A black background. Margit: Foul Tarnished... Margit: In search of the Elden Ring... Margit: What have you come to the Lands Between for? Margit: A promise of grace... Margit: ...falsely - nay, evilly given... Margit: ...by a queen mad without hope.
Margit's feet, ready to jump. Margit: Lay your foolish ambitions to rest. Margit: You will not see a single leaf of the Erdtree. Margit: Have it writ on thy meager grave:
Back to Meilyr's telescope. The shadowy figure jumps. Meilyr: Ohh! The bloody fool! He jumped! Rogier: What? What is it you see?
Meilyr: He's going to kill...him... The figure grows bigger and bigger into view.
Margit falls on Stormgate, kicking up dust and cracking the stone beneath.
The dust subsides. Margit arises, strong, superhuman in fact. Margit (his thoughts): Vanquished, by Margit the Fell!
Reane trembles, her foil pointed upward.
She falls, dropping her foil. Reane: M-m...
Reane: Margit, the Fell Omen! Slayer of Tarnished!
Rhys: ... Morrowe: He's an ugly piece. Look at the horns on his head!
Meilyr: He's strong! D'you see how high he jumped! He could catch birds with one hand! Rhys: You fools, straighten up! This is no mere warrior we're trucking with!
Rhys: Foul Omen, I am a Shard- Margit brutally smashes his staff on the Samurai.
Rhys looks beside him in horror.
The samurai lies on the ground, her helm smashed, her armor cracked.
Gareth rushes to the Samurai. Gareth: Hey-!
Margit puts one hand around Gareth's shield.
Margit picks the shield up; Gareth's legs dangle in the air. Margit: So, you're the one who set up this mad march?
Gareth: I... I...
Gareth: Yes, it was I! To free this land of foul beasts such as -
Margit shoves the shield into the ground, Gareth beneath it.
Margit pushes even further, with blood squeezing out.
Margit: Fool. No mortal deserves to step foot on the very ground of the demigods.
Margit: And those who should know better, following fools: the same punishment.
A dark-blue sword emanates from Rhys's staff. Rhys: And here I thought I saved myself some effort from that bloody tree warrior.
Rhys lunges at Margit.
Rhys thrusts forward, but Margit stops it with a magical dagger, of gold, conjured in his free hand. Margit: What a pitiful light you shine, shardbearer.
Margit knocks him backwards, by planting his staff into his stomach.
Rhys reels from the pain; the staff punched through armor. Margit: Some knight, you are. Cut up books, and a prone woman, too...
Margit: You Tarnished are watered-down, sniffling through the dregs of the Shattering. Respect shouldn't be accorded you; I would rather honor a tick-bitten, rash-sickened dog.
Reane puts her foil down and kneels before Margit. Reane: Sir, I bear no enmity for you nor your kind. We have come for Godrick's rune; but, this is your gate, as you have shown. Please, let me and my friends go.
Margit: You...you, hold onto Godrick's rune? You think such presumption - nay, such insolence should go unpunished? Margit's eyes are lit with anger.
Margit: And you think I'm so stupid as to not know what the Tarnished are plotting?!
Reane: Sir, I know not what mistrust you hold against the Tarnished, but -
Meilyr bashes Margit in the head, his club glowing with bright blue magic; Rogier is in the background, his glintstone staff humming with magic.
Reane picks up her foil and stabs Margit's big toe.
The blade does not sink through.
Reane: T-thick!
Margit swats Reane away.
Margit holds Meilyr with both hands.
He then strains every muscle in his hands, crushing Meilyr. Bones can be heard cracking.
After wringing Meilyr like a dish rag, he steps forward, crushing Reane under his foot like an insect.
Margit, to the remaining Tarnished: I'm not insensible. Pick up your arms, and die as warriors.
Margit, his eye inflamed. Margit: That is what Marika destined for you, is it not?
Morrowe, furious, flies at Margit, his scimitars dancing. Margit's cloak flutters behind him.
Margit picks up his arm. Margit: Hmm...
His arm has but little scratches on it. Margit: But hen-pecks...
Morrowe tries to cut again, but his blades only meet dead air. Margit has evaded by standing on his free hand, mocking the Tarnished with his physical superiority.
Morrowe points his blades against Margit's eyes.
Morrowe is stopped. With one simple push of his staff, he stops Morrowe's assault. He is back on his feet.
He tips his staff upward, bringing Morrowe up; Morrowe's scimitars clatter on the ground.
With one swoop he crashes Morrowe down onto the ground.
Meilyr, his torso crushed, his face brutalized, and his breathing ragged, is prone.
He gropes for his club. He instead finds something else, a black object.
It is Margit's Shackle. He holds onto it; it pulses with magical energy.
Golden shackles rain from the Erdtree, same as its rays.
The shackles bind Margit's arms and legs. Margit: Hrrgh!
Rhys brings up his staff.
A single, dark-blue lance shoots forward, aimed at Margit's heart.
The tip strikes. Only but a faint drop of blood falls.
Rhys pushes forward, with all strength.
Margit: This ancient humiliation...come to haunt me again...
Margit shatters the chains in a show of strength and vehemence. The lance also breaks.
With one swipe of his tail he bludgeons Meilyr and the shackle, breaking it into pieces.
Rogier casts Magic Downpour; glintstone showers Margit. The glintstone has the sound of hammers striking Margit's skin. He shrugs it off, his hand on his staff.
