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Chapter Text

The halls of Raya Lucaria clacked, echoing steps going through the relatively empty halls. A young boy, mane of crimson hair falling down his back, obscured by a white hood coating his face, a shadow casting over the bronze skin of his soft and androgynous features. Sweat dripped down his face, golden eyes nervously swaying over the surroundings. Specifically the mask-wearing, robed students that read from their books. But for some reason, he knew that they were staring at him, his wretchedness. The voice in his head, it told him so, spoke both loudly, and in a whisper.

The voice within was one he deemed a god of his own creation. The Red Moon, hanging above Raya Lucaria, staring down at none other than he in particular. All from his observatory, a small private office which was filled with a slam as the aforementioned student entered, papers and parchment flying everywhere as the door shut behind him. With the voice's guidance, he had begun studying. Images flashing into his head, blueprints for a weapon of his own design, based upon the mythical black flames wielded by the Godskins. A combination of glintstone sorcery and the flame arts wielded by the flame monks, all based off the stories of the astrologers. Together, if his design was correct, should create a godkilling weapon. One that would allow him to prove himself to the world, lay waste to the very gods that dare challenge the Red Moon.

The lunar champion's blade was beautiful. It lay upon his desk, reflecting the moonlight from it's ornamental blade. It looked more like it was for design than practicality, but that was only part of it's charm in the eyes of this chosen one. But before he could use it, he had to get himself closer to the god he chose to serve. His eyes carefully tracing over a sharp glintstone blade, a mixing hue of blue and red. His hand reached, and grasped tight, ignoring how the jagged edges cut into his palm.

To see his god, he knew what he must do. Blind himself to the world. Alter his currents. And with this shard, it would all be possible. He held no love for the blood sorcery, but it had to be done. Crimson to spill crimson, cerulean to fill cerulean. With a hefty inhale, his body shuddered, right hand raising itself until the sharp point stood only a few centimeters away from his rapidly sweating face.

"Take the plunge."

He wasn't sure if that was his voice, or the other's. In fact, he wasn't sure of anything, as blood spilled forth, blasting from his eye like a flame filled with frenzy. It splatted over the walls, and even tinged the moonlight itself, bathing the young man in deep red.

When the crystal dagger was retracted from his eye, it still stood whole, black sclera with a red iris in the center, cloudy and resembling the very moon that would shine outside his observatory.

Two beings were born this night. The Outer God of his own creation, the Red Moon. And the humble servant, Rorik the Red.

Chapter Text

Rorik awoke with a start, quickly rising out of the stone coffin that had been his home for... so long. He could barely recall his own life, or his death for that matter, with nothing more than a stinging pain in his right eye as a reminder. Aside his coffin lie a young woman, unresponsive and still. Dead, he quickly came to presume. He stood from the stone cage, academy robes covered in dust. With a quick search of his surroundings, he found lying inside, where he once was, three items. A small shield, which he strapped upon his back, a sheathed straight sword, with he placed upon his hip, and his staff, old and weathered. A hum made it's way through the empty church as he finally faced the giant wooden double doors that blocked him from the outside. And so he approached, and pushed.

He was met with a rocky, foggy landscape. Walking along a set of wooden stairs down the cliffside, he came to realize that he stood tens of meters above a deep ocean, and in the distance, was more land. Land that made a memory flash into his head, almost stingingly so.

"The Lands Between."

He muttered to himself, before continuing down his path. Across a wooden bridge, and through a stone arch, to what seemed to be some sort of grounds of worship based on the statue that stood ahead. He had planned to go through the other arch on his right, but was interrupted by the presence of a new foe. A disgusting and wretched beast, made from mangled remains of numerous beings. A childish face holding innocence possessed nowhere else on the corrupted form before him.

Rorik was quick to jump into action, the tip of his staff shining a bright blue as he jutted it forward, the sigil of glintstone sorcery appearing at the tip as rapid shots of glowing blue crystal were fired at the beast. Though to Rorik, they seemed to barely damage it, and that was when he was lucky enough to hit. The being was agile, quick. Dodged from side-to-side, and occasionally lunged forward, stabbing down into the earth, a cacophony of blades surrounding Rorik. He tried to avoid these close encounters, after all, his sword skill proved rusty, based on the fact that after their first melee hold, Rorik exited with far more cuts and holes on his body than before.

So, he decided it was time to cast a stronger spell. His staff swung like an arc, but nothing came out. Just a flicker of blue.

"You're shittin' me."

His focus dropped, and from above, a shadow darkened, before a blade slashed into his flesh, leaving a splatter of blood on the ground, and his body lying alongside it, breath fading.

.
.
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"Don't wor-rrent. Fortu-is side. We-..."
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.
.

Rorik awoke once more, though this time his body carried a heft to it. The heft of having faced nigh-certain death. Though, with these wildly different surroundings, he assumed it all to be a dream of sorts. With a sigh he rose, sight honing immediately on the golden tree before him, it filled him with a sense of hope, as if it was a sapling of something greater. Additionally, he found resting on the opposing side of his body from his blade, however also at his hip, were two small, round bottles, filled with blue and red fluid. Crimson for his body, blue for his mind.

With those, he felt slightly more prepared for the journey ahead, and before long, he was faced within it. He exited the catacombs, and was met by beautiful green fields, and far in the distance, a great golden tree, shimmering with radiance. And even closer, a man with the clothes of a doctor, and a white mask that filled Rorik with a sense of unease.

"Tarnished, are we?"

Rorik was taken aback by the lack of greeting, but slowly nodded in response.

"Come to the Lands Between hmm? For the Elden Ring? No shame in it."

And just like that, more memories entered Rorik's mind. Tarnished, warriors to be rearisen by grace, chosen out to become Elden Lord, consort of Queen Marika.

"Unfortunately for you, it seems, you are maidenless."

Rorik was brought back from his mind with the man's words. Maidenless, hm? That probably explained the young woman he found near his coffin.

"Without guidance, without the strength of runes, without an invitation to the Roundtable Hold... It seems you are fated to die in obscurity. Luckily, there is hope for you. Me, Varre. Listen well, grace-"

The man pointed to the golden bonfire, or more accurately, at the small tongue of flame that hovered above it.

"- The golden light that gives life to you Tarnished. And behold that light, which points in a particular direction at times. The guidance of grace. The path all Tarnished must travel. This one should point to the castle on the cliff, Stormveil, home of Godrick the Grafted."

Rorik nodded along to the information, silently absorbing all that he was told.

"With that, I send you off. Safe travels Tarnished. I'd recommend stopping by that church over there, past the sentinel. You'll find a merchant there, Kale. He should get you sorted out. Now off with you."

And with the sudden rush, Rorik finished his soft nodding with a firm one, quickly reaching out his arm to touch the light of the grace, basking in the warmth that coated his arm before setting off. This was it. He was Tarnished. And he had but one goal, a goal that lie at the foot of the tree that so gloriously shined ahead.