The Flying Dragon Agheel thunders through the air, as the Tarnished scatter from Summonwater Village beneath.
Agheel's powerful muscles in nostrils tense.
Agheel lets loose an enormous breath of fire unto the village.
The waters of the village evaporate, becoming mist instantly. The moss of the ruins turn into ash, and even the rock melts, becoming glassy. Tarnished burn.
Gareth dives upon his brother, Gaer, protecting him. The other Tarnished panic, as screams fill the air.
Gaer's hand is touched by the fan of flames. The skin curls back, dying.
In disbelief, Gaer stares at the destruction of his sword hand.
The line of Tarnished, who hadn't participated in the Battle of Summonwater, tense and coil at the sight of the mighty dragon.
Agheel soars through the air, master of the carnage. The steam coils upward; the village is reduced to a dry waste.
Agheel lands harshly, quaking the earth and leaving treads behind his feet. Tarnished melt and boil around him.
Agheel raises his head up, the many teeth in his mouth glistening in the Erdtree's light.
Reane is holding back Roderika; Roderika is beyond herself. Reane: Holy...
Agheel brings his jaws down onto a burning Tarnished, their flesh and blood exploding from the impact. The fire, as a consolation of sorts, is immediately quenched.
Pandamonium as the dragon moves its powerful body about, looking to make the Tarnished its meal.
In the rear of the match. Patches: Bloody dragons? Time to hightail it. Alexander: Huh? Coward!
Patches: Men, there's purpose in fighting; namely, coin. Dragons? Who argues with a lizard - that just lit the damn sky like a candle?! Diallos runs away. Diallos: I have urgent business to attend to! Alexander: Hey!
Patches runs off with Diallos. Alexander: Well, off with you lot! More glory for the rest of us! Meilyr presses forward, pulling the club out of his loincloth.
Blaidd runs at Agheel with his Royal Greatsword ready. Agheel sizes him up.
Blaidd: I've tussled with worse flying vermin -
Agheel beats him down with his tail. Blaidd: Oof!
Rhys lunges forward with his staff, producing a lance; he aims at Agheel's leg. Agheel simply tucks his leg back.
Agheel lunges toward Rhys, mouth of teeth open.
Gaer holds the Grafted Blade Greatsword on the dragon's throat, staying its motion.
Gaer's hand trembles, having been burnt. Agheel looks defiantly at the weakened swordsman.
Agheel moves its powerful neck, swaying the swordsman's stance as if taunting him.
Bernahl and Blaidd push their blades against the dragon's neck alongside Gaer's, demonstrating real resistance against the powerful creature.
Agheel, from the sudden force, is near-toppling over, and adjusts his feet.
Morrowe stalks around the beast's underbelly, his scimitars flashing above Agheel's anchor foot.
In a succession of slashes he cuts the dragon's toes.
Blood spurts from the toes; the toes are splayed, and the dragon, shocked, falls under his crumbling posture.
The warriors start a war-cry. Gaer: Haaaah!
Agheel thrusts his body against the warriors, knocking them down. He uses his good foot as the pivot point.
With the bad foot uplifted, he tries to press the foot's base against Morrowe's head.
Morrowe dodges, as a great volume of mud and dirt is kicked up.
The dragon lifts his wings up, trying to get a great volume of air beneath him.
Agheel soars. Gaer watches in disbelief. Gaer: Insanity... sheer insanity... Gaer: Like a trick played upon us...
Blaidd: It's not everyday a dragon is stirred out of its slumber. Rhys: Such are the lot of the Tarnished. Misfortune is lighter on the scales than its other.
Rhys: What do we do now, general? Gaer: Scatter! Don't bunch yourselves together for the dragon's breath!
Reane: Come on, Roderika, we must move.
Morrowe: Do the ladies need a hand? Reane: Touch us and get an eyeful of sword.
Yura looks upwards at the beast. Yura: Haaaah... what a majestic beast. Alexander: Come down here, foul creature!
Rhys: Alright, we've scattered. What now? Gaer: We wait until it swoops down. If some die, so it shall be.
Rhys: ... Gaer: ...
Rhys: It's really fond of the sky, isn't it? Gaer: This stupid...
Agheel soars, giving the reader an aerial view of Limgrave.
A view of the tail. A hand is on it.
Another hand climbs up.
