#;;Blaidd ((Wolfen))

[sanctumofeld]

The Price of Freedom

I subjected @spellbladerogier to this, now I'm subjecting all of you to the pain of Wolfgang's 'True Ending'.

Read more for length:

Wolfgang does not know he is the son of two gods: Mekauros, God of Whispers, Secrets, Creatures of the Night, and Spiders; Yris, Goddess of Rivers, Rain, Medicine, and Dance. He does not know he is an Empyrean. The first time he goes to take the Elden Ring, under a promise he made to a young lady in desperation, he walks beside the first Elden Lord. He does not tell him of the oath, does not strain his already heavy shoulders with questions, but fights beside him…

He must sacrifice the girl, the young lady, at the pinnacle of flame, and is held back only by the Lord he followed. The one he loved. They go to defeat death, then an old friend, and then – His son, driven to madness over the ash they unleashed upon the capital. Over the great, golden tree that is roaring with great, devouring flames. In the end, they both perish, and it is only Wolfgang… He ushers in an Age of Dusk, in remembrance of his lover.

But no – no, this is not how the story ends!

He will not let it end here. He takes the rings, enacts the Law of Regression.

The clock turns back.

Reverses.

Start again.

Over and over.

The journey changes, the ending shaped each time by his choices, but they are always wrong. Not enough. For the bright and vibrant, aggrieved spellblade; for the mistress of the golden son, lying in her own deathbed; for the General with his lion’s red mane and the stars at his behest; the man who would never be allowed to be anything but a boy and the sister who adored him enough to rot away; the mother of the moon, last Queen of her name; the serpent family but more doting and loving than any other.

The dreaming, moon-adoring doll, the half-wolf who loved her; two brothers forever separated by the tale their house told in blood. The Warrior Jar so bombastic, his enthusiasm unquenchable, spreading then to a vibrant lad, so much smaller and fragile. The sorceress and her hunter, her guile and his honor, their intelligence and stubbornness matched.

The blacksmith at his post, abandoned by all, shackled by a duty no heart should bear. The spirit tuner who stayed by his side, golden haired, and timid, save for the souls in her care. The old man, devoted to his books, scouring for every scrap of knowledge and wisdom that could be seen and heard. The merchant, sitting by his fire, always ready to share his meager belongings as if they were not all he had. The old finger reader, steadfast in her belief, but knowing – and telling – him to follow his own path.

The maiden who handed him a golden ring, who turned his runes to strength, who would turn her own body to ash in offering, because she believed him worthy.

How can he be worthy when they are all gone?

Or… is this all he is worthy of? The cold stone of their graves?

This is not what he chose.

Over and over.

In another life, he finds his hands enshrouded in great paws, with a head of horns brushing his cheeks and jaws. He loathes the scars, the furrows left in his face, but caresses his ivory crown of jagged spires. His shame. And yet, Wolfgang loves him all the more for them. Is this a betrayal of his Lord? No, he has not seen him, nor met him, in this life. He carries the weight of hundreds, now thousands, and he will not fail again –

But fail he does.

And those hands leave him once again.

Through every life he is hunted, by the friends he couldn’t save, the two lovers he abandoned. Their voices follow him through the Mistwood, over the rivers, into the canyons. Sometimes, they whisper in entreating tones, and other times they roar, they hiss and coil. He can feel Serosh’s talons around his throat, Godfrey’s fingers in his hair, Morgott’s nails trailing over his ribs. Roderika’s palm in his, Hewg’s scales brushing his knuckles, Rogier’s warmth pressed to his flank. Diallos’s head in his lap, Blaidd’s shoulders upon his chest, Alexander’s stone and earth hewn grip on his wrist –

They were beside him, assuring him, and then tearing him apart. He cannot remember if he killed them or not – divining out some answer from their blood – no, no, he would never! Had… never… The roots that ensnared Rogier tighten in his lungs, rooting deep in the marrow between his limbs. Or… were they the lives in which they clung to him? Their weight, their breaths, their souls embrace him. Suffocating him. Roderika looks at him strangely now. He hasn’t found it yet, hasn’t discerned what it is, what stops the world, and allows it to twist on without –

