No shame in it.
Apr. 21st, 2022 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blessedwithlove posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
spiderparlourIts 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.
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.
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no subject
Date: 2023-02-28 07:00 am (UTC)Not like Varré and his lord, mysterious as the latter still was. In a world where so many people were almost out of their minds and a higher power that didn't give a damn, Varré showed a good example of what the world needed. And if he was symbolic of the rest of the dynasty-
She wanted to help, wanted to see this world improve. It had promise, not everyone was lost. And... it already felt like she'd found a family. Something she hadn't had in a millenia.
"I'm sure that they will. We can show them." Even if it was perhaps too early to consider herself part of it all, Ayatan couldn't help her words or the hope of it.
no subject
Date: 2023-02-28 04:29 pm (UTC)The Grace floated placidly as they approached, utterly without heed to the breeze that blew down from Stormveil. "Tend to your wounds first, dear one, then we can test the limits of what Grace may provide its foes."
no subject
Date: 2023-03-19 02:45 am (UTC)What wounds she has were dealt with quickly and easily before she settled, setting her dagger and amp off to the side in the of chance they have time to get any sleep. Varré clearly had ideas in mind and, for now, she was content to go along with the flow of things.
"How do we start?"
no subject
Date: 2023-03-20 04:23 am (UTC)Golden light would press against him and through him, a blinding flash, and flesh restored. If he was exhausted and slept, then he would be renewed and awoken. If he was wounded and could not hold a knife, all would be repaired.
And if death found him, Grace seemed to be there also, in that same moment. His pain and blood mixed suddenly with gold, and he would be returned to the camp, appearing amongst the living yet again.
He grew to hate it so. For on the days when Grace was given, there would be no rest. Their bodies were restored, what else mattered to their scheming lords?
Luminary Mohg did him such kindness, to free him from Grace's awful clutches. For so long now, the golden light has simply parted around him, like water against unfeeling stone. It has been blessed relief, a gift he accepted so gratefully.
And so in the name of his Lord, he has willingly returned to Grace. Not to be its plaything, but to take from it.
The light rises from the little mote, and the light washes over him, blinding him. Not with gold, but red. The pain flares again, every vein aflame for the briefest moment that almost brings him to his knees. Instead he stands, transfixed, slowly realizing what's been done to him.
He can feel it. Every movement of his fingers reverberates with the tiniest motes of light, a connection as delicate and ensnaring as spidersilk. Every flex and twitch pulling at it. At the runes that cling to Ayatan.
"Oh dear one, it worked."
He sinks down to kneel there beside her, eyes wide and gleaming with the light that still flickers there, like red motes of Grace. They leave him half-blind. Perhaps they'll fade, once they're no longer needed. Perhaps they'll stay. In this moment, he doesn't care.
"Runes will be your strength. The Greater Will cannot keep that from you."