden light from the tree that seemed to dominate the landscape. It reminded her, in no small amount, of the Orokin, and their love of the ornate. The Golden Lords and a Golden Light.

No point in sitting in one place and thinking of that though. It wouldn't get her home. So she continued her slow trek out into the field, eyes glancing around for anyone or anything helpful.

No doubt, the onlookers, it was clear that she wasn't accustomed to anything like this. Her gait was slow and careful, as if she'd forgotten how to walk, but was still strong and confident enough not to fall onto her face. Or knife.

[lastgod]

To awaken somewhere unknown to him was an experience all on it's own. He knew in an instant that it wasn't Anor Londo, he couldn't sense Ornstein or Smough nearby and guarding him as they always had, or the Fire Keeper of the city. And his legs-

His legs?

A pale hand reached down to touch equally pale legs, skin sensitive to touch.

His staff and bow lay nearby, normally one but the strange magic that stole away the snakes that replaced his legs seemed to have split his magic as well. Not that he could use much magic as it was, poison still coursing through his body thanks to Sulyvahn. There was enough in him for now though to make himself a quiver of arrows though, as he shakily pulled himself to his feet.

The undead here weren't entirely unlike those in Lordran, though he could tell they hadn't gone hollow. Not entirely. Odd. Still, he was able to use his magic arrows to cut through them and escape the musty old church.

The air outside had a chill to it and as he looked up to the night sky, he couldn't help but stare in awe. Anor Londo was always lit by the setting sun, he couldn't remember it otherwise.

When he finally dragged his gaze away, he could spot a figure in the distance, garbed in white. Tired as he was, still sick and weaker for her exertion, he forced himself over to the man, bow slung across his shoulders and clutching his staff until his knuckles turned why.

"You. Where in Lordran do I find myself?" It's rude, and he's usually better mannered, but he's too disoriented to care.