Allfather 4

Ser Garrow had served Lord Edgar Morne for almost a decade now, and in that long service, he had seen storms. He had ridden through sleet that cut the skin raw, trudged through mud that swallowed horse and man alike, and endured nights when thunder rattled the very marrow of his bones. But nothing, nothing, lingered in memory like the storm that began the day the Elden Ring shattered.

They said the whole of the Lands Between had felt it, and Garrow believed the claims. After all, he had felt it, and he was in the southern region of Limgrave, far from the heartlands of Leyndell. He was not the only one who had felt it this far off. A sound like the world itself splitting down the middle, followed by a light too harsh to be dawn, too cruel to be divine. Garrow hadn’t seen the Ring or its breaking; he was a knight, not a scholar, mage, or even a priest. All he heard was what came after. And what came after was the storm.

For a month now, the Weeping Peninsula had drowned beneath it. It had not always been called that; the name itself was new, a muttered curse among soldiers and peasants alike, but it stuck fast. The rains never ceased. Even while the storm that followed after the Shattering reduced, Limgrave, unlike the rest of the Lands, was not truly spared.

Yet even in Limgrave, there were differences. The southern peninsula seemed to suffer the capricious weather the most. The thunder that rang up the dark clouds never strayed far, and every bolt of lightning that tore across the sky seemed to promise worse to come. Some folks had begun to whisper that if you stared long enough, if you dared look into that stormy soup, at the right moment when a whiter flash lit it, you would see a figure framed within it. A man, supposedly, gone by the time the dark reclaimed the heavens. The image is as fleeting as lightning strikes that reveal it.

Theomund, one of Garrow’s fellows, a knight true and bold, had sworn he’d seen it once. Garrow had only spat and told him to keep his tongue still. A few days later, the surly man had died from a bolt through the eye that sent him falling down the castle ramparts. Theomund’s death meant stories of a man in the clouds had dwindled, yet in the quiet hours, when the campfires hissed under the rain, the thought gnawed at Ser Garrow.

Castle Morne was no haven. Its walls bled cracks from repeated attacks. Its halls, once filled to the brim with the gentry as well as nobility, had grown quiet since the Shattering, since Marika denied the Greater Will and they were left to bear the brunt. Now the hallowed walls of the castle echoed too loudly with the sound of empty men.

However, worse than that were the Misbegotten. They had risen with the Shattering and the storm that had followed, throwing off their chains with baying and treasonous words. They had sought beyond their station, and they had begun raising crude banners as if freedom alone could match steel. Garrow had fought them in the muck, their howls inhuman, their strength unnatural. Too many had fallen, and too few had risen to take their place.

After the ambush on the ramparts that had taken Theomund as well as a dozen levy, a group of runners had been sent to Stormveil. Garrow knew that their outpost south of Limgrave was not the only place hit by rebellion. The Shattering had given rise to war. There were rumors of the Demigods themselves clashing, raising armies and waging wars, with the desire to follow in Queen Marika’s footsteps and become the Elden Lord.

Lord Godrick seemingly preferred to stay in Castle Stormveil instead of marching out to war like his brothers and sisters. There were whispers of the Demigod being a coward. Reinforcements were promised, but that had been weeks ago, and the Grafted Demigod kept his soldiers close in fear of being attacked, leaving them with promises, but promises did not sharpen blades nor fill bellies.

Tonight, Garrow had been grateful for the relative quiet. The Misbegotten pressed less fiercely when the rains fell heaviest. They seemed to prefer scampering around their perches and the tunnels and catacombs that lined all of Limgrave, scattered deep beneath their feet, where proper humans were not likely to be seen.

Garrow sat beneath a sagging awning, helm set aside, watching droplets slide from his gauntlets. His thoughts were drifting to his pay, to the family plot back in Stormveil, to the ache in his knees, to his dead friends, and that was when the sky tore.

It was not just lightning. Not thunder. This was something else to it; it was like the storm had been holding its breath, a gift in its cradle, and was finally ready to release its very unasked-for gift unto them.

The stormy clouds screamed as a fork of lightning, so blinding in its intensity, Garrow was forced to shield his eyes as the lightning split the clouds apart, and something vast came down from the heavens.

It didn’t fall like a star, as soldiers that had fought in the same vicinity as the red-haired child of Radagon utilized, nor like any omen Garrow had heard sung by the wandering bards. This one fell fast, heavy, dragging the storm with it as if the world itself had hurled it down.

It smashed into Castle Morne, tearing stone like parchment, then plunged deeper still, down into the mines beneath. The force of the strike forced the ground to lurch as the walls groaned, and Garrow was thrown to the mud, breath crushed from his chest.

“Curses!” he muttered to himself as he remained on the spot waiting for the shaking and the groaning to subside. He spotted a couple of levy on the walls thrown off in their stupid haste, the sound of the body breaking as they fell over the rampart and into the mud-streaked courtyard, dulled by the thunderous boom.

Garrow stayed there till the shaking had stopped, and when he finally staggered back to his feet, his first thought was simple and bitter: More ill news.

By dawn, the castle was half-ruined. Luckily for them, a great part of the damage seemed to be focused on the northern part, which was protected by the sea. Still, whatever it was that had struck the castle seemed to have fallen at an angle, as smoke still curled from broken towers. Men whispered of shapes moving in the crater the fall had created, a crater that led so deep into the earth, tunnels and catacombs, parts that had not been greeted with light in over a dozen lifetimes. None dared venture near, and the order had come quickly. The hole in the ground was rapidly blocked and covered by so much debris and wreckage that it would have taken a Demigod to dig its way out.

The Misbegotten grew restless after, their howls carrying across the valley, emboldened by whatever omen had struck their prison.

It was then that Lord Edgar summoned him.

The fairly middle-aged lord sat tall despite his lined face and weary eyes. What age had not managed to do, the stress of the Shattering had. It had withered his body, but the pride of a lord still clung to him, like old armor that could not be shed. His voice, when he spoke, carried the same weight as it had the day Garrow first swore his oaths.

“You will ride north,” Edgar commanded. “To Stormveil. As a veteran knight of his, your words would be treated with the urgency they demand. You will bear word to Lord Godrick of what has befallen. Tell him the Misbegotten rise in greater number with each day, and now have a champion that wields a great crafted blade, and now…” He paused, his gaze narrowing toward the still smoking ruin that was Morne’s keep.

“…Now, something else has come. Fell from the sky itself. If there is strength to be spared, he must send it. The Peninsula cannot hold.”

Garrow bowed, fist to breast. He did not argue. What knight would, before his lord? But as he tightened his saddle and prepared to ride, he felt it. That itch, that gnawing at the back of his neck, like unseen eyes tracing every movement. The storm had not ended, and deep down he knew, whatever had fallen into the mines was no mere star, no gift of grace. It was not of the Greater Will.

If his old friend’s words were true and someone had truly been in the storm, then it was likely the person rested beneath the castle now. He was glad to be rid of it.

The gates of Morne creaked open, and Garrow set spurs to his horse, riding hard through the rain. The Peninsula vanished behind him, swallowed by mist and storm. The further he went, the lighter the weight on his shoulders became.

However, Ser Garrow was no fool. He had lived through enough battles to know when a thing was lost. And though he did not dare whisper it, even to himself, he knew this: he had not escaped misfortune. He had fled from the birth of a catastrophe. One that was still likely to catch up to him sooner or later.

A/N: Yes. Elden ring, right after the shattering. Fun Timeline… for me. This was fun, now back to writing I, Dracula.