Fallen Leaves 2- Church of Elleh

It was in the middle of the night when she arrived at the Church of Elleh. Guided by the stars, her spirit slipped soundlessly through the cool air until she descended upon the ruin.

The temple in question had been dead for centuries, bearing only the barest bones of grandeur it had once possessed. It was a ruin in the truest sense, the structure almost unrecognizable. What little remained of its walls jutted like broken teeth from the earth, while the ceiling was long gone. The lone tower still stood, yet it only served to highlight the temple’s destruction, a pitiful shadow meant to inform the wanderers of the church’s tragic fate. Grass and moss had claimed what once was stone, swallowing the floor until only faint outlines of the old structure could be traced- broken pillars and shards of pottery.

Ranni found the sight exquisite.

The slow, inevitable collapse of Marika’s temples brought her a quiet delight, one she did not even bother to hide. To see the place of her false mother’s place of worship reduced to ruin stirred only amusement and vindication in her heart.

But as much as she found the view beautiful, she had not come to revel.

No—tonight she was here for something of greater consequence. Tonight, she was to acquire the key to her freedom.

As she drifted nearer the interior, though now the distinction between the interior and exterior was admittedly superficial, the first thing to greet her were voices—two of them, to be precise.

Hearing the conversation, Ranni paused momentarily. As she was concealed by a spell, her form cloaked by a veil of invisibility, she doubted the men speaking had noticed her. Still, she approached more carefully, listening to what they were saying.

“…when I saw you return, I thought you’d come to buy something from me.” one voice murmured, low and seemingly unused to speaking. The speaker’s tone was dry, edged with weary bemusement. “But instead, you went straight back to fighting the gilded rider outside.”

“Well, I just got a steed!” another voice protested, bright with energy that felt alien in the Lands Between. “I thought that stupid Tree Sentinel would be an easier opponent once I got Torrent!”

“…but you were killed anyway.” the first replied, tone utterly unimpressed.

“That’s because it was my first fight with Torrent!” the second voice shot back defensively. “We didn’t have time to get to know each other yet. Now I know how it works. Next time will be different—you’ll see.”

Following the sound, Ranni’s gaze swept into the broken nave of the church. There, by the faint glow of a firepit, a single spark of life in the emptiness of the night, she saw them.

The first figure she found vaguely familiar. Long-limbed and gray-skinned, swaddled in a patchwork of furs and coarse cloth dyed in faded reds and whites, with a weatherworn stringed instrument balanced across his knees. Ranni knew him for what he was: one of the nomadic merchants of the Great Caravan—scattered remnants of a people who had once roamed the Lands Between in great numbers, now reduced to lonely survivors of Marika’s purge.

The second figure was harder to place at first glance. Clad head to toe in battered plate and leather, he looked every bit the vagabond. A longsword hung at his hip, while a round shield rested across his back—both well-used but serviceable. His armor bore no sigil, no crest, nothing to mark his allegiance, and yet his stance spoke more than heraldry ever could. His posture was relaxed, but his movements restless, animated, as though his energy could never quite be contained. He gestured broadly as he spoke, his tone bright, his words spilling out with the careless conviction of one unaccustomed to fear.

To any common passerby, he might have been mistaken for another nameless wanderer, yet certain details betrayed him. The Site of Grace pulsing faintly nearby. The mention of Torrent—the spectral steed—and a death that could not take hold. His irreverence, that strange defiance of tone.

This was one of Godfrey’s chosen—warriors cast out long ago, banished to lands afar, now returned when Grace recalled them. A warrior fated to tread the grand path.

The Tarnished One.

The one she was meant to find.

Ranni lingered in silence, cloaked and unseen, her gaze upon the armored vagabond. She studied him, measured him. She had expected… more. Something of greater renown, perhaps. And yet there he was: an unremarkable figure clad in dented steel, bickering idly with a merchant in the ruins of a forgotten church.