Rhys lunges forward. Margit prepares his golden dagger.
Margit slashes; Rhys ducks.
A great, dark-blue broadsword enters Margit's side, somewhat deeply; blood comes out thickly. Margit: Well, well...
Margit throws his golden dagger at Rogier, who buckles in pain.
With a firm movement of his hand, Margit removes the broadsword. Rhys trembles.
Yellow blood oozes from the wound.
Margit picks up Rhys by his helm. Rhys: V-villain...you don't have one drop of red blood?
Margit: No, I'm not so fortunate.
Margit brings one mighty knee upward into Rhys's chest. Margit: How...
Margit retracts the knee back. Margit: ...dare you...
Margit smashes his knee into the chest again, cracking the armor. Margit: ...draw my blood!
He, with contempt, throws Rhys away.
A defiant Rogier, pointing his rapier, faces him.
Margit raises his staff.
Firmly, and with paternal condescension, he pushes Rogier's glintstone staff aside.
He taps Rogier's foil onto the ground.
With one hearty smash, he reduces Rogier to a pulp on the ground.
Margit faces the Prophet. Margit: Well?
The Prophet makes the sign of the Discus of Light.
Margit's face is shrouded in resentment.
The Prophet is beaten into a pulp. All of his foes defeated, Margit ponders through Stormgate, listening to the whistling wind.
Margit sits down on a stone, propping his hands up with his staff. Margit: This unsightly march is over. The Erdtree's fool will best the others, methinks, if they are made of the same stuff as these. And if not; well, I shall stay awhile.
A hand twitches on the ground. Margit: Hmmm...
The samurai has picked herself up; he is propping herself up with her sword. Her helm cracked, her features are shown, showing she does not look quite like the other Tarnished.
Margit: You...are a Reedlander, yes? I feel pity for you.
Margit: Do you even have the tongue of these lands? Snatched away from thy land, to fight in some fool's war...
Margit raises his staff high above his head. Margit: You are strong, more than the others. Be proud.
Margit smashes his staff downward again.
He looks at the bloody remains of the Samurai, almost with a look of pity.
Her hand twitches again.
Margit presses his staff against her hand. Margit: Come on, this is unsightly.
She pushes herself upward with her other arm.
Margit brings his staff down again.
His face. He is almost moved with emotion.
The two hands twitch again.
The hands push upward. One grips onto the katana.
The samurai draws her blade before Margit.
Margit: Incredible... What compels you to fight onward?
In the Land of Reeds. The Samurai is wounded, weary, streaking blood over a battlefield, where her dead comrades lies.
She turns one corpse around.
The corpse's eyes are glazed white.
She presses both fists down into the mud, tears streaming down her face.
She presses a Wakizashi to her throat.
A grain of light flies through the foul air.
The grain drifts into her eye, brightening it.
An ethereal hand pushes the dagger's hilt gently down. Miquella is offscreen. Miquella: Put down your blade, down-of-heart. No more blood shall be shed today.
The Samurai bows down before Miquella, awesome in his radiance. Miquella: I, Miquella the Kind, will take upon my flesh all of your woes, Last Of Your Kind.
Margit's eyes widen. A faint glow is offpanel.
The Samurai's eyes have a faint glow of gold. Margit: Her - her eyes! Gold streaks them! She has the guidance of grace!
Margit picks up his staff. Margit: I must put her down once and -
Margit notices another light behind him.
It is the Prophet's hand, engulfed in flame.
Narrator: It is human, to touch fire and come out scarred.
A view of the Erdtree, in its former splendour. Hands are opened to it, begging for grace. Narrator: The Erdtree is a whole. It is neither a means, nor a metaphor. Narrator: A blessing by the Erdtree, is a blessing. Grace by the Erdtree, is grace. Narrator: Once, to drink from the Erdtree's sap, was to drink from the fountains of life itself. To be buried in the Erdtree's roots, was to lay in bliss for ever. Narrator: To have sat beneath the Erdtree's boughs, and behold its rays, was to have one's heart filled with love.
A fire. Narrator: Fire, then, is heresy, not to the Erdtree, but to the gods and the Greater Will themselves. An affront to goodness, beauty, and truth.
The fire in the Prophet's hand. Narrator: Fire crept on his hand and did not burn him. What an absurdity. A joke. To be born so miserable. Narrator: Tears did not fall from his eyes to quench the flame, though he loved the Erdtree and Marika plenty. And that is because, he long saw it:
The Lands Between, set ablaze. Narrator: Leyndell, the Erdtree, and the Lands Between, engulfed in flames. In a vision, or a madness. Narrator: Marika...why didst thou give this poor fool eyes?!
The Prophet hurls the ball of fire at Margit.
The fire lands; Margit is set ablaze. Margit: Ahh!
A memory, or some kind of echo, of Miquella touches the Samurai's Uchigatana, blessing it. Miquella: My child, I bless your blade. Strike true!
The Samurai holds her blade up, a surge of light engulfing her.
She brings it down onto Margit's flesh, giving him a long gash.
The Erdtree pulses with bright light, as if giving assent to her strength.
Rogier, on the ground, groaning in pain. He touches his cursemark. Rogier: It's been so long...
Margit: Yes, it's been so long!!
Margit and Rogier: A Tarnished with Marika's blessing!
Margit crouches down. Margit: Well! Thou art of passing skill! An immense golden hammer is conjured slung over Margit's back, a hammer fit to be held by a giant.