He kills. And he kills. He touches Roderika’s hands with the same that murdered her husband – Kale – now nothing more than a bell he hands to the Twin Husks. Was this Melina’s fate? She regards him with weariness as well. The descent, the call, he can feel the flicker better than he can see it. Fire. A burning, grasping, hungry flame that writhes and yet whispers in hushed tones. Perhaps… That is the key?

He knows the descent. He assured Melina once, long ago, that he would never make it again. He broke the vow that day. But he will not the one he made to her:

“To the foot of the Erdtree.”

To the foot of the hell where they buried Kale’s people, where their song summoned something twisted and ancient, curled up in the darkness, but never lost to it. They should have known. He hits the bottom, the rubble whirling around his ankles, and his hands reach for the clasps of his gauntlets. Further, up along his breastplate, leaving a stream of armor from the drop to the mouth of the door.

The cardinal sin flays his arms, his chest, and something deep, deep in the darkened depths of his soul screams. He awakens with the fire, Frenzied and stinging, emblazed on his body. The world burns.

Melina keeps her promise.

But her eyes are different, milky and dusk laden, dripping over his face. His fingers twitch.

One more.

One last time.

The flame is snuffed, his fractured body mended, the runes abandoning him – whisking back to their bearers.

He knows he must wear a different face for this. The Black Knife armor serves its purpose, of an assassin, of a thief in the night. He will be the villain of this play. And all the while, in the form of an Exile, he will give the players their lines, and move the pieces across the board. They don’t know it’s him, none of them do, their memories sealed by time and the passage of ages. Not till the very end, when the outcast in a maroon shawl, hiding his face becomes the dark armored killer before their eyes. But he has what he needs, every rune that could mend: Death, Order, Curse, Moonlight, and then, and only then, is his born.

At the foot of the Erdtree.

He brings them all together, letting them carve their way into his flesh, rippling through his muscles.

But Freedom does not come without sacrifice.

“Is something wrong, my love?” Rogier blinked. He had… What had he been saying?

“Don’t!” His throat still ached with the force of it, pushing out between bloodied teeth, sticking to his tongue. Strange, the last time he’d said that with such vehemence had been when D had left him. Rogier swallowed away the word, the implication, the weight that plummeted into his stomach.

“No, no, nothing. I just…” What could he say?

“Feel like you’ve forgotten something?” Rogier blinked again, taken aback, but his lover didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

“How did you know?” Diallos gave a shrug, though there was something somber to the motion, to the lilt of his smooth lips.

“I… well, to be honest, I’ve been feeling that way too lately, but… I can never place what it is I’ve forgotten.”

Diallos and Rogier owned a florist and dress shop on the east side of Leyendell, across from Kale’s store that sold general goods for adventurers from boluses to arrows, and darts and healing potions, supplied by the ever resourceful and adept Blaidd. He made good money, what with his wife, Roderika – now carrying their fifth child! – being a spirit tuner, and her adoptive father being the best carpenter in all the Lands Between.

Blaidd married the Lunar Princess just four years ago, and they were expecting their fourth child, just behind the triplets. The eldest was just like his father, always ready for a bout but sweet-tempered to a fault, while the daughters were as vibrantly crimson haired as their mother and just as mischievous to their Grandfather Iji.

The wedding had been quite the spectacle, with Pastor Miriel overseeing the proceedings, and the entire Carian royal family in attendance, along with a few… special guests. Radahn had sung for his little sister, a touching ballad that was equal parts a roasting and a tune of adoration. Ranni had cried laughing and then just cried, before being embraced by her brother. He had assured her that every child would have their own stalwart steeds straight from his stables when they were old enough to ride. Rykard, although wheelchair bound, had made the journey from Mount Gelmir with a massive retinue, and was quoted as having been “quite thankful”, that his sister was finally going to give him nieces and nephews to dote upon, as equally as she had young Rya, his eldest daughter. Blaidd’s entire body had puffed at the implication, and Lady Ranni was struck enough to flush herself.