Meilyr reveals his face. He has his club clenched in his mouth - same club that had been clenched in his buttcheeks.
He hugs the dragon's tail, pressing forward.
Agheel looks backward, spotting the wretched Tarnished.
A brief view of Agheel suspended in air, darkened by shadow.
Agheel spins in the air, trying to shake Meilyr off.
Agheel soars upward, majestically.
Tears run down Meilyr's face, his teeth clenched as hard as they can. Meilyr: Hrrr-grrr-rrrr! Obviously, he is not disposed to proper cursing at the moment.
Meilyr presses forward.
The powerful movements of the dragon's wings, and the consequent air they shake around, disorient Meilyr.
He gathers himself, and presses onward.
Agheel swoops downward, near the bridge to Limgrave's Divine Tower, trying to shake Meilyr off.
Meilyr is on the neck.
He makes it to the dragon's skull.
Meilyr coughs, his club rolling onto his hand.
He takes one firm grip above the dragon's eyelid.
The light of the Erdtree illuminates Meilyr's back; he is jubilant, glorious in his nakedness; in fact, the grace of gold can be seen flashing in his eyes. Meilyr: Ho ho ho!
Meilyr brings the club down into the dragon's eye. The dragon is in anguish, and palsies in mid-air.
Meilyr is laughing with all his throat, as blood spatters his chest and mane. Meilyr: HA HA HA HA!
The club keeps raining down; more fountains of blood spurt out, as the eyeball presses further and further into its socket.
Agheel makes a downward descent.
Meilyr sees he is dangerously close to the ground. Meilyr: Err...shit...
Meilyr shifts to the dragon's other eye. Meilyr: Steer! Steer, stupid beast!
He bashes the dragon's other eye. The dragon, out of instinct, seems to veer in the direction of his good eye.
Agheel makes a circular tour, from Stormveil Castle, where the Exile Soldiers look in awe.
Agheel hurtles past Stormhill, where the trolls, in profile only, look upward, their beards fluttering in the battering winds.
A view of Stormbridge, downward to Summonwater Village.
The Tarnished's view. Bernahl: Make way, make way!
Gaer and Gareth; Gareth is in front, greatshield poised. Gaer: Gareth! Heart! Gareth: Brother!
Agheel's chin makes contact with the ground.
Agheel's body shoots toward Gareth and Gaer.
Agheel makes contact with Gareth's shield; he barely holds the dragon back, his feet making treads against the mud. His brother is also pressing against the shield. Gareth: Rrrrr...
Gareth's great muscles are flexed; his veins themselves could scream a warcry. Gareth: Hrrrrrr!
Gaer's greatsword shoots forward.
The greatsword enters the beast's nose, the same that had breathed fire upon them.
The momentum of Agheel's body digs the sword deeper and deeper in, until only the hilt is shown.
Agheel tries to pick up his head, his eyes blinded and bleeding.
The muscles on Gaer's arms bulge. Gaer: You...
Gaer: STAY DOWN! He pushes the sword downward into the ground, cleaving the jaw in two.
Agheel groans and grunts, unable to yell.
Gareth pushes his shield down upon Gaer's sword, increasing the pressure.
Agheel pushes his head back, freeing himself from the sword.
The dragon raises his head up; his eyes have been beaten into a pulp, his mouth hangs down in halves; he gives out a furious wail.
Agheel opens his mouth, about to rain fire on his foes.
Yura comes up from the dragon's spine. He pushes his katana, the long Nagakiba, past a loose collection of scales on the dragon's skull and into the brain.
The dragon's head is suspended in the air, suspended even in time.
Yura pulls his blade out, blood and brain matter issuing out.
The dragon's head falls.
It hits the ground.
The Tarnished erupt in cheers of victory.
Gaer, bloodied, sees Meilyr in the distance, jumping off the dragon. Gaer: Hey! You, Nimrod!
Gaer pushes Meilyr to his chest, embracing him with all his strength. Gaer: Next time we meet around a table, feast until your stomach falls out!
Blaidd and Rhys together, as the Tarnished cut into dragon's flesh, crazed by vengeance. Blaidd: Well, I'll be...
Blaidd: I'm not one to quail in sight of dragons, but I don't know any dragonslayers, these days. Rhys: ...
A mace falls over and over onto the dead Agheel's flesh. Tarnished: You...foul brute!