Margit leaps into the air.
He brings the hammer down in full force, denting the ground even further than when he had fell prior.
Margit, a scowl on his face. Margit: Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins...
Beneath Margit's hammer, Gareth has brought his shield up, defending the Samurai. Gold graces his eyes too.
Gareth pushes back Margit, unbalancing him. Rhys hovers in the corner of the panel.
Rhys stabs a dark-blue lance forward, piercing Margit. A shadow hovers behind him.
Morrowe's boot leaps on Rhys's shoulder.
Acrobatically Morrowe cuts through Margit, leaving a number of wounds.
Margit sweeps his tail, aiming to hit Morrowe.
Gareth bears the brunt of the swing.
Gareth slams his greatshield against Margit, knocking him backwards.
In the distance, Reane is aiming with her foil.
She strikes squarely at Margit's knee.
Weak-kneed all of a sudden, he falls.
Reane: Took me a while to find the right joint, based on his proportions... I'm afraid that's the best I can do.
Margit clenches his teeth, and steadies himself on his weak, trembling leg.
A golden sword summoned in his arms, he swipes at all the Tarnished. Margit: Tarnished!!
The Tarnished, wounded, yet still stand.
Margit: I cannot believe my eyes: not one, but many Tarnished with gold...
This and the next panels all depict the Tarnished. Margit, offscreen: ...guiding them...shaping their destinies...
Margit: ...spurring them on...comforting them...
Margit: ...blessing them with strength...the undiminished gold of the Erdtree...
Margit's anguished face. Margit: Marika, you fool!
Margit: A brilliant gold, as bright as fire! A vision of Leyndell, set ablaze.
Scenes of Margit fighting the Tarnished. Margit: I relent...I am already defeated...
Margit: Cursed...since birth...a foul existence, mine...
Margit: Marika...why did you give grace abounding, to those so undeserving?...
Footsteps can be heard from the tunnel.
Gaer is running. Gaer: Gareth! GARETH!!
The Tarnished look behind them, encouraged by reinforcements.
Margit dissolves into golden mist. Margit: I shall remember thee, Tarnished... Margit: Smould'ring with thy meager flame...
The Tarnished look onto the dissolving form of Margit, after a perilous battle. Margit: Thy torch will not suffice... Margit: ...For night. Cower in fear. Margit: Of my hand-picked knights.
Aerial view of Stormgate. The Tarnished gather; all of them are battered and bloody. Dawn breaks.
Gaer: I almost don't have a heart to continue.
A view of the Tarnished, suffering from their wounds. Gaer: We're in a poor shape to storm the castle.
Gaer: And, with daybreak, our foes are eager and active.
Nepheli: Is it because of your brother? Gareth. His stomach is bandaged, and he is holding his sides, as if his organs are near-falling out. Gaer: And ourselves.
Nepheli: Your hand. I saw it is weak. Gaer: I don't know what to do.
Gaer: This may be the most we'll see of these storied walls.
Rhys has laid his armor out, inspecting it carefully; thus revealing his body and face for the first time. He is male, a Loner. Reane looks on. Reane: Are you OK?
Rhys: Come to console me? ...After that creature manhandled me? Reane: Frankly, yes.
Rhys: ...Some wounds are deeper than the flesh.
Rhys, as an astrologer. In the magical woods, he walks alone. Rhys: Where I lived, last of my kind, there was only silence.
Rhys: I'd spend nights staring at the stars, tracing their destinies. Rhys: They say stars carry in them destinies. That for every man, a star brightens the sky. Rhys: I didn't care for any of that. Their company was enough.
Rhys: I had heard, in the Lands Between, a distinguished house of immortals was able to read the stars as if reading their palms. Pointing to his armor. Rhys: And so, well...that.
Reane: The Carians? Rhys: Yes, the same.
Reane: ... Rhys: ...
Reane: And...that's all? Rhys: Aye.
Reane: They fashion the moon as weapons. Rhys: And the moon is beautiful all the same.
Reane, thinking: I wonder if I should say it... Rhys continues to sulk.
The Prophet and the Samurai sit by one another, silently commiserating. Prophet: ... Samurai: ...
Meilyr walks by, with some food. Prophet: ... Samurai: ...
Meilyr squats between them, his hands on their shoulders. Prophet: ... Samurai: ...
Morrowe, bragging to a female Tarnished. Morrowe: Should've seen the brute! Horns and all! Over his face! Morrowe: I sharpen this blade everyday; not a scratch on 'em!
Tarnished: You're brave. Morrowe: Brave nothing. He left before I could really show him what for. Bernahl approaches.
Bernahl: You saw an Omen? Morrowe does not turn away from the female Tarnished. Morrowe: The fellest one. Morrowe: Picked a man in full armor with a single hand. He eats well!
Bernahl: If you mean Margit the Fell Omen; I have met him. Morrowe: Would you like a prize?
Bernahl: I fended him. Singly. Morrowe blushes. Tarnished: Wow, Sir Bernahl, you must have strength abounding!
Morrowe: Yes, but... Bernahl: That man was made of the stuff of dragons; you don't win by strength, but by wit. Tarnished: You're the stuff of champions. Morrowe: Well, now...
The female Tarnished walks off. Bernahl: You know, women only like champions who win. Bernahl: Though I'm sure you're aware.
Bernahl: You don't suffer your strength alone, you know. You failed seven other Tarnished. Morrowe: ...
