"The fallen leaves tell a story. The great Elden Ring was shattered. In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between."
Unknown
Beyond the Fog
Jon Snow
Daggers and knives pierced his body again and again, and he could only feel disbelief, impotence, and desperation. The cold, hateful, and angry gazes of Bowen Marsh, Alliser, and the others accompanied his final moments.
With the last of his consciousness, he felt himself falling onto the hard, packed courtyard of Castle Black. All his plans died with him. Saving the Free Folk before they joined the army of the dead, reclaiming Arya and the North from the Boltons, and defeating the Others.
The North had to manage without him. The whole world had to manage without him. But he didn't believe they were ready for that. These fools had doomed the whole world.
The Others would descend upon Westeros like the inevitable Winter, consuming it while the Southern Lords fought their wars for this pile of melted swords called the throne.
His eyes were filled with an all-encompassing darkness, and his hearing was numb. He couldn't smell a thing. But he felt the chill of his naked body pressed against the cold earth. Was this what death felt like?
Suddenly, a male voice reached his ears, low and pleasant, and with it came incomprehensible visions of unfamiliar people, places, and events.
The fallen leaves tell a story.
The great Elden Ring was shattered.
In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between.
Now, Queen Marika the Eternal is nowhere to be found,
and in the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was the first to perish.
Soon, Marika's offspring, demigods all, claimed the shards of the Elden Ring.
The mad taint of their newfound strength triggered the Shattering.
A war from which no lord arose.
A war leading to abandonment by the Greater Will.
What was happening? And what did it all mean? Whose voice did that belong to? But Jon had no time to consider what he saw, for the unknown man continued speaking, and his words were followed by further visions.
Arise now, ye Tarnished.
Ye dead, who yet live.
The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all.
Hoarah Loux, chieftan of the Badlands.
The ever-brilliant Goldmask.
Fia, the Deathbed Companion.
The loathsome Dung Eater.
And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing.
The voice fell silent for a moment, and he saw a glint of light in the darkness from the corner of his eye, a tiny spark of light falling gently towards his open left eye. Jon felt as if the left side of his face was on fire, and a silent scream escaped his lips, as if no sound other than the man's voice existed in that place. But as quickly as the pain had appeared, it vanished. All that remained was the contrasting, pleasant warmth emanating from his eye socket, and the voice which continued its monologue.
And one other. Whom grace would bless for a first time.
A Tarnished of no renown.
He stood up, holding palm over his eye, and before him appeared a wall of fog. Within it, a crack of light began to open, enlarging and becoming brighter with each word spoken by the voice.
Cross the fog, to the Lands Between.
To stand before the Elden Ring.
And become the Elden Lord.
The words and visions both ceased, but Jon felt strangely moved by them, especially by the final call to become this whole Elden Lord thing.
He had to squint, too, because the brightness that flooded him was blinding. Suddenly, he found himself completely naked in a room resembling some abandoned temple, shrouded in darkness.
He didn't understand what was happening. He had been murdered and should be dead. Instead, he had landed in some ruins; who knows where? The only clues might be his visions, but Jon refused to believe that what he saw and heard could be true.
It would mean he had entered another land, some Lands Between, where demigods fought among themselves.
Looking cautiously around the room, he spotted a corpse lying against one wall. He quickly headed there. It belonged to a young woman, dressed in a light brown and grey robe. Her head was tilted to the side, and her lifeless eyes were completely empty.
Jon crouched beside her, then reached out and closed her eyelids with a soft sigh. "Find solace in death, for I have found none," he whispered.
He was accustomed to death and had seen many dead women, but this sight filled him with an inexplicable sadness. As if he had lost something precious.
The object the dead woman held in her hands caught his attention. It felt like a withered human finger. Jon reached out, and as he grasped it, a message written in the air suddenly appeared before him. The golden letters floated in the void, to his surprise.
Tarnished's Wizened Finger
Use to write messages, allowing other Tarnished to read them.
A finger of corpse wax, so emaciated the bone is visible.
It is a relic of those who came before,
left to help those who would come after.
"Damn" Jon muttered under his breath, frowning as he glanced between the message and the withered finger in his hand. What were these words written in the air, like some kind of description? And how could a finger write messages? That's what a quill was for.
Irritated by the lack of a response, he tossed the finger aside, but to his surprise, it vanished into thin air the moment it left his hand.
'What's going on? Is this some kind of magic?' he thought, but as soon as the thought of his finger's disappearance entered his mind, it reappeared in his hand.
Truly curious now about this phenomenon, Jon repeated the process, tossing the finger away. When it disappeared, he longed to see it again, and it reappeared as if on cue.