He had, of course, given his own gifts in splendorous fabrics and baby clothes.

Queen Rennala had apparently given him playful chastisement for his choice of words, but did admit she looked forward to more grandchildren.

King Morgott the Graceful had arrived shortly after the proceedings had begun, making a silent entrance, but formally apologized for being late to the bride and groom. The nobility had been giving him awful headaches, but he had said he wasn’t missing it for the world. He gave an enchanted cloak, embroidered with lace from Limgrave, and a few children’s toys from the makers of Leyendell. Amongst the more unusual guests were found Miquella and Malenia, the former of which had gifted gowns tailored for Ranni made by his own hand, and a music box with the most splendid, charming tune. Malenia had, of course, gifted a blade to Blaidd, and assured him that his pups could study under her when they were ready. That, of course, sent General Radahn into a fit. Any child of Carian blood would be studying the sword under him! It turned into a boasting competition which continued well into the evening.

Further down the road, an explosion burst forth from a brightly colored fireplace, spouting a myriad of powders and dust into the air in a cacophony of colors. The blast was so powerful, it actually dislodged his feet from the road. Everyone rushed from their shops, observing the commotion, but more than a few turned back to their homes or businesses, and shook their heads. Lady Sellen had been experimenting again. Her husband, Jerren, standing on the front stoop, groaned and rushed inside to roar: “at least take it onto the porch, woman!” And there went another shouting match.

Their second born, a four-year-old girl named Capella, walked out, and looked both ways. Rogier doubled over, clasping Diallos’s shoulder, who also broke into a fit of laughter. Her usually dark hair was blown around her head like a sunflower, bearing more colors than any rainbow he’d ever witnessed, and her entire front was splattered much the same. He walked over with his husband, patting it down for her, covering their hands in the colorful powder. Sirius, their son of six years, finally appeared, but was no worse for wear. In fact, he was dressed well in linen shorts and shirt, with his leather satchel bag thrown over his shoulder. He patted his sister, who still looked rather frazzled. Jerren finally came out to collect his daughter, shaking his head, and thanked them.

“Tell Sir Kale I’ll be needing a new stove. Again.” He gave a nod to Sirius. “Be home before ten, aye?”

“Aye, father.” The lad scurried into the street in time to catch a gaggle of other boys, shouting and carrying armfuls of food, towards the Roundtable Hold. Rogier paused, turning to watch them, and smiled.

“Reminiscing, my love?” Rogier gave a low nod, linking his arm with Diallos.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” The Roundtable was no longer necessary in their age of peace, yet Gideon Ofnir maintained his vigil as its leader. However, these days, he worked more on training new incanters and sorcerers, archiving their great works, and acting as a sort of librarian. Some days though, just some, he indulged the local children with legends, using his magics to let the children fling themselves into mock bouts with legendary foes of old. Turned out, the old bastard was actually very good with young ones, and an even better storyteller. It was quite the spectacle he'd heard, though he’d not managed to catch a showing himself.

Rogier turned his head, spying –

A flame, dancing on the edge of a cauldron. What?

Melina waved back to him, his own hand in mid-air. Her light, odd locks bounced as she strode, wavering in the breeze. She’d be going to the Roundtable Hold too then, reading her books in some cloister, laughing as Sir Gideon did his tricks and dazzled the children. Had she been taking lessons from him too?

“Excuse us!” Diallos cut under a load of stones, hoisted by a great Omen in thick, cotton britches, and a red wool sweater. He gave a gruff snort, shaking his head, and continued on his way towards the opposite end of town.

“Poor man, do you think he needs some help?” Diallos shook his head.