Bernahl walks off. Bernahl: Come to me some time for lessons. Your body is made of good enough material.
Gaer: I guess that's it, then. The Erdtree made walls into men, and I am not wont to walk through walls. Gaer: We will come back stronger. Gareth: Brother! Brother!
Gaer kneels before the wounded Gareth. Gaer: Yes, Gareth, what is it?
Gareth: What is this delay for? We must make haste.
Gareth: Gaer, look. The sun is up. The Erdtree favors us.
Gaer: You mean, it favors the enemy.
Gareth: Gaer, after a long night, we are here. The sun came to shine on us. Gaer: ...
Gareth: Do you have doubts? That in Godrick's keep there are worse monsters yet? Gareth: And yet we have just faced the worse, of our worse. Are we not warriors?
Gareth: And besides, Edgar's forces are arriving soon, aren't they?
Nepheli: Wait wait wait, hold on, what? Nepheli: Say that one more time. Nepheli: In detail.
Gaer, to all the piqued Tarnished: I had sent a missive to the castellan of Castle Morne, to send a contingent of his knights to join our march.
Tarnished: The knights of Castle Morne?! Gaer: Yes, and a host of their...servants. Castle Morne is in defiance of Godrick, and I have met with the castellan personally.
Nepheli: Why hadn't you said this sooner? Knights from the Shattering will come! Gaer: ...I...
Nepheli: You know the dead won't come back; our only choice is to honor them, with victory. Gaer: ...
Nepheli turns to the Tarnished. Nepheli: Warriors, take heart! Reinforcements are coming! The Tarnished: Huzzah!
Gareth, to Gaer: She knows how to work a crowd, huh? Gaer: Alright then, but...the gate...
Gatekeeper Gostoc, offscreen. Gostoc: Psst. Hey. You're looking to take Stormveil Castle?
Gostoc reveals himself, from the gatekeepers' room beside the gate. He is pale, sickly, and thin; his hair is white and he is as out of hope as Godrick's soldiers. Gostoc: Yeah. I keep the gate for Godrick. Gostoc: Name's Gostoc. Pleasure to meet you.
Gostoc, to Gaer: You act like the chief. Listen, I'll open the gate for you.
Gaer: Why? Gostoc: For two reasons: one, I would rather dirt be lord than Godrick.
Gostoc: Don't feed me, don't pay me wages, has me running up and down the castle like a fool...
Gostoc: And he's gross. Doesn't shower. That's the least on the list, actually. Gaer: Please, go on.
Gostoc: Two: It won't hurt me none, because you all will die anyway.
The view of the castle's courtyard, lined with Exile Soldiers, armed with swords and axes. These are professionals, and know the hardships of battle. Many man powerful ballistae. A great lion is chained there, beaten back by soldiers. Gostoc, in card: The courtyard's armed to the teeth. The first man who steps foot in there gets a belly full of great bolt. Gostoc: Whoever survives gets chopped into bits by Godrick's guard, cutthroats not like you and me. They're no knights, and so they's got no sense of honor. Don't bother begging. Gostoc: Then there's the damn lion, ugly as sin.
View of the inner courtyard. Exile Soldiers man flamethrowers, and warhawks dance in the sky, the blades on their talons gleaming in the sunlight. Gostoc: And if you make it into the inner courtyard, they've got flamethrowers in there. Gostoc: The old lord's warhawks are real pests, too. Worse than the men. They've got the old Storm Lord's rage in them.
Back to the gate. Gostoc: Don't get me started on the troll. I have to feed it, but can't bear to watch it eat.
Meilyr, in the background. He has the image of a cute troll happily in his head. Gaer: Hold on. Godrick's guards aren't knights? Gostoc: No, they're hired hands. Some people have dignity, perhaps a little too much, methinks.
Gaer: But all the roads have soldiers with Godrick's emblems. Gostoc: Aye, they came with him from Leyndell, but they couldn't stomach the grafting business. Gostoc: The others, came with the castle.
Inside of Stormveil, silhouettes of the Banished Knights, powerful warriors. Gostoc, in card: But that don't mean rabble are guarding the castle... Gostoc: Powerful knights, from the blizzards up North, are in Godrick's keep. Gostoc: Men who distinguished themselves before the Shattering.
Back to present. Gaer: ... Gostoc: They're of different cloth from the rest. The mercenaries ask for fees; fees are given these folk, if you know what I mean.
Gaer: ...So, you'll open the gate?
Gostoc: Damn fool, didn't hear a thing I said? Gaer: No, friend, I hear you.
Gaer: The soldiers in Godrick's keep are on his purse, right? Gaer: Then they won't do more than their fee says.
Gaer: And if so, they won't advance upon our camp.
Gostoc: Say what now? Gaer: Knights who love their lord will rush out the gates, for pride. Gaer: Mercanaries will ask for more gold.
Gaer: At some point, Godrick will decide on a price...but we will have time enow.
Gaer: We'll open the gate and wave our swords in front of them, and advance here and there, but we won't take a single inch into the couryard. Gaer: They'll take us for cowards, while we bide time for Edgar's men.
Gostoc: And then what? Get riddled with holes with more, and not less, men? Gaer: We've lost more already on this march.
Gostoc: Nay. Here me out.
Gostoc points to the keepers' quarters. Gostoc: In this room, there's a hole, running the walls of Stormveil. Gostoc: Thereupon, a path to the castle's mill.