It was undoubtedly some kind of magic. Jon looked around and spotted a broken chair leg lying nearby. He grabbed it and did the same to it as he did to the finger.
The makeshift club also vanished. But at the same time, something else caught his attention. As the finger and club disappeared and reappeared, a short pulse of heat came from his left eye, spreading throughout his body.
Jon reached out and touched it cautiously but recoiled in fear as it suddenly glowed with bright light, which illuminated the entire room and he found himself somewhere else entirely. He was in a massive, oval chamber of white stone, with no visible windows or doors.
The chamber was almost empty, save for two objects. A broken chair leg hung on a weapons rack, When he looked in its direction, the golden inscription appeared in the air before him again.
Club
A thick, solid lump of wood.
Wielding this striking weapon requires no skill.
A simple, primitive weapon that requires only brute strength
and persistence to hammer your foe into the ground.
On the other side of the room, on a long marble table, in an open golden box, lay the finger he had found earlier. When Jon's gaze fell on it, the inscriptions describing the object appeared again.
With a mixture of concern and wonder, he began to suspect the workings of this magic. Somehow, the objects he had thrown away were finding their way to this place. This raised further questions. Did this apply to every possible object, and how could he get them back? But above all, how was he supposed to get out of here?
But as soon as he thought about it, there was another flash of light, and then he was standing again in the same ruined temple, over the corpse of a young woman.
He held out his hand, thinking of the same table leg, called a club by this magic, and a moment later, the piece of wood was indeed in his hand.
For the next few moments, Jon toyed with this, testing his new ability, repeatedly sending back and summoning the club and the finger.
Then he began touching various objects in the room, but strangely, he couldn't do the same with any of them as he had done with the previous ones. Apparently, only specific objects could reach this mysterious place.
But then another thought occurred to him. If the golden inscriptions were describing the selected objects, perhaps they could do the same with people? It was worth a try, wasn't it?
With his left hand, he touched the shoulder of the woman lying on the floor, but nothing happened. Sighing, he rose to his feet and looked at his naked body.
He needed to find some clothes, but he didn't intend to rob the body, so he decided to tear a piece of her robe at the very bottom, fashioning it into a loincloth.
He took one last look at the dead woman and said, "Once I've looked outside and surveyed the terrain, I'll return to bury you, I swear, and Starks keep their word."
With that, he summoned his club to his right hand and, taking a deep breath, pushed the wooden door open. Although he had to admit it was heavier than he expected, he opened it rather easily.
If what he had seen so far had allowed him to delude himself into thinking he was somewhere in his own world, what awaited him outside shattered all such hopes.
And it wasn't the great fortress, far larger than Winterfell itself, looming on the horizon that reassured him, nor even the fact that as he slowly, speechless, approached the edge of the cliff, he realised that the small piece of land he was currently on was separated from the rest of the landmass.
No, it was the sight of a gargantuan tree, gleaming with golden light, its crown reaching into the clouds and beyond.
The glow emanating from it seemed to illuminate the entire land. Millions of leaves, glowing with a golden light, which he initially mistook for sparks of some kind, filled the air everywhere he looked.
It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and he doubted he would ever see anything quite as magnificent. Moreover, the tree radiated power, an energy that Jon could sense, like warm sunlight on his skin. The exact same warmth that emanated from his eye, suggesting they were connected.
He sat on the edge of the wooden steps leading out of the stone courtyard, as he had often done on the Wall, trying not to fall off, and letting his eyes soak in the view.
Every now and then, he would simply tear his gaze away from the golden tree to survey the rest of the land around him, or at least what he could see, for, in reality, everything but the tree and the castle in the distance was obscured by mist.
He didn't know how long he spent sitting and gazing at the view before him, but it must have been a moment, for his body was stiff from being motionless for so long. He was accustomed to the absurdly low temperatures, so he didn't mind the chilly wind.
He wondered if the place he'd just arrived in was some kind of afterlife, for that was a natural conclusion, but one that was already disproved by the woman's corpse in the temple behind him. How could anyone die in the world of the dead?
His thoughts returned to the people remaining in Westeros. Arya was in the hands of the Boltons, Sansa and Rickon were unknown, and as for Bran, he didn't even know if he was alive.
In addition, his loyal brothers from the Night's Watch, Tormund, Val, and above all, Ghost, his most loyal companion, couldn't be sure what would become of them now.
He also didn't know what had happened to Wun Wun. Before he was murdered, he remembered that he had smashed a knight - Ser Patrek as Jon suspected - against a tower. He feared the queen's men would try to kill the giant.