Tears stream down a Tarnished's face, as she raises the mace over and over. Tarnished: Anna...was my friend!
Tarnished: And you reduced her to cinders! Alexander: What madness! There's nothing noble in beating a helpless foe!
Reane: You're a jar, what feelings can you have for others?
Alexander: That is so absurd, I won't even utter a defense. Reane: Roderika? Roderika is peering Agheel's bloody eyes.
Roderika sees a trail of water, thicker than blood, running through the pulps of flesh. Roderika: Tears... Alexander is not in frame. Alexander: But I'll have you know, many, many jars enjoy my acquaintance!
Roderika: What did you have to cry about? Alexander: I have many, many friends, 's clear!
Alexander: More than you, methinks! The view turns to Gaer and Gareth. Gareth: How is it? Gareth is pointing at Gaer's hand.
A view of Gaer's flayed hand; its skin is peeling back, revealing raw flesh. Gaer: Not good, but 'tis enough.
Gareth: Gaer... Gareth, to Bernahl: Did we lose anyone?
Bernahl: Somewhere on seven dead, from what we could discern. Defected...
A view of the march of Tarnished. Bernahl: The line, in my eyes, looks a third thinner.
Gaer: ...What do you think? Bernahl: Hmm?
Gaer: Should we press onward?
Bernahl: ...I know not your calculus, but only the weak-kneed, those with no and never steel in their hearts, left.
Bernahl: Meanwhile, it's not everyday a dragon is slain. The impossible achieved, men thinks themselves giants, and grow shorter by the hour.
Bernahl: I think we should march onward.
Gaer has been hiding his burnt hand slightly from his side the whole time. Gaer: ...So be it. Thank you. Bernahl: No, the pleasure is mine.
Rhys: Well, where to, glorious leader? Gaer: We continue down the trail, past Stormbridge, which is, last I heard, undefended. There, an encampment of Godrick's soldiers, loosely defended, I trow.
Rhys: So, same as usual? Gaer: Are you thick? You think the dragon is privy to Godrick's will?
Rhys: Snotty all of a sudden... Gareth: Shall we march the same?
Gaer: Brother, you same as saved my life at the rear. Please, take it again. There won't be any more dragons in the front, I know.
Morrowe: Are you forgetting something? Gaer: What, what?
Morrowe sticks his hand out. Morrowe: My reward. Gaer: I pay you for every sword swing? Morrowe: Yes, it's a good business model.
Gaer: If I stand before Godrick's throne the end of this I'll put before you forty women of eighty breasts, as Godrick surely has. Else, we'll discuss. Morrowe: Deal.
Morrowe: Keep your promises now! Gaer: Yes, yes, ass. Let's move!
The Tarnished march through Stormbridge, the wind whistling around them. Below them is the river that flows into Lake Agheel.
Roderika is hugging herself. Roderika: Quite...cold? Reane: 'Tis Stormhill.
Reane: They say when Godfrey, first Elden Lord, waged war to tame the lands, he, his army on the one Liurnian highway, scoffed and spat on the ground, calling the lord of the land callow, compared to the Carians.
Reane: The two armies met, and the Storm Lord's vassals sang a ferocious wind-song. It brought tears to our Lord's eyes, and he met his foe singly, in great battle.
Roderika: What a bloody story. Reane: How do you mean?
Roderika: Glamoring these warmongers. Reane: Well, yours is your thought, onely.
Reane: As is evident. Reane points behind her, to Nepheli, holding back tears. Nepheli: What a moving story...
Gaer: Hold. Gaer: In the corner of thy eye, see it? That is the lights of the enemy.
Gaer: I say we rush them all at once. Bernahl: Aye.
Gaer: Ready? At my signal...
The Tarnished rush forward. Gaer: ATTACK!
Godrick's soldiers in their camp, their faces turned away from panel view.
The soldiers hear the sound of trampling feet. They turn their faces to view; they are grey, tired, hungry, and hopeless beyond belief.
The soldiers raise themselves up, to meet the Tarnished.
Behind the soldiers, lying in wait, is a Godrick Knight - a warrior who, by sheer dint of their strength, entered the service to a lord as a person, and not as a hand.
D: Looks about time for another break. Alexander: I can no longer glimmer why I agreed to the rear...