“I think he’d be more annoyed if we made him stop to put it down. Having carried a few heavy loads myself, I’m usually not in the mood to set it aside before its reached its destination.” Rogier gave a laugh then a nod. Besides, he didn’t seem to be having too much trouble with it and made it safe and sound to the outer embankment from what he could see. Were they still repairing that wall? It felt like it had been damaged for ages.

Wait – Still?

The world tunneled, then twisted, sloping into a series of gold and grey, a murky image of a shadow dragging across the buildings. His heels and feet slid at the same time, to the side rather than forward, an itching building into his ankles that erupted up into his knees. He could feel it, twisting. Writhing. Straight towards the center of his chest. But it was the darkness, the jagged splinter of stone that wasn’t stone, the skeleton and the body that jutted forth from his memory. Or was it a dream? What was –

“Rogier?” He shook his head.

“Yes, my love?” He just managed to bite back the quiver in his voice.

“Juno will be coming to dinner. He’s been gone so long, having had to guard that caravan from the north, but he’ll be back this evening! He sent word ahead. Apparently, the merchants gave him a bottle of spirits for his services, a special vintage from the Land of Reeds.” Diallos spoke in such warm tones, guiding his steps on a road he couldn’t have walked more than… ten? No, a thousand times. It must have been. “I’m told it would go well with a side of fish. What say you? I’m sure Lord – I mean, Sir Loux,” Rogier was fairly certain he wouldn’t like being called ‘sir’ either, or that ‘Loux’ was necessarily his last name in that sense, “is still open for business.”

“Yes, yes, quite right. I’ll go pick something up.” Diallos beamed at him, leaving his side at the crossroads, the imprint of his hand on Rogier’s sleeve in… red.

“The tale of House Hoslow is told in blood.” When had he first heard those words?

Rogier made the journey towards the entrance of the city, strides heavier, lighter, treading beneath a shadow, and then not. He was certain it was just the glare of the sun, the speckles behind his eyes, but the brim of his hat was too wide for such nonsense. His fingers, stained in blue and white and black, gripped tight to his forearm over the residual warmth Diallos had left through his sleeve.

Merri? Hadn’t Merri mentioned something about the Land of Reeds? Yes, she’d wanted to go, make a boat, and sail but –

Why hadn’t she? She wasn’t a young woman to be trapped, harnessed by either the wind or sea, but… She remained, still, in the Lands Between. He’d seen her, more than once, bothering her father, asking him about the world beyond. And yet, she had not gone to see it herself. Rogier caught her, sinking her toes in the dirt, squeezing them between the grains, biting her lip, and staring at the horizon. Why was she frozen?

Lord Godfrey, the first Elden Lord, had taken up his old moniker: Hoarah Loux. He lived by the sea, in a quiet, one room shack, nestled in a cloister of trees. It was said that King Morgott visited him often, no doubt asking advice on how best to rule the city, but… There were other stories, of something else shifting in the shadows to visit him. Someone else. But they were never seen. Always gone by daylight. No one bothered to figure out who it was, if it was indeed anyone. In their age of peace, there was no reason to spread cruel gossip of treason or coup d’etat.

The beast regent, Serosh, was his only companion these days, never straying from his side or the mantle of his shoulders. Rogier approached slowly along the beach, following the rocks down. He could see his back, the muscles roving as he reached deep into the surf, dragging a net up into his massive arms.

“M – “No, he was a Lord no longer. And yet, even as he turned his head, water glistening off his heavy, scarred brow, and over his wild silver hair, he thought he could see the glint just above his eyes of a band of silver and gold.

“Hoarah Loux! I come seeking salmon!” He did not smile, exactly, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his features. He dragged himself up from the shallows, hauling in his catch behind him, before swinging it over one great shoulder.