Gaer: How now? Gostoc: Godrick's not the foulest thing in the castle, but he's a close second. Don't think on it, on my word.
Gostoc: The mill leads to the ramparts, and by a long way through the kitchen into the inner courtyard...behind the palisades.
Gostoc: Without those mounted weapons, it's a fair fight. So you professed knights love so much.
Gareth: Gaer, we split in two. I'll lead the ambush.
Gaer: Fie, little brother, I'll lead the ambush. Gareth: You've authority here, I'll lead the ambush.
Gaer: I will. You rest. Gareth: No, I will. You're battered too. Gostoc: ... Blaidd: Forgive them, they're brothers.
Rogier: A small contingent should go through the back. We'll cause a panic, drawing attention from the front. Rogier: I have the people in mind.
Rogier and Gaer look at the Tarnished who fought Margit.
Gaer: Rogier, I bow to your wisdom, but these are the saddest lot I've ever seen. Trounced by a naked man, I trow. Gareth: ... Rogier: I understand your concern.
Rogier: But the castle gates will have the bulk of the castle's forces, by far. You need your best men here, not skulking through Godrick's hallways. Rogier: How hard can it be, stabbing men in the back, when we are least suspected?
Gaer: Sure, but why my little brother?
Rogier: He has some of your tactical acumen, from watching you, and he handles his shield masterfully, as I can attest. Rogier: No one else is more fit to lead this small force - or, no one as great, and expendable.
Gaer looks at his brother painfully, with regret.
Gaer: ...Alright. I agree. But bring Nepheli with you.
Gaer: With my own eyes, against that tree guardian, she handled herself excellently. She's all the lion's blood you need.
Gaer: Rogier, gather your force. Gatekeeper, open the gate. Rogier and Gostoc: Aye.
Gostoc: Open the gate! The great portcullis of Stormveil is opened up.
Rhys, putting on his broken armor. Rhys: Nothing else suffices.
Gostoc: I'll lead the way. Come on, gents.
Rogier: Nepheli, go forward with him. I have something to say. Nepheli: And not to me?
Rogier: You see this raw stuff? They were just beaten. They need encouragement.
Nepheli waves him off. Nepheli: Sure, but I can't glimmer why we want to bring along dead weight...
Rogier: All of you, can see grace of gold?
Everyone nods, except Reane. Reane: How do you mean?
Everyone feels guilty for instantly agreeing without knowing, except Reane. Rogier: Focus your sight. Peer into the skies. Do you see an arc of gold, through the heavens and descending to the earth? Reane: Aye. Rogier: That is grace.
Rogier: Tell no one you see them.
Rogier: You recall those crooks before, claiming to be knights of Mohgwyn? Rogier: They saliver for Tarnished like you.
Rogier: And I'm sure...among our ranks...there are hunters yet.
Gareth: You jest. Rogier: Not at all. In fact, I am in disbelief you are not.
Rogier: This march isn't for charity. Save for the Great Rune, they want to loot the castle. Rogier: But the castle's treasures is nothing compared to Marika's gold.
Morrowe: What makes it so valuable? Reane: Mercenary...
Rogier: That's Marika's blessing. A sign of favor from the gods.
Rogier: Up North, in the depths of Mt. Gelmir, a great serpent rests. A gnawer of the Erdtree; a thief, therefore. Rogier: They say some wicked Tarnished feed it grace-given ones as you, to make it grow fat and strong. So it may one day devour the Erdtree whole. Rogier: And become a god itself.
Rogier: Mere rumor, but it is believed; and because it is believed, people so act on it. Rogier: And that is but one of many reasons you can be hunted for. A fate worse than death.
Reane: Are we really so...rare?
Rogier: I have not seen grace for ages. Reane: Ages?
Rogier: Decades. Rogier: And that, was long after the Shattering.
The Tarnished are shocked. Rogier: What? Fresh off the boat?
Gareth: How - Rogier: How long? Really, how green can you be? Rogier: Centuries. Eons. All time. Rogier: Millennia of Tarnished failing, and dying endless deaths. Or, tantamount to.
Rogier: Don't even ask Bernahl. Rogier: His eyes are burnt by despair.
Rogier: You think Marika would willingly send an old coot as me to battle? The Tarnished: ...
Rogier: Come on, don't ask me more. We'll stand here forever, then. Rogier: Let's go.
Recusant Henricus watches, from the distance.
A view of the gatekeepers' quarters on the right, miniscule compared to the view of Stormveil's hole-ridden walls.
An even wider view of Stormveil Castle's walls, which have endured endless assaults, some more glorious than the others. A staircase winds upward, into the storeroom and the servants' quarters. More holes can be seen here, from the growth of Deathroot. Nepheli: Godrick doesn't pay his masons now, does he? Gostoc: Haha. Gostoc: Certainly makes for a horrible climb.
Before the staircase. The wind howls. Gostoc: Alright, that's as far as I go. Don't want the guards catching me. Nepheli: Thank you, gatekeeper. Gostoc: Don't thank me just yet.
Meilyr looks through his telescope. Nepheli: What do you see?
A lookout Exile Soldier up above, with a torch. Meilyr: A lookout. Alone.
Meilyr: Here, hold this for me. He hands the telescope to Nepheli.
Rhys: That soaked in his balls, didn't it? Nepheli: ...
Meilyr crouches down, club in hand.
Meilyr moves more carefully, the closer he gets.