D: Shouldn't you be concerned? Gareth: For my brother? We've felled many of Godrick's soldiers. They're a pitiful lot.
Gareth: But the knights...they precede Godrick. They're formidable warriors in their own right.
Gareth: They've their own tricks but... Gareth: Wait... Something catches Gareth's eye. It is faint, literally a line thick, up on the cliffs surrounding them.
The line now, clearly, is a circle, a circle of dark red.
The circle emanates light upwards, blood-red. Two feet emerge out of them.
The paleness of White Mask Varre, Bloody Finger, War Surgeon, breaks into the night, almost the brightest thing there. Two Sanguine Nobles also come pouring from the blood. Varre: Ahhh...
The Bloody Fingers peer upon the Tarnished below, like wolves to lambs. His weapon, the Bouquet, drips with blood. Varre: Precious lambs...
The Bloody Fingers slide down the cliff, cutting up the Tarnished. The line buckles, forming a U.
A Noble holds out a cut Tarnished's hand; he trembles.
With one decisive movement, he cuts off the Tarnished's index finger. He screams.
The finger falls into the Noble's other hand, where it festers immediately.
Gareth: Hey! Gareth presses forward.
Varre beats a Tarnished's head with his Bouquet. The petals are not flowers; they cause lacerations over the Tarnished's eyes, nose and lips.
Varre catches the Tarnished's hands with scissors. Varre: He he he... Tarnished: N-no! Please!
A closer view of the hands, as Varre stretches his thumb and index finger as wide as he can.
He then snaps brutally shut. The fingers fall like the petals of a flower. The Tarnished screams.
Gareth pushes Varre aside with his greatshield. Varre: Oof!
Varre: What an inelegant weapon. How far will the Tarnished devolve?
Meilyr beats him in the back of his head with a club. Varre: Ah!
A Sanguine Noble thrusts a dagger forward, their favored weapon, the serrated Reduvia. Meilyr steps backward.
Varre: Hah... It's not my night... The Sanguine Noble uses his free arm to push Varre back, guarding him.
A Dismounter, a curved greatsword, sweeps. Varre and the Noble push themselves backward. Varre: Hey!
Istvan, grave and simmering with anger, steps toward them. Istvan: Foul Bloody Fingers, preying on the Tarnished... On this foul night you come.
Istvan: How many of your ilk have you sent upon me? You flies, I will swat them.
Varre: Venerable Knight Istvan, thy corpse is fit, for painting the banners of the Mohgwyn Dynasty! Varre lets out a red cloud from his hand.
The cloud consists of fat, bloody flies, ravenous for blood.
Istvan prepares himself with his Dismounter. In the side of the panel, a Sanguine Noble pushes a Tarnished in front of Istvan.
The flies alight on the Tarnished's flesh. Tarnished: Ah!
The flies swarm all over the Tarnished's skin and into their clothing, ripping out chunks of flesh.
The Tarnished waves his hands around, trying to defend himself.
Blood sprouts out from the Tarnished in fountains, painting the mountains around.
He falls, withered, dessicated.
Istvan readies his sword, prepared to thrust. Istvan: You cretins...
He thrusts at Varre, who gracefully dodges. Varre: Ah, ah, ahh...
Varre then punches his scissors into a Tarnished's heart.
Varre flicks the blood on the scissors onto Istvan's armor. Istvan, enraged, swings again.
Varre proceeds to throw the corpse at him, and turns around to other defenseless Tarnished, who beg him to stop.
Varre brutalizes them, reducing them to puddles.
Blood streaks Varre's mask. Varre: You honorable types, what good do big words do you in the face of terror?
Gareth rushes forward. Varre trips a Tarnished.
He puts his scissors around the Tarnished's tongue.
He brings the scissors close. They explode in blood.
The blood covers Gareth's eyes. Gareth: Ahh!
A Sanguine Noble rushes towards Gareth.
A katana is swung elegantly.
Yura pierces the Sanguine Noble's heart with his Nagakiba, his stance in the form of his signature technique: the Piercing Fang.
Yura pulls his katana out. Yura: If it isn't the Bloody Fingers. The end is nigh.
Yura throws Noble's blood at the feet of Varre and the other remaining Noble. Yura: For you, and your cessblood.
Varre presses the other Noble. Varre: Let them go. We have enough. Varre: Besides, these lambs are thin.