Unremarkable. And yet…

With a decision made, she let her concealment fall away. The illusion dissolved like frost at dawn, and her doll-form descended with quiet poise. She settled upon a fractured stone at the edge of the ruin, her motion deliberate and controlled.

Then, after ensuring she was comfortable and presentable, Ranni raised one porcelain hand, tracing a series of quiet sigils into the air.

The effect was immediate.

A pale vapor stirred at her feet, coiling outward. It thickened, spreading slow and low, spilling into the ruin like water. The fog pooled between broken stones, curling around toppled pillars, creeping across the grass-choked floor. It clung to the air, carrying a chill that did not belong to Limgrave.

It was a summon. A herald of her presence, meant to catch the Tarnished’s eye.

The reaction was swift—yet not from him.

“…What is that?” the merchant muttered, voice pitched low and wary. His long fingers tightened upon the neck of his instrument, his eyes darting to every corner of the ruin as the unnatural fog crept about him. Suspicion sharpened his tone- this was a man who had lived too long to be caught unaware.

Ranni’s shaded eyes turned from him to the warrior, bemusement glinting faint beneath the brim of her wide hat.

The Tarnished had not even noticed until now. Only when his companion spoke did he glance down, blinking at the encroaching mist as if it were no more than a curious breeze.

When at last the fog drew his notice, the armored man turned his head slowly, helm tilting. His gaze swept across the creeping haze with nothing more than mild puzzlement.

“Huh,” he muttered after a pause. No fear, no suspicion—merely idle curiosity, as though he were appraising an oddly shaped stone at the roadside. “Weird. Well, no matter. Can’t get distracted when my enemy’s waiting for me.”

And with that, he turned away from the sorcery and strode toward the church’s entrance. The pale mist curled at his boots, and he ignored it with the indifference of a man walking through morning dew.

…Truly one of Godfrey’s soldiers, it seemed.

With a slow realization that all her careful staging had been wasted, Ranni felt faint astonishment… followed swiftly by the prick of irritation. If she would not be acknowledged, then she would demand attention.

She conjured a deliberate sound—the mimicry of a throat being cleared, crisp and sharp. Her doll-body had no true lungs, no cords with which to shape such a noise, but the simulacrum rang out clear in the ruin’s stillness.

Both figures turned at once.

The merchant’s eyes widened with wariness, his posture tightening. A fitting reaction.

The Tarnished, however, reacted with the same casual indifference as before. Weapon was not drawn, nor was his posture adjusted. He merely tilted his helm toward her, cocked ever so slightly in acknowledgement.

“…This way, Tarnished,” Ranni said at last, her voice carrying smooth and practiced calm. The faint thread of annoyance she felt, she smothered. “May I have a word?”

The warrior regarded her for a heartbeat. As the moment stretched long, she began to feel certain trepidation. This was the beginning of her great endeavor—the first stone placed upon the path of defiance and freedom.

For a while, it almost seemed the Tarnished felt it too, even if he did not know the meaning of the feeling.

Then—

“Sure,” he replied brightly, cheer cutting effortlessly through the tension. The irreverence in his tone, his utter unconcern, stripped all grandeur from the meeting in an instant.

Untroubled, he strode toward her with unhurried steps. When he reached her, he set his gauntleted hands to his helm and removed it in one fluid motion, the gesture casual.

Beneath the steel was a face of unpolished charm. His black hair fell wild and tangled about his shoulders, untamed by comb. His beard, untrimmed and uneven, framed a mouth quick to smile. It was a visage lacking refinement yet possessing a rugged sort of allure. Many might have found such features pleasant.

Ranni, however, spared it no thought. Her purpose here was greater than such trivialities.

“A pleasure to meet thee, Tarnished,” Ranni said at last, her doll’s lips parting with a faint smile. Her voice carried the cadence of ritual—polished, and carefully measured. “I am the witch Renna.”

It was her first lie of the night.

