rune-and-root

[rune-and-root]

The Hierophant - Alliance, captivity, servitude.

[rune-and-root]

astoran-exemplar​:

The affirmation came- a certitude, the gaps in it imperceptible to the ignorant eye. It mattered not if the Beast had spoken the truth in its entirety- it was a rational explanation, one that soothed the knight’s troubled thoughts… at least for the time being.

The Queen Eternal was a pragmatic sort, but no warmonger, and although she had deprived them of Grace herself, her benediction had returned it to them as well, granting them the opportunity to serve as they once did in eons past. Her age was one of life, was it not? What greater virtue could there be, than service to such a cause?

There is a quiet exhale from him. The Farsail’s tenseness was near indiscernible in the gloom, but that rigidity was dissipated, somewhat. The Beast was a kindred spirit, a wayward servant of Marika, embedded and surviving in this desolate crimson wasteland. He spoke of their duty knowingly, and the mariner-knight thus saw an opportunity for illumination.

The boon of any man of the cloth.

“A… plot, you say?” The Farsail inquires, in quiet disbelief. She had laid low ancient and terrible beings of old to further the Age of the Erdtree. The Demigods, born into opulence and splendor, indeed played a role in the Shattering War, but to conspire against her?

“Master Gurranq… this wound delivered unto her, was facilitated by the roots of death?” His tone indicated a gap in his knowledge- the Undead were a fairly recent phenomenon, but the grim truth of their origins still eluded him.

The beast listens again - he makes a show of it, leaning in a little to make his attention obvious. The motion distracts him from the nagging yawn in his stomach, though the claw upon opposite palm begins to worry the flesh more intently nonetheless.

“A plot,” the beast growls, after the knight finishes speaking. “A failure.”

The sight of the godling’s inert body, yet bleeding, the familiar mark upon his flesh, a sharp and jagged shadow amid the lank curtain of golden hair. The scream of grief.

The memory of blame - but no cruel mistress, HER, whether too distracted by HER sorrow to lay fault at his feet or too kind to break him further; no, it was left to him alone to pay penance for his languid watch and subsequent failure.

“I know not who slew the flowering son,” the beast mutters. “They that stole Death, and visited it upon he who deserved it least - they set this foul tragedy in motion.”

The deep growl susurrates from within his hollow chest, rumbling out past his lips despite his best efforts - he makes a clear effort to maintain his calm, and looses another long-suffering sigh. “And so we must tend to our dreadful garden,” he manages. “That is thy charge - to hew the spiteful weeds, and dig free the roots of death.”

He places the worried paw face down before the pattern he has half carved into the soft flesh of his palm becomes obvious.

“Wouldst thou heed a request, Knight Farsail?” the beast inquires, raising his head to turn one yellowed eye more clearly on the warrior. “Thou hast, no doubt, seen the risen dead upon thy travels?”

[rune-and-root]

astoran-exemplar​:

rune-and-root​:

The beast flinches.

[ continued from x with @astoran-exemplar ]

It’s the name that does it; the beast’s body tenses like a coil under extreme pressure, pressing low to the ground as though he’s prepared to lunge at the mention of HER.

He does not lunge.

Through an obviously intense effort, he relaxes every tensed muscle, one by one, loosening himself deliberately until he’s straightened again, loosing a long, growling sigh in the process.

“Thou…seek answers…thou sayst,” he breathes, pulling one paw to flatten itself across his aching chest. It feels so hollow at the mention of HER name - like a yawn, deep and wide and bottomless, that never completes.

“What…answers…hast thou found, amid the crumbling world?”

He’s almost pleading, and he hates himself for it, but here is a strand of the world before, dangling perilously close. He just needs to grasp it, to remember…

“Stay. Speak,” he murmurs - it’s not a demand, even if there’s an almost plaintive growl rumbling vibrato beneath the words. “Tell me what thou hast discovered.”

The Beast knew Marika. 

That much was immediately apparent. And he knew her not as the distant godhead, the voice of the Greater Will, no… this Gurranq seemed to have been intimately familiar with the Eternal Queen. Why else would he have reacted so, with such barely restrained fury?

Was he an enemy of the Golden Order?

A brief survey of the Shrine’s interior told the tale. Beasts fettered by ornaments of gold, bound in service. Flames licking at the surface of mottled stone. A canid muzzle poking out from aged leathers. Gurranq’s lifestyle was undoubtedly an ascetic one- an existence built on discipline and the denial of his baser urges.

The Beast was at war with itself.

He could discern the unspoken request of the Cleric in the low growl of his voice. Melancholic, and pensive. What had he discovered during his journeys? His was a thoroughly incomplete understanding of the situation- pieced together solely from observation, circumstance, and effort. 