Varre: Some of them will be fat with glory, and Mohgwyn will require of them.
The Bloody Fingers have gathered the bodies around them. The Tarnished try to rush them; Varre is painting a circle with a bloody finger. Varre: Ta-ta, friends.
The Tarnished cut into thin air; already the blood-red light encircles the Bloody Fingers, and they are vanishing with their paltry prey.
Istvan and Gareth: Damnit!
Reane hovers in the background. Gareth: A disaster, this is!
Istvan: I failed my honor as a knight... I must go and repent. Gareth: Istvan, don't say so. Reane is crouching over, inspecting the blood.
She sees a finger left behind. Gareth: We need you. Don't let this failure diminish your worth. Reane: An accident...or on purpose...
She pockets the finger surreptitiously. Gareth: Come, brother.
Istvan: If I were younger... Those...those rogues! Yura: You cannot blame yourself. They're skilled in hunting Tarnished.
Gareth: You know who they are? Yura: Yes, they are also Tarnished, drunk on cessblood.
Gareth: And that is? Yura: ...That is too long a story. But the whole is, they have become crazed by bloodlust. Such is the nature of our world.
Gareth: You're good at hunting them. Yura: I certainly don't like them.
Yura: But, whether they are allied with Godrick, I know not... Roderika is off-panel. Roderika: Uhhh...
Reane: Roderika! Roderika is holding her side; blood is leaking out.
Reane is holding Roderika. Roderika: I...I parried the villain's blade, as Sir Bernahl instructed me to, but... Reane: Come, I'll carry you.
Roderika: For...what purpose? Gareth: ...We must move. I don't know how I'll explain this to Gaer.
An aerial view of the march. The encampment has been emptied. The blood, from this angle, is painted thickly in the pass.
The Tarnished march solemnly through Stormhill. In the distance, they see the immense shadows of trolls. Meilyr has the image of his cute troll in his mind, with a big red X painted over it.
Something catches Rhys's eye.
The Church of Elleh is far in the distance. Something glows dark blue.
Rhys's heart skips a beat.
The light is gone.
Rhys lingers, and moves onward.
The path leading to Stormveil Castle, haunted with dust and wind. Stormhill Shack is in the frame.
In Stormhill Shack. Reane is laying her down. Reane: Dear, we don't have anything of help on us, but we'll storm the castle right and find a surgeon. Roderika: Reane... Reane: Yes?
Roderika: It's scary, you know...having your arms cut off...or legs...or your head... Reane: ...
Roderika: Those...who perished before...they came with me... Crossed the sea for me...
Roderika: I'm nothing but a craven... Tell me...why was I brought here? Wasn't my mettle known?
Gareth: Come now, we must leave. Reane: You're going to live. Come on, now. Roderika: Frankly, I'd rather not.
Roderika: Reane...come closer.
Roderika hands her a pouch. Reane: Ash... Roderika: The poor thing deserves someone braver than myself...some echo of happier times past.
Roderika: It was a pleasure to see you.
Roderika slumps down, holding down her wound; her white dress is scarlet-red. Reane leaves her.
Morrowe walks by Reane with a nonchalant face.
Morrowe holds her hand in his.
Reane: I don't mind if you disgrace me... I'm not anything to care about... Reane: But...
Reane: Answer me this: why were we put here? Reane: I was happier, leaving sorrow forever.
Morrowe: ... Reane: Or, say nothing, and be dull.
Gaer (to Bernahl): What is your read, now? Bernahl: Hmm...
Bernahl: We're a third whom we started, but heart may return when we see the lord's castle. Bernahl: Your thoughts?
Gaer: There are strong fortifications, before the tunnel. The left flank, however, is wide open. I say we detach in two; one half braves the defenses, the other creeps through the brush and ambushes them. Bernahl: Aye.
Gaer discusses the plan amongst the Tarnished.
A view of Godrick's soldiers, peering down the hill, behind their palisades.
Gaer, and other Tarnished. Gaer: CHARGE!!
A soldier behind the ballista pulls the levers.
A fiery arrow flies towards the Tarnished. They duck into the palisades.
Corhyn: Fire! What heresy against the Erdtree!
Gaer reels in the smoke. He points to his brother. Gaer (quietly): Go! Go!