The name of her late teacher slipped from her tongue as easily as a breath. The vessel she wore had been crafted in Renna’s likeness, its porcelain form an echo of the one who had guided her once. Thus the lie would stand firm, convincing in form. Should this Tarnished prove false to her expectations, she would have risked nothing of herself. Already she had risked much by revealing her presence. Best that her true name remain veiled until necessity demanded it.

“Greetings to you as well, I suppose. My name is Hadwyn. Tarnished—though you seem to have guessed that already.” The warrior’s reply came easily, with neither awe nor suspicion. His stance was loose, his posture conversational, as though sorceresses materializing in ruins at night was a common sight. “Can I help you? I’m in the middle of a… repeatable duel at the moment.”

The words were spoken lightly and his body did not tense even once as he spoke. Whether it was confidence born of the Grace that guided him, or simply a naturally irreverent streak, Ranni could not say. Yet, she did not find his manner wholly disagreeable. She had drowned too long in reverence, suffocated by obeisance both genuine and feigned. His blunt ease—though crude—was almost refreshing.

“I had heard tell of a Tarnished hurtling about atop a spectral steed,” Ranni replied smoothly, allowing another lie to slip between her lips as easily as a sigh. Their meeting was not chance. “And upon looking into the matter, the talk, I surmise, is of thee. Thou art possessed of the power, no?”

“Spectral steed?” Hadwyn repeated, brows knitting beneath his tangle of hair. For a brief instant Ranni thought she had made a blunder—that he was not the one she sought despite the previous mention of Torrent. But then, with sudden clarity, he smacked the palm of his gauntleted hand. “Ah, you mean Torrent! Yeah, I bonded with him recently! Women really are interested in that goat-horse, huh?”

Were her form still one of flesh, her eye would have twitched. Fortunate it was that she bore the calm mask of porcelain, her features incapable of betraying the irritation that flickered within.

“…Ah. As I had hoped, then.” She kept her voice level as she produced a small silver bell, its surface glowing faintly in the starlit dark. The light it shed pulsed gently, like the breath of some unseen heart. “I was entrusted this, for thee, by Torrent’s former master.”

Another lie.

She had not been entrusted with anything. Certainly not by Torrent’s former master—Miquella, whose machinations she held in utter contempt. No, this was her own doing, compelled by the stars. Though their voice was dimmed by her brother’s meddling, still they spoke enough. Enough to tell her this Tarnished was the one who would unmake the eternal stalemate and set her free.

Hadwyn accepted the bell without hesitation. He turned it over curiously in his hands, studying it with the detached interest of one examining an unusual trinket. After a moment, his lips quirked in a half-smile, the man clearly not comprehending the bell’s significance. “…So, thank you for a fancy bell?”

Ranni sighed inwardly. Truly, she should not have expected understanding of the arcane from one who followed Godfrey of all people.

“…Tis a bell for calling forth spirits.” She explained with cool patience, her voice precise. “Summon them with it, from ash unreturned to the Erdtree. The spirits will obey thine command but briefly, as they recall battles past. Now it is thine to do with as thou wishest.”

Hadwyn brightened, though the faint glaze of incomprehension still lingered behind his eyes.

“Well, thank you, then!” he said, his smile easy and cheerful, if not entirely understanding..

Ranni studied him intently, her doll’s unblinking eyes fixed upon the Tarnished. She found herself…slightly at a loss.

Was his simplicity a blessing, an uncluttered soul unswayed by burdensome thought, easy to guide? Or was it a curse, a mind too blunt and stubborn to grasp the subtler necessities of her designs?

It was too early to tell, she supposed.

Regardless, her purpose here was finished. She had cast the first stone upon the waters; the ripples would spread in time. To linger further would be foolish. Already she had risked much by unveiling herself so plainly. Enough had been revealed for one night.

“Forgive mine intrusion, Tarnished. I doubt we shall again meet. But all the same, learn well the Lands Between.” Ranni lied for the last time, each word poised like a dagger, deliberate and clinical. She let the words hang, then tipped the blade deeper with quiet emphasis. “How long will it be, I wonder...Before the Tarnished tire of obeisance to the Two Fingers?”