He's now on all-fours, flattening his belly on the stairs. His club is in his mouth.
He's now behind the guard, club in hand. Meilyr: Haaaa!
A guard, above the guard, right outside the storeroom blows his trumpet.
Nepheli facepalms. The other Tarnished are ashamed too. Nepheli: Damned buffoon...
Nepheli: Charge!!
The Tarnished run up the stairs. Meilyr kicks the guard off the staircase, where he plummets to death.
The Tarnished fight the soldiers.
The Tarnished have disposed of the soldiers. Gareth: I don't think we have to worry. The wind is too strong, and the walls are too thick, to alert anyone else in the castle.
The Tarnished enter the storeroom. They see the servants of the castle, dejected. Rhys: What ghastly fellows... Rogier: An eternal war will do that.
Rhys: It's hardly comprehensible. Rogier: 'Tis the convolutions of time. I don't even know what I'll have for dinner.
Gareth: On grace...what about Gaer? Rogier: What about him?
Gareth: Do you know if he sees the gold? Surely, he should? Rogier: I don't know. Have you asked him?
Gareth: That seems to be a sensitive topic, no? Rogier: Well, that's all we'll know, then.
The Tarnished ascend the storeroom. Racks of barrels are shown, supposedly once filled with wine or cheese, and no longer.
The walkway to a door, with a ladder to the castle's second storey.
Gareth tries to twist the knob. Gareth: It's locked.
Gareth: Might have to break the door down... Nepheli: It's iron. Gareth: So what?
Reane: Let's try to be civilized for a bit. Reane points to a side-chamber. Reane: Here. Maybe the key was dropped here.
Reane: Someone should check the servants too. Morrowe follows close by.
Morrowe pinches her rear. Reane: Oh for...
A view of the rafters above. The servants are here, hauling barrels. Gareth: Let us go back down, then...
The barrels are thrown.
The barrels crash, spilling oil over the Tarnished.
Gareth: What in... The servants lit matches.
The matches are thrown. The Tarnished are set on fire; they scream.
Back to Reane and Morrowe. Reane is gouging Morrowe's eyes. Reane: Hmm?
The iron door to the room is slammed shut. Reane: Hey!
A shadow can be seen through the bars of the door. Reane: Oh, you... Reane takes out her foil.
She stabs through the bars, putting a cut on the shadowy man's face. Reane: CROOK!
A view of Reane, showing the front of her body. Behind her Morrowe is rubbing his eyes; behind him is stalking the powerfully-built Banished Knight.
The Banished Knight quietly stalks forward, meaning to stab Morrowe. His footsteps, however, are noticed by the latter.
Morrowe, swiftly, tries to stab the Knight's neck.
The scimitar bounces off the plate armor and falls down, clattering on the floor.
Morrowe: Haha... thick armor, eh?
The Knight tries to cut Morrowe. He ducks. Morrowe: Hah!
Morrowe tries to strike him in other areas of his body. Morrowe: Every...joint...covered, huh?
Reane is in the distance, watching for a weakpoint.
The Knight stomps on the ground, kicking up wind.
Reane: The storm!
Using the wind, the knight vaults himself forward, lunging, unexpectedly, at Reane.
Reane dodges. The knight crashes his shield against the door.
The knight recoils from the assault. The iron door is dent, bent like a U. (I don't know how doors work, but I'm somewhat skeptical doors work this way. In any case.)
Barrels and other knick-knacks are thrown at the Knight.
Morrowe, in the corner of the room. Morrowe: Hey! Quarrel with someone, roughly, your size!
The Knight runs forward and dextrously lunges at Morrowe. Morrowe deflects this with his scimitar.
The Knight, adept at blades, duels Morrowe, meeting him blow for blow.
Morrowe: You're...hah...pretty good?
Reane steps forward. Morrowe: Reane, stay back! I'll take him!
Reane: Well, I can't do much, anyhow... Morrowe: Oh just let me have my moment, for crying out loud!
The Knight tries an overhand swing. Morrowe looks completely off-guard.
Then, to the Knight's surprise, he deflects the sword swing, pushing the sword-arm far away.
Morrowe kicks the Knight backward.
Morrowe runs towards Reane. Morrowe: Ta-da! Reane: Oh, the plate is so offended.
The Knight stomps on the ground, kicking up wind. Reane: Any clever ideas? Morrowe: I hoped to ask you.
The Knight leaps forward.
Morrowe, with Reane's foil, slips the blade into the thinniest opening in the Knight's visor.
The Knight slides forward, blood spilling upon the foil.
The foil punches through the back of the helm. Reane, from behind, pushes the shield back with a plank of wood, which snaps. The shield, mercifully, does not hit Morrowe.
Reane: For a lecher, you have an obscenely good eye. Morrowe: I hadn't thought of the visor at all. Thought moves swiftly in your mind.
Morrowe: We make a good team, yea. Morrowe gives her a shit-eating grin.
Reane pushes him away.
Reane opens the door, stepping out. Reane: Everyone alright? We found a key, on a dead one. The Tarnished have finished slaughtering the servants. Everyone has burn wounds.
Reane: It's a slaughterhouse out here. Gareth: They tried to kill us. Reane: I'm not complaining, but it doesn't seem like a fair game.
Meilyr, a floor below. Meilyr: Hey! I found another one! Gareth looks downward. Gareth: Sir, that's the gatekeeper. Gareth: What is he doing here?
Gostoc looks upward, concerned. He has a gash on his face, same as Reane gave him.