He set his hand on the telescope he kept within reach, briefly running a finger through its cylindrical length. A reflex, and nothing more.

“…It is a queer thing, to call these Lands home. I knew them not- not as you do, Master Gurranq.” The Drift-tides were his, the ancestral seat of House Farsail. 

The Lands Between were ephemeral- a promise that was never meant to be fulfilled. Until it was.

“I know now why the stars remain fixed atop this grand Firmament.” He began, watching the Beast for a discernible reaction beneath his ragged hood. “That Grace guides us to those who bear the shards of the Elden Ring, that we might bring them together once more, and brandish it. That an ancient city fell from the sky, its crumbling foundations now littering the lands as yet more ruins.”

He paused- a flash of memory overtaking him; bluish eyes, tinged with red.

“…we Tarnished are hunted, now. Slain for adhering to the will of the Queen Eternal. We slay in her name in turn, but some among us turn from the path, from the light of the Erdtree. And these are called Recusants, Cessbloods, Blasphemers, and worse.”

The Farsail allowed a moment of silence to pass between them, almost as an assurance that he was unlike such wretched souls. 

“I know that it t’was the children of the Divine Lineage that unmade the World. In their lust for power, they saw fit to uproot what the Queen Eternal had fashioned. 

Even those blessed by the Erdtree, it seems, feel the call… to grasp at something beyond…”

He recalled the Grafted One’s words- his invocations to the Erdtree, and its rays of gold.

“…I know the path ahead is that of a Butcher’s. I know that it should be enough, for I am Tarnished. And still, I am troubled… for the Queen does not answer us. 

Tell me, Master Gurranq- if the Erdtree still stands, why has this unacceptable state of affairs been allowed to continue? 

…Is it, all of it, a test?” 

The beast listens intently; the snout peering from his leathered hood twitches occasionally as the knight speaks. All titles, no names - the careful concession of a considerate man, at least. The deference puts the tensing beast at ease, and talk will distract him from the gnawing hunger in his aching gut. 

No steel free, no claws out. A conversation. A chance for answers, for remembrance. A chance to soothe the faith of another, and by extension, soothe thine own. Reply, beast.  

Like a civilized creature.

“Our queen eternal hath a wound,” he murmurs. “A fetid plot tore out her heart - foul deeds did unmake her, and then the ring.”

He draws himself back, straightening a little, arching his coiled back. The memory is too distant to still be so sharp - but the beast places his left paw over his upturned right, almost idly drawing a claw against the gentle flesh. Not deep enough to cut. Deep enough to remind him, however.

“It is as thou sayest,” he continues. “The sewn weeds did seek out shards of gold for their own, and tore the land asunder in their selfish war. Now the roots of death-”

The word hovers on the edge of a desperate breath as the hunger wrenches anew, and he pauses for just a beat too long -

“-draw deep, and thine kind are called upon to undo their undoing.”

Despite the hunger, and the pause, there is no further tremor in his voice - rather, the absolute surety of faith, and he hopes it is enough to steady the knight’s faith in turn. 

“Our queen eternal cannot answer for the same reason a drowning man cannot spare a breath,” the beast says. “There is no test - only the blessed burden of lifting her reckoning from her shoulders.” 

[rune-and-root]

He sits quiet, for a time.

[ continued from x with @yellowfingcr ]

The beast makes an obvious effort to shift his bulk, creating a space nearby him for Heysel to sit. 

She’s a determined hunter, he’ll give her that - to see the ache on her face reflect the hollow in his stomach stems the hunger, if only a moment, as the beast turns his focus to the comfort of his associate.

“Stay,” he murmurs. “Thou...comes not empty handed...as long as thou...brings thy company.”

[rune-and-root]

The beast flinches.

[ continued from x with @astoran-exemplar ]

It’s the name that does it; the beast’s body tenses like a coil under extreme pressure, pressing low to the ground as though he’s prepared to lunge at the mention of HER.

He does not lunge.

Through an obviously intense effort, he relaxes every tensed muscle, one by one, loosening himself deliberately until he’s straightened again, loosing a long, growling sigh in the process.

“Thou...seek answers...thou sayst,” he breathes, pulling one paw to flatten itself across his aching chest. It feels so hollow at the mention of HER name - like a yawn, deep and wide and bottomless, that never completes.

“What...answers...hast thou found, amid the crumbling world?”

He’s almost pleading, and he hates himself for it, but here is a strand of the world before, dangling perilously close. He just needs to grasp it, to remember...

“Stay. Speak,” he murmurs - it’s not a demand, even if there’s an almost plaintive growl rumbling vibrato beneath the words. “Tell me what thou hast discovered.”