It took him a moment to come to terms with the fact that no matter what he did, it wouldn't change their fate in any way. They had to cope without him. He was gone now, like his father before him, and the living had to deal with their problems on their own.
Finally, his gaze fell on the other piece of land, connected to the ruined temple by a wooden rope bridge. He rose slowly, then quickly stretched, unsure of what might await him, though his instincts told him something dangerous lurked there.
Before crossing the bridge, however, he glanced around the small island he was on, where he found another locked wooden door. He grabbed a nearby log and began to force the lock, constantly glancing to the right to see if anyone was approaching from the other island.
After a few powerful knocks, the lock gave way. He threw the log aside and, summoning his club, entered the room. Then, he headed up the stairs, where, unfortunately, he found nothing of interest or value.
Except for a strange, large feather, which lay quietly on the stone floor, despite the strong wind.
This immediately caught his attention. He knelt down and took a grey feather, as large as his forearm, between his fingers. Then something strange happened. It landed in the same place as the club and his finger, and a message appeared, once again inscribed in gold letters.
The Stormhawk King
Ashes of a hawk revered by all others as sovereign back in the days
when Stormveil's winds still raged like no other.
This ancient monarch is proud however, refusing to answer anyone's summons.
Jon paused at these words for a moment, but, uncomprehending, he stored the information for later. He wondered, however, what this Stormveil was and whether it had anything to do with this place, or perhaps it was the name of the entire land?
In any case, he moved toward the bridge, crossing it hesitantly, keeping a watchful eye out for any threats.
To his left, a statue several metres high of a warrior leaning on a spear loomed over him, and directly in front of him was a massive arch leading to a courtyard.
He approached and stopped just beneath the arch, tightening his grip on his club and scanning the large square surrounded by carved walls, and directly in front of him, in the centre, was a statue of a woman.
He saw no enemy anywhere, however. There was still a chance that he was hiding somewhere behind those walls. To his left, he spotted another arch and decided to head there.
When he reached the centre, however, his senses practically screamed of impending danger. However, there were no enemies around him.
Then he looked up and narrowly avoided being crushed, throwing himself desperately to the side at the last moment.
In the place where he had just stood, a nightmare beast landed, making the undead and Others look less terrifying.
The creature was the size of a waggon, a hodgepodge of bodies fused together, and from its form sprang a multitude of limbs and a single head, staring down at him with eyes filled with suffering and hatred. It resembled a grotesque spider. It was also an armoured spider, holding two ornate golden swords and a single rectangular golden shield.
Jon didn't have time to analyse this monstrosity further, for it charged at him with a ferocity equal to its hideous appearance.
He rolled to the side, avoiding the blade of the sword that dug into the spot where his head had rested moments before and sank several centimetres into the stone. 'Damn, those swords were as sharp as Valyrian steel.'
He then scrambled to his feet but had to flee, as the monster was surprisingly fast.
Grabbing the club that had fallen from his hand earlier, he headed for the bridge, hoping he could somehow outmanoeuvre the beast. However, it remained hot on his heels, attacking furiously.
Just before the bridge, he lunged forward, avoiding a slash that would have split him in half. He rolled, tearing his back against the stones, but the pain was the least of his problems. He ran desperately onto the bridge, and only once he was on the other side did he look back.
The monster, however, wasn't there; instead, it was above him again. The monstrosity leapt over a dozen metres as if it were nothing. Without hesitation, he moved toward the stairs leading to where he'd found the feather, searching for any possible advantage.
He burst through the door, and the monster tried desperately to follow him, but he couldn't squeeze through. It tried to reach him with its arms holding two golden swords.
And this was the chance Jon had been waiting for. The moment one of the arms clumsily thrust the sword toward him, he dodged the attack and swung the club powerfully, striking the hand clenched around the hilt, breaking its fingers.
The beast howled, and the sword clattered to the ground. Jon caught it without hesitation. He sent the club back to the mysterious place, to that magical equipment, and closed both hands around the hilt of the golden sword, which seemed to him to weigh three times as much as it should.
The monster threw herself into the narrow doorway with even greater fury, and to Jon's horror, the wall seemed to give way under her force. Wasting no time, he rushed to the stairs, taking three steps at a time.
He ran to the roof of the room where he had previously found the feather, and before the monster could realise he was upstairs, Jon lunged down at the creature's back, attempting to pierce its head with the blade.
However, due to the monster's mobility and the blade's weight, he missed, merely tracing its cheek and burying itself in the body next to it.