The Tarnished look down at Gostoc, incredulously.
The Tarnished are climbing up the ladder. Gareth's greatshield is slung on his back; tied with rope on the greatshield is Gostoc. Gostoc: Please unbind me! I'll be a good little Tarnished from now on! Gareth: He's Tarnished? Rogier: Does it even matter?
They make their way outside, on the castle ramparts. One can hear the wind howling; in the distance one can also see the castle walls. A stair winds upward, into the mill. (Wait, is it actually a mill?)
The Tarnished comically sneak behind one Banished Knight in a long line. Gareth cups Gostoc's mouth.
Meilyr's telescope. In view are warhawks flying through the sky, over the church.
Meilyr: Birds. Blades for feet.
Meilyr grabs his club. Meilyr: Oh what I would give for a shank right now.
Rhys hits him on the head. Rhys: Idiot. They'll tear you into shreds.
Rhys: I say we snipe them. Rhys: Everyone without a weapon of range, stay back.
The Samurai pulls out her longbow. She inquires at the Prophet: "Fire?" via the image of a fire.
The Prophet shakes his head, and makes the sign of the Discus of Light.
Rogier pulls out his staff. Rogier: I'll help out as well.
Rhys, Rogier, the Samurai and the Prophet size up their prey. A hawk flies down, perching upon the castle wall.
Rhys: Now!
Rhys and Rogier wave their staves; Rhys's crackles with dark-blue, producing a flying blade; Rogier's brightens with teal, creating a single, floating pebble.
The Samurai shoots from her longbow; the Prophet tosses his Discus.
The projectiles fly toward the warhawk, who sees them.
It flies away.
It flies towards Rhys, its blades gleaming in the sunlight.
Gareth shields Rhys, shrugging it off. He - courteously - uses a part of his greatshield where Gostoc, now muffled, is not.
Gareth, to Rhys: Couldn't just stay back. Rhys: Don't let it up!
Projectiles are fired at the dancing warhawk, which all miss. Rhys: Spread your shots out!
The warhawk winds back toward the rampart, where many barrels are.
The warhawk cuts up the barrels, spilling oil.
Gareth: Oh... Oh no...
Oil is spilled over the Tarnished.
They look up; two warhawks, flying overhead, have poured barrels of oil upon them. Gareth: Not again!
A warhawk, of black feather, is swooping toward them.
The warhawk wears an ominous-looking mask.
Gareth: I don't like the look of that one... Reane, to Rhys: Oh, give me that. She takes Rhys's staff.
Reane waves the staff; it flashes with dark-blue.
A dark-blue sword is projected.
The sword pierces through the two warhawks.
The sword loops around, flying toward the black warhawk, who dodges it.
Gareth: Retreat, now! Everyone dives.
The warhawk brings a blade up to its mask, by twisting its body into a C. The blade has a hook on its side; it touches an iron chain on the mask.
Pulling the chain, a fire explodes from the tip of the mask, lighting the oil.
A ring of fire encircles the Tarnished. The warhawk is stunned from the impact.
Recollecting itself, the warhawk emerges over the flames.
The warhawk brings its blades over her head. She has nowhere to run.
A Discus of Light is right behind the bird.
The Discus slices the warhawk's wing. It falls.
Reane pierces its body with her foil.
Meilyr is on Rhys's shoulders, ready to jump. Meilyr: Hurrrr...
Meilyr: -ahhh! He jumps, towards the remaining warhawk.
He grabs it, lands, and rolls on the ground.
He sticks its head into the flames, cooking it. It screams.
He bites its head off. Rhys: Digusting. Just disgusting.
Rhys, to Reane: You - Reane hands him back his staff. Reane: - can cast Carian sorceries? Aye. Reane: And ask me no more on it.
Rhys: ...I hardly see that as fair. Reane: Oh shut it, 'tis how it is.
Rogier: Let's not tarry now - let's go quickly to the church down there. Rogier: Come on!
The Tarnished run along the rampart and onto the church's roof.
They climb down into the church.
Rogier: Shh. You hear that? Footsteps are heard from the roof. Rogier: They heard our commotion.
Rogier: It seems safe to rest here. Rogier: I can't imagine Godrick is much into praying.
Gareth: I'll leave our guest here. Gareth is tying a visibly-agitated Gostoc to a pew in the altar.
Gareth: South of here is the outer courtyard. I think that's where we'll plan the ambush.
Nepheli: A staircase leads down there? Gareth: I don't know. Some brave souls may need to climb down there. There should be some holes and footholds in the masonry, so long as the spirit is abundant.
Nepheli: "Some"? Gareth: Yes. The rest go through the keep, and ambush the inner courtyard.
Gareth: Really, the plan is for those who don't want to climb. Me, I hate heights. Nepheli: Nay, it's a good plan.
Gareth: Any volunteers? Meilyr raises his hand. Gareth: I knew I could trust you, you madman.
Gareth: Morrowe? Morrowe: Aye, not my first time scaling a wall.
Nepheli: I want to lead the charge into the inner courtyard. You'll need plenty of muscle. Reane: I can't exert myself all too much. I've no choice but inner.
Morrowe: Two girls to one, I'm in the inner courtyard. Sorry chief. Gareth: ... Gareth is scowling in disbelief.
Rhys: I'm no alpinist but, if I'm needed there, I will take the outer courtyard.
Gareth: Thank you Rhys. The Samurai raises her hand.
