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

[blessedwithlove]

"Whatever flame you worship was snuffed out by Marika's armies, as were your lands." Or lay beyond the fog. In any case, it was--he didn't know. He would have thought it irrelevant any other night, but with what he'd just seen...

"You rose from the grave," he gestures with his empty hand to the structure that loomed over them. Where that sister might still be, for all he knew. "What roused you?"

It was difficult not to glance at the moon, or worry openly about the thing that fell into the waves. This haughty figure had to be connected to it somehow.

[lastgod]

No.

No!

His grip on his staff slips and he shakes his head, ignoring the sound of it hitting the ground. He was ill, not dying. And no word of any other gods moving into Lordran had been uttered near him.

"I have not died. No one would dare slay the Dark Sun." They would and he knows it but to admit defeat or weakness so easily wasn't an option. Following the gesture though, he couldn't deny that this was a place for the dead. It was almost too much, vision a bit blurry and he shakes his head again.

[blessedwithlove]

"If they did, it obviously didn't stick," Varré replied, acid rising in his tone. He'd not moved, but he was tense, eyes a little too wide behind his mask. "You can be excused for rudeness on that account, I suppose. But the question is important, so I ask again. What woke you?"

[lastgod]

His head snaps to look towards Varré, world spinning with the movement and forcing him to place a hand against the wall for support. The brief thought of how much of a relief death might have been crosses his mind but is just as quickly brushed aside.

"I do not care for your tone." His own voice fills with ice and he scowls at the man. "Nothing roused me but mine own self. And the realization that I was no longer in Anor Londo."

He's exhausted but he grips the wall tightly. He can't show how frail he's become, can't collapse here.

[blessedwithlove]

There was no hiding how weak this one was. A stiff breeze might blow them away. That they were armed was no great concern. It was what else they might signify.

He ignored the commentary, pushing onward. "Nothing else. No flame of yours, nor water?" The sea ran right up against the grave's depths, didn't it?

[lastgod]

Flame or water?

"I have never set eyes upon the First Flame. That is a blessing belonging to the Lord of Sunlight and the Chosen Undead." With his affinity to the moon, and his skill for magic, he would never have been deemed worthy to link the fire.

"I do recall the sound of waves down below, if that is what you speak of. I had more pressing matters on my mind."

[blessedwithlove]

The words were utterly meaningless to him. There was reference to the Tarnished, perhaps, but the rest was gibberish. "And what do you recall of the moon?"

[lastgod]

It was almost offensive how he was being pushed for answers and given little. No, it was offensive. No one had been so forward with him in his life.

"I've an affinity for the moon and the magic that comes of it." He's tired of talking in circles already and leans down to take up his staff once more, struggling to his feet.

"I require a place to rest if you insist on interrogating me further."

[blessedwithlove]

Carian, then. Or some ancient antecedent. And absolutely tied to what just happened. This could not be coincidence. Maybe the disturbance roused those of the moon queen's lineage. But that seemed almost... too neat.

"There's no shelter here but the grave, or grace," He gestures to the mote. The dirt around it shows signs of the scouring gale. but it glimmers unchanged, as does the ground that sits downwind of it. Entirely immaterial, and yet immovable.

[lastgod]

And neither option was especially appealing. The grave had been chill from the start and whatever the grace was, it didn't seem to put off much heat. Not that there was been much warmth to Anor Londo these days either. At least staying here offered protection from the elements.

"I'll remain here then unless it gives off enough heat for comfort." It also afforded him the chance to hide how winded he would be if he tried getting to the grace.

[blessedwithlove]

This was such farce. Perhaps he was still dreaming. The world split open with horrors he did not comprehend, and then some long-dead saint rose from the grave with all the grace of a concussed octopus.

"Why else should one rest beside the dead?" There was the edge of a laugh bubbling in his words now. "It is no flame, but there is heat. Come sit, or the grave may take you again."

[lastgod]

Gwyndolin resists a groan but the man has a point. Staying there might just end up killing him and what good would that be for anyone? His own pride resisted the thought as well, not wanting to give Varré the chance to be too smug.

"Very well." Comes a sigh, looking out to the grace and taking a breath. Suddenly, he wished he'd had skill with miracles, anything to make this short trek more bearable.

Although one step forward had the world tilting and he instinctively reached out to grab something, anything, for balance. And it happened to be Varré.

[blessedwithlove]

He watches, making no move to assist. Perhaps this one will die regardless. So unsteady and weak--

Then, sudden movement. As limp weight tries to drag him down, instinct cannot be denied. His empty hand grabs the wayward royalty by the shoulder and forcing him to the ground first,, following him down to kneel in the same motion. Less than a second's passed, and he has the frail thing pinned, and a knife at their throat.

"Have a care, princeling," his voice is tight. There's a wildness to his eyes, but most of all, there is focus. Any untoward twitch, and he will react. "You've awoken to a land of many dangers. Do try not to startle those that would help you, hmm?"

[lastgod]

The world spins, the air is his lungs is forced out suddenly, and it takes a moment too long for him to realize he's on the ground or that there's a knife at his throat. He can't even put together anything after stumbling and reaching out.

The landing had knocked his crown loose and unfocused blue eyes stare up at Varré in shock.

"If you wish to kill me, do it. I've no strength to stop you." The exhaustion creeps into his voice and he realizes suddenly how his snakes had offered him extra protection if this should ever happen. Damn whatever force had brought him here.

"I am not unfamiliar with danger. Gods have many enemies, the Dark Sun is no exception." What a weak little god he is now though, brought down by a wave of dizziness and a stranger with a knife.