“Thou art in luck then, young spellblade!” Rogier hopped down a set of deep rooted rocks, dancing on the balls of his feet all the way to the shack, where the great Serosh laid out in the sun on a series of raised scaffolding. Godfrey bent down, reaching inside the mound of fish, and flicked his wrist to send one over to the lion. He caught it in his mouth without even opening his eyes, his great maw crunching down on all the little bones, swallowing the morsel whole. Rogier doubted that was much more than a small snack.

“I think two shall be more than enough.” He gave a small smile, one he had made time and time again, though for Lord Godfrey… Had he given more? The question comes, in the moments it takes for Hoarah Loux to select the fish he seeks.

“Shouldn’t you be… in the capital?” Not crouching upon its outskirts? Rogier gave a sheepish cough.

"My days there are done." He didn’t even hesitate in his motions, loading in the salmon with massive, scarred hands.

"So... why are you here?" Godfrey paused, raising his head, and turned towards the sea.

"I am waiting."

For whom? And yet, Rogier dared not ask, because his heart was in his throat.

Because he knew –

He was waiting for them too.

0-0-0

In other words:

Wolfgang lives through many, multiple lives till he goes mad, and does the Frenzied Flame thing. He is killed by Melina, but not before he hits the restart button. Again.

Afterwards, in this version, he collects every mending rune from every possible ending, even some I think aren't seen (maybe one from Rykard, or Mohg, or whoever else), which gives birth to his Rune. However, Wolfgang, through either guilt or grief, decides to give everyone a happy ending... but himself. As long as he stays away, no one will remember the hundreds, thousands of shitty past lives before, and they can just live in this happy utopia, worshipping their own gods, free and peaceful.

This, of course, comes with its own issues, but only because this means that everyone is doomed to stay in the Lands Between forever. Wolfgang, in the meantime, is journeying around the world, freeing people, helping others, and mending the land torn asunder by the Shattering and all that came before.

For characters who weren't mentioned: Marika, Radagon, D, Gurranq, Heysel, Atreus, Seluvis, Varre, Alexander, Jar-Bairn and Fia... I mean, depending, they got their own 'happy ending', but weren't mentioned. Lots of people already and I was losing steam because my throat hurts.

[musclegoth]

i did not beat radahn on this day lmao. too fucking rough. that was my first time meeting blaidd tho and wow what a tall wolfen man [wipes the perspiration from my brow]

[sanctumofeld]

"I think Lady Ranni needs someone to be her husband!"

Wolfgang turned his head. Was that so? He looked away, off into the distance. Yes, he supposed she would, as Princess of the Caria Royal House, and possible future Queen of whatever remained. However, there already seemed to be a candidate in that position, and he would not be the one to unseat him. He doubted any ever could.

He only hoped he might convince Blaidd and Ranni to let him make their wedding cake. He had just the design in mind…

[sanctumofeld]

(@xniverses-gxlore) ❛ i never meant to hurt you. ❜ (Blaidd)

Wolfgang clasped his ribs with his left hand, shuddering as blood seeped between his fingers, tangling over his knuckles. He staggered back, head thudding against the crystal that his back struck. He took a shuddering inhale, swallowing the iron drenching the back of his tongue, forcing it down into his stomach rather than past his lips. He slid down the surface, feeling more than seeing the trail of black ichor that streaked across the surface, dripping back onto his body.

The sweetness grew thicker, the wolf’s nostrils flaring, wide eyes luminescent despite the crimson fading from the pools. He crawled towards him rather than rising. Wolfgang wondered if there was still a touch of the beast, if he had yet to wrestle his feral mind under control… Or was it because he was afraid to approach him otherwise? His ears, always folded down, as if to make himself smaller, were peaked now… His clawed hand scraped his knee, over the plate he had shattered, talons scratching gently at the arm that held his flank.

Wolfgang reached with his opposite, fingers petting at the back of his palm, unable to stop him from flinching away. But, he returned, sensing no malice in his movements. Was it so painful to touch him? The Tarnished warrior gave a wet, shaking huff, grasping at his hand… What a foolish wolf.