The Prophet, seeing the Samurai, also raises his hand. Gareth: ...Without words, I can't be certain what you two mean. I assume you mean the outer courtyard.
They nod their heads in unison. Gareth: Then that's the plan.
Gareth: Meilyr, Rhys, and...you two take the outer courtyard. That should be enough, I trow, with the army coming.
Gareth: I, Nepheli, Reane, Morrowe and Rogier will take the outer courtyard, braving the keep.
Gostoc kicks around, wanting to say something. Gareth: Oh hush, you pitiful man. Gareth: You're but your lord's pet.
Nepheli: Methinks the only worry in the keep will be those armored knights. Gareth: Right, and they'll likely move to the front now.
Gareth: I see no reason for concern. Gostoc, clearly, wants to say something urgent concerning their plans.
Stormgate. The army from Castle Morne has arrived. They have similar numbers as there originally were in Fort Haight. Noticeably, they have a number of Misbegotten slaves in train holding equipment.
A Godrick Knight, or rather a former Godrick Knight, approaches Gaer. Knight: You must be Gaer, if Castle Morne's treasure rests with you. Gaer: Aye, I am he.
Gaer: You lot are a much-welcomed sight after panic and terror. Knight: And Stormgate, and the porch of Godrick, is welcomed by me.
Knight: Loutish lord as he, it'll be an honor to Leyndell, to whom I swore my true oath, to slay him.
Knight: How shall we do this? Gaer: Reinforcements have been summoned to the gate.
Gaer: Further, there are ballistae at the gate. We have tried to exhaust them, but they're wary to our antics now.
Gaer: I have some men winding through the castle to ambush them, but I know not when they will arrive. Knight: Say no more.
Knight: I shall show thee how we war for the honor of the Erdtree.
Knight, to the army from Morne: Men! Recall: When the Omen harassed our coffins, what did we rely on? Army: OUR SHIELDS!
Knight: When the traitors of the serpent spoiled our lands, what did we rely on? Army: OUR SHIELDS!
Knight: Show this mongrel lord what our shields can do!
The knights run forth. Army: Hah!
The army forms a phalanx, their shoulders and shields tightly pressed next to each other. The shields in the front are perpendicular to the ground; the rest are angled upward, facing the sky. Sticking out of the shields, are their Partizans.
Side view of Stormgate. The Exile Soldiers are staring down at the former Godrick Knights; the Knights stare upward, in defiance, at them.
Captain Knight: CHARGE!
The phalanx steps forward slowly and in unison; the rhythm of their feet and the weight of their plate and shields causes quakes on the ground.
Exile Soldier: Fire! The Exile Soldiers fire the ballistae.
Great bolts slice through the air.
The bolts land on the shields. The knights push back, and the knights behind them push too.
Captain Knight: Heart, men, heart! Knights: HAH! They step forward.
Gaer: Men, FORWARD! The Tarnished: HURRAH! The Tarnished rush forward, around the phalanx.
Exile Soldier, at a ballista: If we knew they had another bloody army coming, we'd have asked Godrick for more.
Exile Soldier: Moment it goes sour, I'm running... Meilyr clambers down, club in mouth.
Meilyr beats the Exile Soldier over the head with his club. Meilyr: Ho ho ho!
The Exile Soldiers at the ballistae are taken aback. (Another) Exile Soldier: Where'd he come from? (Another another) Exile Soldier: Shit, it's an ambush!
Meilyr and the Prophet attack the Exile Soldiers.
Rhys, afraid of heights, is trying to climb down, but is nervous. The Samurai, on the ground, offers to support him. Rhys: N-no need to worry about me...
Gaer sees the soldiers at the ballistae are falling apart. Gaer: That's them! Those're the ambushers!
Captain Knight: Forward, men! Knights: Hah! The Knights run forward.
The courtyard trembles at the sound of pounding feet.
A large shadow eclipses the sun in front of the Knights.
The Elder Lion crashes down on the phalanx, bringing down the immense blades bound to its arms. The blades cut past their shields and through the knights, by a strength even man-made weapons cannot possibly possess.
The lion roars as the phalanx threatens its Partizans against it.
Gareth, Nepheli, Reane, Morrowe and Rogier are hiding within the keep, as soldiers ran past them to reinforce the outer courtyard.
Gareth: I think that's the end of it. The keep is empty. Gareth: Let's move.
Gareth: What is that awful sm -
A large view of the keep. In the mess hall, before a portrait of the First Elden Lord, Godfrey, in the height of his glory. Strung on the ceiling are limbs.
Gareth: What in... Nepheli: Look at this.
Three arms are attached to one another. Nepheli: That's impossible. Gareth: What is going on here?
One hand comes to life, trying to reach out to them. Gareth: Holy -! He and Nepheli fall back.
Gareth and Nepheli, on the floor, breathe heavily. Nepheli is on top of Gareth.
Gareth and Nepheli look at one another.
Nepheli distances herself. Nepheli: I'm fine. Gareth: I too. Reane and Morrowe observe.
Gareth: Is this what is meant by Godrick's grafting?...
Gareth: What need does he have for so many sword-hands? Rogier: There's not much to gleam in madness.
Gareth: Are these...? Rogier: Yes, Tarnished, all.
A hand extends itself forward on the ceiling. Rogier, offscreen: Gold allows all things to be conjoined -
More hands join it. Rogier: The fair and the rank alike.