The Tarnished hide behind the smoke and wind through the left flank, beneath the trees and brush.
The Tarnished emerge out of the brush, to see a soldier's foot. Nepheli: Ah...
The soldier blows his horn, alerting the others. Nepheli: Hell!
The Tarnished fight the soldiers. Gareth presses forward. Gareth: That's fine! The ballista can't aim here. To the gate!
Gareth runs to the soldier mounting the ballista, his shield raised above his head.
Gareth brings the shield crashing down, reducing the soldier to a pulp. Gareth: Haah!
Gareth: Brother! To Godrick! Gaer: Yes!
Blaidd: Wait... Do you hear that? That thundering.
The hooves of an immense horse pound on the earth, causing quakes.
A knight's plumes gleam golden under the Erdtree's light; the hairs are near-flat, by the wind.
The Tree Sentinel enters the scene of the gate, in glorious pose, as he had done in ages prior as symbol of the Erdtree's puissance; his horse's legs are kicked in the air, his halberd is raised joyously into the sky, and his immensity, proof of his monstrous strength, obscures the bridge behind. Gaer: It...can't be! Blaidd: One of the Erdtree's own! Its guardian!
The Tree Sentinel raises its mighty halberd, shrouding the Erdtree's rays.
The Tree Sentinel brings down the halberd, crushing a few Tarnished into bloody pulps, armor and all.
Gareth: Brother! Gareth wants to rush forward; Rogier has a hand on his shoulder.
Raising his halberd, the gold wet with blood, the warrior looks menacingly at the tunnel's gate.
Rogier: Hey now, hey now! Close that gate! Rogier and other Tarnished pull Gareth back.
The Tree Sentinel charges forward, shaking the earth. His shield is primed as a ram.
The gate closes.
The Sentinel rams the gate, denting its iron bars and crumpling the masonry.
From the view inside of the tunnel, the gate bulges inward, about to burst. Those who made it inside: Gareth, Rogier, Reane, Morrowe, Meilyr, Rhys, the Prophet, the Samurai.
The Tree Sentinel turns, facing Gaer, Bernahl, Blaidd, and Nepheli.
Gareth thrashes at Rogier. Gareth: Are your wits gone?! Rogier: Fellow, fellow, are yours?
Rogier: We are here to defeat Godrick. Not that knight.
Roger points at the gate. Rogier: You see that portcullis? Withstood the onslaught of centuries, it did, but not that knight.
Rogier: You scream your head off for your brother, but Gaer would have done the same for you. And where would we be, then? Gareth: ...
Rogier: There's no tricks, unlike that dragon. Let knight and knight fight.
Rogier: What were you intending to do, eh? Be crushed, like grapes, as those other Tarnished were? Gareth: ... Rogier: Come now, let cooler heads prevail.
Rogier: And, way I see it, we have on this side some of the saddest fighters left. What can we do?
Gareth: You yourself? Rogier: Hah, I'm old. And I'm...peculiar. I'm not looking for a scuffle with the Erdtree's own.
Rogier: Let's see who we have here.
Rogier scans across the room. Rogier (muttering): A mute... A mouse... A philander... A cynic... A wretch... And britches too small.
Rogier: Right, well, there is no such thing as useless tinder. Let us use the opportunity to scout.
Rogier holds his hand out to Gareth. Gareth: Come along now.
Gareth takes Rogier's hand. Rogier: Your brother will be fine. He's a wise lad.
The Tarnished push out of the tunnel, entering Stormgate. They behold Stormveil Castle proper, in all its ancient glory.
Rogier pulls out a telescope. Rogier: Now let's see here...
Meilyr pulls it out of his hand. Rogier: Hey!
Meilyr looks pleased. Rogier: Well, no matter. Tell me what you see, sir.
Meilyr: I see...beautiful towers.
Meilyr: ...and a big, steel gate...
Meilyr: ...and...holes?
Meilyr: Hold on. Meilyr sees a dark figure, small, in the distance.
Meilyr zooms in. Meilyr: Blast it all, it's dark.
Meilyr sees now the figure has horns disfiguring their face. Meilyr: What an unfortunate-looking fellow.
The view is now on the figure, Margit, the Fell Omen, vanquisher of Tarnished and hopes all. The view focuses on his chest and arms, the most noble parts of his posture, his face obscured.