The monster howled frantically, thrashing around to throw it to the ground. The hands holding the other sword and shield also tried to strike it. Jon knelt on his back, desperately clinging to the hilt of the blade, half-buried in the flesh, with his left hand. Then he furiously began to pummelled the monster's head with his right fist, but the beast only began to thrash more violently.
Seeing no other choice, he reached out and furiously dug his fingers into the monster's eyes, gripping its head. He also released the sword hilt from his other hand and grabbed the head with it as well. The momentum did the rest. Jon heard a crack and felt pain in his fingers buried in its eye sockets.
The monster's head twisted at an odd angle, and Jon's fingers snapped under the force, and he hit the ground hard enough to knock his breath out. He felt slightly dazed and sore, and the fingers on his right hand were broken at various angles.
He had no time to rest, however, for the monster, to his horror, was not dead. He himself lay on the ground but tried to rise, thrashing his many limbs from side to side. The blade embedded in him sank deeper into the monster's back.
The second blade also fell from the monster's hands and lay nearby. Jon struggled to his feet and crawled toward it. He grabbed it with his single hand and moved slowly but surely, like a destined death toward the monster, dragging the golden blade along the ground behind him.
He struggled to raise his sword and, with a cry of fury, "AARRGH", brought it down on the monster's head, severing it completely from its body.
The monster's body continued to convulse for several seconds before finally calming down completely, and Jon collapsed beside him, exhausted.
However, he couldn't rest, for something had begun to happen. The body began to disappear in golden particles, and a golden inscription lit up before his eyes.
ENEMY FELLED
Grafted Scion
You receive 25, 600 runes.
You receive Ornamental Straight Sword
You receive Golden Beast Crest Shield
Jon noticed golden sparks flying into him and more precisely in his marked by golden power left eye.
He longed to be back in the magic chamber where his collected items landed, and indeed, when he opened his eyes, he found himself standing in its midst. In addition to the club and the strange finger from earlier, there was now a feather, two swords lying side by side on a stand, and a shield hanging on the wall.
He moved toward the sword and grasped it in his hands. Golden inscriptions, serving as some kind of description of the item, immediately flashed before his eyes.
Ornamental Straight Sword
Slender straight sword patterned after an antique ornament.
Superior swordsmen prefer to wield one in each hand.
After falling from grace, the dregs of the golden lineage sought power and purpose in the past.
Unique skill: Golden Tempering
Skill requires: Faith - 15
These words held no meaning for him and, frankly, offered him no information, other than the existence of some sort of golden lineage. He also didn't know what this unique skill was all about or what the faith requirement meant. What was that all about?
What did 'faith' here mean, and how could it even be measured? Faith in what or whom? Faith in gods, in oneself, or in some idea? He wasn't going to bother with it for now, hoping it would become clear later.
He admired the exquisitely crafted decorations and the blade itself for a moment, and then reached for the shield, hoping that perhaps he would learn something more useful from its description.
Golden Beast Crest Shield
Shield of dull gold with a beast engraved as its crest. Lighter than
most greatshields, and subsequently easier to wield.
The beast depicted is Serosh, aged counselor who guides the
golden lineage.
Hm. Still nothing concrete. Something about Serosh and that golden lineage thing again. It looks like the Lannister lion. And this whole gold motif gives me a bad feeling. This golden lineage thing must be some kind of nobility here," he muttered to himself.
Then he left the chamber, his private magical armoury, and returned his mind to his body.
He didn't know how long he lay on his back, staring at the sky and thinking about the whole fight and the monster he'd faced. It bothered him that he looked as if someone had stitched him together from different people. It was the most disgusting magic he'd ever seen, surpassing even that of the Others.
He struggled to his feet, sore and bloody, and examined his ruined right hand, its fingers twisted at odd angles, but surprisingly, the pain was less than he expected. Apparently, he must have been more numb than he'd liked.
He knew that if he stayed put, he'd bleed out, but he feared another difficult opponent might still await, and he doubted he'd even be able to swing his sword properly.
He trudged across the bridge, step by step, then crossed the courtyard of the second island and reached an archway, beyond which lay another rope bridge and an even smaller patch of land, barely a dozen metres in diameter.
When he reached it, he couldn't see any way forward. With a sigh, he decided to approach the cliff and look around more carefully, hoping to spot a way out.
He saw some glowing inscriptions on the ground, carved as if with liquid fire, but he decided to ignore them for the time being. He would take a closer look at them in a moment.
However, after taking a few more steps, he realised he wouldn't have the chance. In an instant, the ground gave way before him, and he plummeted with it into the abyss.
The last thing he saw was an inscription glowing in red letters in his mind.
YOU DIED