[rune-and-root]

astoran-exemplar​:

The growl is enough to startle the Farsail from his endeavors. He had been busy examining the contents of this odd shrine, so unlike the holy sites consecrated to the eternal Queen and her red-haired Consort. 

The imagery here was bestial in nature- carved depictions of dragons holding themselves atop open flames, lupine entities shackled to unyielding pillars of stone by golden bands, and, at the base of the brazier, the ominously depicted, snarling countenance of a stone lion, a commonly repeated motif in the interior.

Despite the thundering, powerful intonation of the beast’s call, the knight’s hand does not immediately fall into its reflex of drawing his weapon. Nearly everything that had attempted to take his life up until this point had not bothered to speak- a Tarnished that had returned to the lands which spurned his kind was an open target, after all, and an utterance alone was already a jarring break from the norm.

Courtesy… from a beast.

“My apologies sir, I was seeking respite from this unceasing gale-” The enormity of the creature that stood before Aven was now growing increasingly apparent, voluminous robes undoubtedly concealing an immense and powerful form. A keeper, perhaps, of this sacred place?

“-I am Sir Aven, of the noble House Farsail. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The beast takes a deep breath, drawing in the scent of this...Aven. 

A Tarnished. Must be of some skill, to find their way out to these barren, wind-scarred hills - lesser dragonkin roam free here, to say nothing of the red rot to the south. 

The muted yellow of his eye flicks back and forth, taking in armor, equipment, stature - a warrior, yes. 

Hm.

“I am...Gurranq,” comes the reply, low and deliberate, words plucked carefully from the roiling consciousness dancing lively in the beast’s stare. “Thou art...strong to have traveled here.”

One clawed hand rises slowly to gesture with a talon toward the open door, and the scouring winds beyond. 

“What brings...thee to Dragonbarrow...Sir..?” 

Names are difficult - arranging the sounds for comprehension and pronunciation proves tricky when separating thought from base and howling hunger, and the beast takes a moment to ensure the sound is pronounced as he heard it. 

“Aven?”

[rune-and-root]

The tension was like a sinew, pulled taut.

He remembers the days of stewardship; he remembers golden flowers, all blooming at once, their stems held tight and their faces up, each and every one of them fearful of the pruning.

SHE never pointed to a one, of course. SHE never asked him to raise the shear and cull a single one of those golden blossoms - after all, SHE didn’t want any one of her children to die. 

Not the horned, not the cursed, not the beautiful, not the golden. 

But still, SHE had given him the shears, HER frightful gardener, and so they had feared him, and some part of his heart still remembers the thrill of watching them all shrink away when he neared - not out of disgust, not out of disdain, but fear that he 

might

stop.

It curls his lip past sharpened, clenched teeth to think of it now - his ward, his rune, stolen away for the dark end of that perfect and golden boy. It pulls his shoulders taut to listen, again, again, to the phantom echoes of HER shrieking her child’s name. 

His paws flex, dragging claws across giving stone, drawing deep and practiced gouges in the church’s crumbling floor, to think of how they squabbled like petulant children in the wake of HER despair. 

Each and every flower now a weed, tangling their foul roots amid the Erdtree’s base like lovers’ fingers, rotting the land from the inside out.

There used to be order, here. There used to be fear.

It is hard to think of it without the rage spilling over, and the beast’s body trembles like a tightened bowstring, ever threatening to snap and fire.

[rune-and-root]

The scent rankles.

It isn’t deathroot - it’s something more lively, something bright and burning, still bloody and dancing…

The scent of life is enough to disturb his meditation, and the beast lurches forward as he angles his neck to turn one yellowing eye on the intruder.

“Who…goes there?”

[rune-and-root]

The scent rankles.

It isn’t deathroot - it’s something more lively, something bright and burning, still bloody and dancing...

The scent of life is enough to disturb his meditation, and the beast lurches forward as he angles his neck to turn one yellowing eye on the intruder.

“Who...goes there?”

[rune-and-root]

It is quiet in the church.

There is so little in the way of noise here, situated so far into the scarlet blighted lands. The local creatures know, deep in their rot-addled minds, not to venture past the archway; there is naught here for them. 

The most local creature of all, however, sits crouched at the rear of the Sanctum, watching the doorway from beneath the tattered hem of a hood draped over his long snout. 

The occasional motion of the hood suggests the beast is breathing, but the rest of him sits stock still beneath the hempen cloak. 

It’s a manufactured quiet - something he prefers, something he has constructed and maintains studiously, a method of meditation and calm that stems the gnawing hunger. 

The quiet reminds him of his duty. The quiet reminds him of the grave. In this, he finds a measure of solace and satisfaction. 

It is a small measure, but to the proverbial drowning man, any measure of air is a miracle, is it not?