Her form dissolved then, fading into the unseen, her doll-body vanishing from Hadwyn’s sight.

Yet she did not leave. Veiled once more, she lingered in silence, gaze keen and cool, watching to see what the man would do.

Hadwyn gave no sign of heavy thought or stirring revelation. Instead, he glanced down at the bell in his hand, turning it once, then again.

“Well, that was weird,” he said at last, tone light and cheerful. He held the bell up to the dim moonlight, studying its form. “Has it become a habit in the Lands Between for beautiful women to hand men esoteric gifts since I’ve been banished? Can’t say I disapprove.”

Ranni nearly balked—nearly. Was she to be of flesh and blood, she might have, but her doll kept perfect composure, its porcelain stillness concealing her reaction.

Unaware of the effect he stirred, Hadwyn gave the bell an experimental shake.

A shiver of magic rippled outward, faint and silvery. From the emptiness, three spectral wolves took shape, their bodies wavering in ghostly light. They stood in a shimmer, neither wholly present nor gone, yet bound to him.

Ranni’s gaze softened, if only faintly. Wolves were the symbol of Caria, of her house, of her blood. A hidden hint for the Tarnished.

Hadwyn, however, seemed more startled than enlightened by the wolves’ appearance, his hand drifting to his sword as he took a step back, braced for violence. But when the wolves merely sat before him, awaiting command, his alarm slowly dissolved into delight as he comprehended the development.

“Nice.” he said simply, the grin spreading across his face boyish and unrestrained, like a child presented with a new toy.

Ranni rolled her eyes. Despite herself, she found the honesty of his reaction oddly disarming.

Hadwyn slid his helmet back into place, the metal concealing his wolfish grin but doing nothing to hide the reckless energy in his stride. He turned toward the ruined arch of the church’s entrance and raised his voice.

“I’m heading out, Kalé!” he called brightly, his tone carrying wild eagerness. “I’ve got a gift I simply must test!”

The merchant glanced up from the fire. His expression was as flat as the tone of his voice.

“…Don’t you want to test it on someone less powerful,” Kalé asked slowly, “before rushing toward a foe clearly beyond you?”

Hadwyn paused mid-step. His helm tilted ever so slightly, as though he were giving the question genuine consideration. At last, however, he shook his head, dismissing the suggestion.

“Nah,” he said easily. “I can take him now, I think.”

He stepped outside the church, the fog of night parting as Torrent, the spiritual steed- horned horse of unique nature, shimmered into existence beneath him. Hadwyn mounted the animal with a fluid motion, settling onto the saddle with ease. His gaze fixed on the distant road, where a towering knight of gold astride a massive steed could be seen.

“Ready yourself, bastard!” Hadwyn bellowed across the night, voice carrying the utter confidence. He raised his sword, while his newly-summoned wolves fanned out at his flanks, spectral forms pacing restlessly at his side. “I’ve grown much stronger since our last battle!”

The cry carried far, enough to turn the Sentinel’s helm. Gold caught the moonlight as the giant knight shifted in his saddle, halberd rising in measured readiness.

Then Torrent’s hooves thundered against the earth. The wolves howled their spectral cries. The two riders met each other with weapons raised high.

Moments later, Hadwyn died.

A shimmer of light bloomed at the Site of Grace within the church. Once again his body reformed, whole and unbroken, his spirit anchored by Grace.

Hadwyn sprang to his feet at once, effortlessly brushing off the sting of death. His voice rang through the ruin, utterly unshaken.

“Okay, I know what I did wrong!” he announced with unwavering conviction. “This time it will work!”

And with no further hesitation, he strode for the church entrance once more.

From the shadows, unseen and silent, Ranni lingered still. Her porcelain face betrayed no expression, but her gaze followed Hadwyn’s every action. At last, the faintest tilt graced her lips—a curve so subtle it might have been imagined.

What a peculiar Tarnished.

And though she would never admit it aloud, not even to herself, some part of her—against all reason, against all design—did not find that quality entirely disagreeable.